𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 • Steve Harrington

Chapter 1

( Saturday, November 3rd 1984 )

STANDING behind the flower shop counter, Julie silently wished the hours away as they ticked by with an irritable slowness. The burning sun shone uncharacteristically bright for a newly winter's day, colouring the flower-crowded space with a vibrance only natural light could bring.

In spite of herself, she remained amiable, handing over the brown paper bag carrying Ms Driscoll's lilies with a picture perfect smile.

"Where is your wonderful mother today?" Ms Driscoll asked pleasantly.

"She's spending some time with a friend."

"Oh," Ms Driscoll's eyes twinkled with a silent knowing. "That's good to know she's putting herself back out there. She deserves to after everything the both of you went through."

For the sake of moving the painful interaction along quickly, Julie frowned, engaging with the old lady's well-intended sympathy.

"I'm glad to know you're doing so well now. I know I always say it and you're probably tired of hearing it from me, but if you ever need someone to talk to, you are more than welcome to swing on by. I know exactly what you're going through."

Julie thought about the even weight of their circumstances, but the minor differences in them too. "Thank you."

"Of course. It's not easy. But I expect a full report back on that friend of hers."

"I didn't say anything," Julie jests, earning a hearty laugh.

"You take care of yourself, honey."

"You too, Ms Driscoll."

Julie watched her waddle her way to the door long enough, before she decided to return to her biology flashcards she wasn't entirely sure why she still bothered with. She knew this stuff inside out. Perhaps it was reaffirming to sweep through them so swiftly or perhaps it was to get her mind off of the boredom the day was guaranteed to bring.

Flower shops have slow days. For a Saturday, this was an extremely slow day.

The hanging bell rang.

"Thank you, honey."

"No problem."

Julie's interest piqued at the male voice she faintly recognised, but it extinguished much faster once she laid eyes upon product-filled brown hair pushed back with Ray-Bans and a boy-next-door pretty face.

Steve Harrington had just held the door open for an old lady and walked into her mother's shop.

She had no classes with him, and the most she knew about him came from locker room chatter and whisperings from girlfriends and accidentally eavesdropped conversations. Everybody had something to say about the guy.

He barely did so much as glance her way, heading straight for the array of flowers as he jostled some keys in one hand and itched the scruff he didn't have with the other.

What was it about him? The teal jacket and jeans combo wasn't doing him any favours. Right there stuck in his pool of indecision, he looked like any other guy.

It wasn't until he took his sunglasses off that she realised she was staring, and smoothly averted back to the questions about cell structure and specialisation.

"Red roses are classy, right?"

He's staring right at her, his face contorted.

"In what context?" she asked.