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“Ian, what on earth is that?” Sheila asks as he comes out of the back room of the flower shop.
Ian curls his hand protectively around the coffee can he’s carrying. “A new plant.”
Sheila stares at it. “Oh! Well, it’s . . . it looks very . . .” She tries to smile, but it comes out more as a wince. “Is it supposed to be falling over like that?”
“Don’t know,” Ian says. “I’m not even sure exactly what it is. I found it growing under the L tracks a couple days ago.”
“Well, I’m sure it will look great in no time!” Sheila says cheerily. Ian nods, because it’s a good idea to agree with your boss, but the truth is, he’s not so sure he can save this one. The main stem is completely wilted, and the pod is dangling against the side of the can he’s potted it in.
“I’m gonna see if more sun helps,” he says.
It’s kind of a point of personal pride—Ian’s the best at keeping plants in the store alive, no matter how rare or delicate they are. He’s adopted this little weirdo, and he’s going to save it, no matter how determined it is to die on him.
Speaking of things being dead . . . “Did I miss any customers?” he asks.
“Not yet,” Sheila says. “But it’s only 4:15! We could still get a post-lunchtime rush.”
Ian has never seen anything that could be called a rush in the three years he’s been working for Sheila at South Side Florists. But maybe there’s a first time for anything.
The bell at the door rings, and Ian and Sheila both turn to look, surprised. But it’s not a customer.
“Mickey!” Sheila says. “Oh, Mickey, you know you have to come in on time every day. I didn’t think you were even going to show up today. I don’t want to get you in trouble, but—” She stops. “Mickey, your face.”
By this time Mickey has slouched his way to the stool behind the counter and flipped open a gossip magazine he apparently has stashed away back there. He has a black eye, and a couple other bruises on the side of his face.
“What, like you need three people in here,” he says. “We haven’t had a sale all week.”
“It’s not about that!” Sheila says, flustered. “It’s about you meeting the conditions of your parole!”
“Won’t tell if you don’t,” Mickey says, turning a page of his magazine. Sheila sighs.
“All right, well, do you at least want some Neosporin for those, um . . .” She gestures at his face.
“For what.” Mickey doesn’t look up.
Ian knows that Mickey’s dad beats the shit out of him. Sheila probably knows, too. Terry is one scary motherfucker. But Ian thought he was still in prison for knocking over a liquor store last summer.
“When did he get out?” he asks.
Mickey casually turns another page, but his face darkens. “Mind your own fucking business, Gallagher,” he says. “This ain’t a hair salon. Didn’t come here to gossip with you.”
Ian keeps looking at him. He doesn’t understand how Mickey can be so casual about it.
Mickey must feel him staring, because he lets out an annoyed huff and finally looks up, catching sight of the plant Ian is holding.
“The fuck is that, Gallagher?” He makes a disgusted face, and Ian rolls his eyes, walking over to the front window to put the plant down in a dusty patch of sunlight.
“It’s a Mickey II,” he mutters, turning the coffee can so the wilted leaves can catch the rays.
“The fuck you say?” Mickey asks.
“Because it’s giving me so much trouble.” Ian looks back over his shoulder, and Mickey’s eyebrows are raised sky-high. But he doesn’t look mad. After a second he shrugs and goes back to his magazine.
“Well, mini-me isn’t looking too good. Might want to try watering it.”
Ian snickers.
“What?” Mickey snaps.
“Mini. Like Mickey and—”
Mickey presses his lips together and gives Ian a dirty look. “You ever hear anyone make a crack like that about my name when we were in school?”
“It’s not—”
“You ever think about why that might be?” Mickey says.
Ian shrugs. “Sorry, too late. She’s Mini now.”
“Oh yeah?” Mickey says, and he has a grin on his face that looks like he’s amused, but Ian knows actually means trouble.
“Boys,” says Sheila, breaking up the spat. Ian blinks. He had almost forgotten she was there, and Mickey looks similarly surprised at the interruption.
He gives Ian one more hard glare, then sighs and shakes his head. “Fine. Call it whatever you want, Gallagher. Ain’t my problem.” He turns another page, ignoring him again.
Ian feels a vague sense of disappointment, but he’s not sure why. It’s not like Mickey ever has anything nice to say to him, but they don’t usually fight, either. In the year or so they’ve been working together, Mickey’s . . . tolerated him. Ignored him, mostly. This felt different. It wasn’t exactly friendly, but—
The phone in the back room rings. “I’ll get it,” Sheila says. “Mickey, would you mind to watch the register?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing the whole time I’ve been working here,” he mutters.
When Sheila comes back, she’s frowning. “Boys, I’m sorry, but I have to leave early.” She gives Ian a sideways look, almost guilty. “Are you all right to lock up?”
“No problem,” Ian says.
Once the door shuts behind her, Ian goes to fill up the watering can and give Mini a drink. If anything, the pod droops even more as soon as the water touches it.
“Jesus, Gallagher, drown it, why don’t you?” Mickey is watching him over the top of the magazine.
Ian smacks the watering can down on the tile floor, and water splashes out. “Don’t start,” he says. “I know how to take care of plants, OK? I’ve been working here for years.”
Mickey throws a look around the shop, with a few wilted bouquets in the corner, sad Mini in the window, and a cooler full of roses and carnations and baby’s breath they’ll have to throw out at the end of the day.
“Yeah, and you’re doing a great job,” he says.
Ian lets out an annoyed breath. “Thought my plants weren’t your problem.”
Mickey shrugs. “Man’s gotta look out for his namesake, doesn’t he?” He closes the magazine, slides off the stool, and comes to stand next to Ian. He smells like sweat and faded deodorant and cheap laundry detergent. Ian doesn’t hate it.
Mickey crouches down and peers at the pod. He prods it with a finger, and Ian has to restrain himself from grabbing Mickey’s wrist.
“Be careful,” Ian says. “Don’t touch the—”
Mickey pokes his finger into the mouth of the pod and then snatches it out. “Ah, fuck! What the fuck are those? Thorns?” He holds the finger out. It’s bleeding.
The plant’s pod twitches.
Ian and Mickey both jump back.
“What—” Ian breathes. “The fuck.” He grabs Mickey’s hand, but Mickey wrenches it out of his grasp.
“Get the fuck off me, Gallagher!” he says, and then he’s standing up, staring down at the plant with a weird look on his face, half angry, half scared. Then he turns and slams his way out of the store, almost running, the bell above the door jingling loudly.
Ian wants to call out after him, but instead he turns around and looks back at the plant.
“Did you—” he whispers. “Did you move?”
Another twitch. “Holy shit,” Ian breathes. He reaches into his pocket and grabs the pocket knife he has in there, then nicks his finger, smaller than the cut that Mickey got from the plant’s . . . thorns? Teeth?
He squeezes the tip of his finger until a few drops well up, then he holds his hand an inch or two over the plant’s maw and lets them drip into it.
The plant swallows them down. Then, after a second, its stem straightens up, and the pod turns to Ian, stretching up toward his hand. Its mouth opens, and he can see the sharp little thorns glistening.
“Oh, shit,” he says.
He calls home, and Debbie picks up first. “This is the Gallagher residence, how may I help you?” she says, using her grown-up voice, in case it’s a social worker or school or something.
“Hey, Debs, is Carl there?”
“CARL!” she screams, and Ian winces, holding the phone away from his ear. “Yeah, he’s in the backyard. Want me to get him?”
“Can you ask him to come to the store with some of those mice he has in the fish tank?”
“Didn’t Fiona say he had to get rid of those?” Debbie asks.
“Since when does that matter to Carl?”
“Yeah, OK, I’ll tell him.”
“Thanks.” Ian pauses. “Uh, can you tell Fi that I might be late for dinner?”
“Got a hot date?” Debbie says, like he’s one of her girl friends and they’re going to gossip about cute boys over smoothies. He wishes she hadn’t gotten into the whole dating thing so fast, although it’s better than the baby fixation she had a few summers ago.
“Not really,” he says, trying to sound casual. “Just some plant stuff. You know. At the store.”
“Plant stuff?” Debbie says doubtfully. Ian sighs.
“Just tell Carl to come over, OK? Thanks, Debs.” He hangs up before she can ask any other questions.
Behind him, the bell above the door rings. He turns around, half expecting Mickey, maybe with a couple of his brothers and a machete, coming to get his revenge on Mini. But it’s not Mickey. Or Sheila. It’s an Asian woman in her twenties, wearing a nice suit.
Ian stares at her, and doesn’t manage to say anything. It’s been so long since they had a customer, and he’s so distracted, he can’t even remember what he’s supposed to say when someone comes in.
But that doesn’t faze the woman.
“What is that plant?” she says, sounding excited. “It’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s, uh—” Ian is flummoxed, so he just blurts out the first thing that comes into his mind. “It’s a Mini.”
“Wild,” the woman says. “Is it a Venus flytrap on steroids?”
Ian can feel himself starting to sweat. He gulps. “Yeah, something like that,” he says.
“Amazing, do you mind if I take a picture?”
“Sure, go ahead,” Ian says.
“Great, thanks! Oh, and I need a few small tabletop bouquets with roses, for a dinner event downtown. Do you have glass vases?”
Ian stares at her.
“Hello?” The woman looks concerned. “Are you all right?”
Ian tries to pull it together. “Yeah. Yes!” he says. Now he sounds too enthusiastic, but whatever. He’s doing the best he can. “How many would you like?”
“Three should do it,” the woman says. “Just two or three roses in each one, I think.”
“That’s thirty-five fifty,” Ian says, running on autopilot.
The woman opens her purse. “Oh, I left my card at the office. I only have cash, can you break a hundred?”
Not even on a good day, and they haven’t had one of those in weeks. “I’m so sorry, we can’t right now,” Ian says. Shit. Sheila would have been so excited for them to have made a sale.
“No worries, I’ll just get twice as many,” the woman says. “Who ever complained about too many flowers, right?”
Ian nods and fumbles for his gloves and the vases, arranging them and making change for the woman in a daze. It’s over before he can figure out what’s happening, and before he knows it, the door is shutting behind in the woman, Ian has a hundred-dollar bill sitting in the register, and half the stock he was going to have to throw away is now sold.
Only a few seconds after the door closes, a group of teenagers comes in. The one in front snaps her gum and says, “Can I take a picture with that plant? It’s got, like, teeth! Fucking freak show!”
“Uh, I guess?” Ian says. “Just don’t, um. Don’t touch it.”
“Sweet,” she says. Her friend takes the picture, and then each of the other three take one. They all do different poses, and then one group shot, while Ian stands awkwardly. It takes them five minutes to pick the right filter, and in the meantime, one of the girls decides to buy a potted lily for her mom and a big bouquet for her sister’s dance recital, and two of them get basil plants.
“I can’t believe you don’t have Square or Apple Pay,” one of them says, flipping open her wallet for a $20. Ian doesn’t bother to tell her that they haven’t had enough money to replace the old swipe machine with a chip reader, let alone getting a Square.
They don’t tip him but they do tag a picture of him as #hotfloristsofinstagram in one of their posts, which they show him before they leave.
It’s 5:02, almost an hour until they’re supposed to close, but Ian flips the CLOSED sign on the door, despite the fact there’s a cluster of people gathering outside to stare through the window at Mini.
“The hell is going on,” Ian mutters. He pulls down the security grate more or less in their faces, grabs the coffee can—keeping the pod away from his face and his fingers—and heads to the back room.
There’s a shout from the front of the store. “Ian!”
“Come around the back!” Ian yells at Carl, who’s waving a shoebox over his head.
“Dude,” says Carl once he ducks inside through the alley behind the store. “Why are all those people just standing out there?”
He gets a few steps into the room, then stops and stares at the plant on the table. His eyes get wide and his mouth drops open.
“Does that thing have teeth?” He grins. “Do I get to feed it?”
Ian shrugs. “We gave it some blood—”
“You what?” Carl says, laughing.
“It was an accident, Mickey cut himself on it, and it was looking wilted before that, but now . . .”
Carl hunkers down to get eye-to-pod with the plant. “That’s sick, man,” he says. His whole face is glowing. Ian hasn’t seen him this happy since they watched that special on the history of capital punishment. “Do you want to feed it dead mice like a snake? Or does it want to hunt?”
“Jesus, I didn’t even think about that,” Ian mutters. “Uh, let’s try the dead one, I guess? Wait, do you have both?”
“I came prepared,” Carl says. He takes a dead mouse out of the shoebox and dangles it by the tail in front of the plant. “Here, girl! Tasty snack!”
The plant’s pod tilts up . . . but away from the mouse, like it’s turning its nose up. Two of its little trailing vines bend and fold over each other, like it’s crossing its arms.
Carl laughs maniacally. “Holy shit! What a snob! She looks like my English teacher.”
“She wasn’t moving this much before,” Ian says. Watching the plant, he feels a twist of worry in his stomach. It doesn’t look right when it moves like that. Almost like a human.
“Let’s try the live one next,” Carl says. He opens the box again, and the mouse squeaks in terror as he reaches in. “Ow! He bit me. Little shit.” He drops the lid to look at the bite on his finger, and the mouse makes a break for freedom, skittering toward the wall.
The plant reaches out with its two vines . . . but not toward the fleeing mouse. It’s straining for Carl’s finger, its little green-and-purple mouth open wide, and its thorns exposed.
“Whoa,” Carl says, his eyes glistening. He holds his finger up over the plant and lets the blood drip in. The plant gulps audibly, then opens its mouth for more.
“Carl,” Ian says. “I don’t know if this is a good—”
“Are you kidding, this is amazing!” Carl says. He milks a few more drops out, but the bite was small and it’s already starting to clot. “Aw, sorry, little green plant baby! That’s all I got.”
The plant’s lips make a tiny sad pouting face, and Carl practically coos. He puts out his non-bleeding hand and strokes the top of its pod with his finger, then gives it little scritches under its chin, like a cat.
“Glad you two are bonding,” Ian says. “But I guess it doesn’t want mice.”
“Would you?” Carl says. “Mice probably taste like peanut butter. This baby wants the other white meat.”
“Wait, what?” Ian says. “Meat? Like, human meat?”
“Kidding, man,” Carl says. “It’s tiny, it couldn’t even eat a finger.”
Actually, Ian thinks it already looks a little bigger than it did an hour ago, but that’s just not possible. Not even bamboo grows that fast. It must be his mind playing tricks.
“So this is what all those people out front wanted to look at, huh?” Carl says.
Ian nods. “It was crazy, we usually don’t get anyone in the afternoons, but once the first lady came in, they all just . . . showed up out of nowhere.”
“Weird,” Carl says. He rubs his finger. “Hey, do you think mice carry rabies?”
They’ve been sitting at the dinner table for all of three minutes before Carl blurts it out.
“Ian has a plant that eats people at the store.”
Debbie makes a face. “Ew, why?”
“Because it’s awesome!” Carl says through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
Fiona gives him a look. “Are you five? Chew with your mouth shut.” She turns to Ian. “You’ve got a what now?”
“Don’t know for sure what it is yet,” Ian says. “Found it under the L, and it wasn’t listed anywhere online.” He shrugs. “I thought it was going to die, but it turns out it just needed, uh, blood.”
Debbie makes a gagging noise, and Fiona puts her hands up. “Yeah, I think we can agree, no more bodily fluids talk at the table.”
“Vomit, bile, piss!” Carl says, and laughs. Debbie makes an outraged noise around her bite of meatloaf, and Fiona’s not impressed, either.
“Yeah? Show off one more piece of your biology trivia and you can say goodbye to those new sneakers you were askin’ for,” she says.
Carl rolls his eyes. “Like we could have afforded them anyway.”
“Actually . . . ,” Ian says. “We had a really good day at the store, and Sheila usually gives us a bonus on any sale over a hundred, and I sold over two hundred dollars worth of stuff by myself today, so . . .”
“You did? Ian, that’s great!” Fiona says. Ian shrugs, but it’s still kind of nice to hear. Fiona doesn’t think much of the flower shop, and she really doesn’t like Sheila, or Mickey. About the only good thing she’s ever had to say about his job is that at least it gets robbed less than the other places around them. Probably because Mickey is working there, so his brothers and his dad don’t bother to rob it.
“Hey, why don’t you ask Lip to look at your mystery plant?” Fiona says. “Maybe he’ll know what it is. Or he could ask someone at the university. They probably have, like, plant people over there.”
“Botanists. Yeah, maybe,” Ian says. The truth is, he kind of liked having Mini to himself for a while—a mystery, something new that only he knew about. But he’d accidentally almost starved her to death. Probably better if he asks an expert for some help before he screws anything else up. “Guess I could text him a picture or something.”
Lip hasn’t come home for a couple of weeks. Ian’s not complaining about having one less person in their bedroom, but—it’s weird. Different.
“Oh my god, is that why you wanted the mice?” Debbie says all of a sudden.
Ian and Carl look at each other.
“Mice?” Fiona says. “Where did you get mice? I’m pretty sure I told you no mice in the house, Carl. Am I forgetting something?”
“They were in the backyard!” Carl says.
Ian tunes out the rest of the argument about the letter versus the spirit of Fiona’s household pets rules. His finger is throbbing. He wonders if Mickey’s finger is OK. Maybe the thorns infected it with something. The Milkoviches don’t seem like the kind of family who have a well-stocked medicine cabinet.
He wonders if Mini doesn’t like the dark in the back room. She did seem happier in the sun, not that he had much of a chance to test it out before she chomped down on Mickey’s finger. Still, he wouldn’t want her to feel lonely. He should probably leave her out in the sun all day tomorrow.
Mickey’s late again the next morning, and the first thing he does is throw a dark look at the plant in the window.
“See you didn’t decide to take it out with a flamethrower,” he says.
“Where would I even get a flamethrower?” Ian asks.
Mickey gives him a flat look. “Got sisters, don’t you? Hairspray and a lighter, man, come on.”
Ian laughs. “Well, then, why would I want one?”
“Don’t know. Maybe because your plant is a fucking vampire?”
“Looks to me like the sun is good for her health, actually,” Ian says. It’s true. Mini is definitely bigger than yesterday, and her vines and leaves are bright green and sprawled out over the edges of her coffee can.
Mickey snorts and pulls his phone out of his pocket.
“How’s your finger?” Ian asks.
“Turned green and fell off,” Mickey says, focusing on the screen.
“What?!”
“I’m kidding, Gallagher, Jesus. It’s fine.”
Without thinking, Ian reaches out and grabs Mickey’s hand, turning it toward him so he can see the bite. It looks red and a bit swollen, but not too bad.
Ian is so absorbed in looking at the wound, it takes him a second to realize that Mickey is frozen and his hand is rigid. Confused, Ian looks up at his face. Mickey is staring at him, his eyes wide with something like fear, and his mouth slightly open.
Abruptly, Mickey yanks his hand out of Ian’s, his gaze sliding away.
“The fuck, man,” he mutters. But before Ian can think what he should do or say, Mickey is heading for the back room.
Ian doesn’t follow him.
The shop is slammed all that day, and the next. The #hotfloristsofinstagram tag is apparently more popular than Ian ever would have believed. But most of the customers aren’t there for him.
They want to see Mini.
Mickey isn’t happy—having to ring up customer after customer is clearly cutting into his reading time. But Sheila is over the moon.
“Ian!” she says when lunchtime rolls around. “Why don’t you order from that new Italian place down the block. My treat, anything you boys want.” That goes a long way toward cheering Mickey up, anyway; he looks deeply satisfied as he shovels meatballs into his mouth faster than Ian has ever seen anyone eat, even Carl.
Mini, on the other hand, hasn’t been fed for over thirty-six hours and it’s starting to show. Her pod is drooping, and the new leaves are already looking pale and limp. Ian wonders uneasily—exactly how often does she need to eat? It’s not like he can look it up anywhere.
Lip might be able to, though.
Hey man, know you’re busy but we have this weird new plant and I need help IDing it. Thoughts?
[Attachment: mickeyII.jpeg]
Yeah why the fuck is it named after your coworker
Creep
Lip
C’mon
I’ll forward it to a guy I know see what he thinks
Botany professor?
More like an entrepreneur. He is in the botany department, though
Lip
I don’t think your stoner classmate can tell me what this is
He knows his shit
Fine fuck whatever
You’re welcome shithead
Thx
. . .
Fi wants to know if you’re coming home this weekend
[Seen 1:34]
Yeah maybe
The first time Lip calls, Ian misses it because they’re dealing with a rush wedding order. Some fancy place on the North Side didn’t come through, the venue is forty-five minutes away, and Mickey is getting a van (he didn’t say from where, and neither Sheila nor Ian had asked) so they can deliver it. Ian is tying bows around vases and hot-gluing them in place as fast as he can, while Sheila finishes the bouquets.
“They said they’d pay us an extra thirty percent because it was an emergency!” Sheila says, frazzled but elated.
Ian burns his fingers for the fourth time on the tip of the glue gun, but he grits his teeth and ignores it. “That’s great,” he says.
“I know! I think we’re going to have to triple our wholesale orders for next week, especially if that hotel that called this morning wants to keep using us after the convention, which it sounded like they might.” Sheila blows a strand of hair out of her face, and leans back to look at the bouquets. “There. Now, Mickey should have been back by now, if you’re going to get everything there by four. Can you call him?”
Mickey doesn’t historically have a good record of picking up when Ian calls, but it’s worth a try.
When Ian swipes his phone open, he sees the missed call and a text from Lip. Call me. His heart drops as he dials, and then waits for Lip to pick up.
“Ian!” Lip doesn’t sound like he’s at the hospital or the police station. He sounds happy. Excited. “Danny saw the picture, and you’re not gonna believe—he says—”
“Lip, is everyone OK?” Ian says, cutting him off.
“What? Yes, everyone is—”
“OK, then I really don’t have time to talk about this right now. Sorry, I’ll call you back tonight, OK?”
“But, Ian, listen, Danny said that your plant is—”
“Seriously! Lip! Can’t talk! Bye!” Ian ends the call and dials Mickey.
The phone rings and rings, and Ian taps his fingers on the counter. Behind him, he hears a quiet tapping, and when he cranes his neck around to look, he can see that Mini is copying him, tapping the ends of her vines against the wood of the window frame like she’s impatient.
Once he’s looking in her direction, she stretches her mouth open wide.
“Not here, call back,” Mickey’s voicemail message says shortly in his ear.
“C’mon, man,” Ian mutters, hanging up. Mini’s vines are waving enthusiastically in the air, and Ian can’t help but laugh. It is pretty cute.
“Aw, are you hungry?” he says. Her mouth opens even wider. Ian gets up and picks up the watering can next to her, but when he goes to water her, she shuts her mouth and swings her pod away from him, the same little “nose in the air” gesture she’d done when Carl tried to feed her the dead mouse.
“Sorry,” Ian says. He looks over at Sheila, but she’s on the phone now talking to the bride, and not paying attention. “Things are crazy right now. I’ll feed you after we deliver this order, OK? I promise.”
Mini sighs and lets her vines droop. Ian reaches out to pet her, and she snaps at his finger. “Whoa, no!” he says, and the pod retreats sulkily.
“Ian, did you get ahold of Mickey yet?” Sheila says, covering the mouthpiece of the phone.
“He’s not picking up,” he says. “I’ll try again.”
But before he can dial Mickey’s number, the bell above the door rings, and Mickey comes in and throws the van’s keys onto the counter.
“C’mon. Let’s load up and get going.” Like Ian is the one they’ve been waiting on.
“Boys, wear the T-shirts, please!” Sheila calls. “Good advertising!”
Ian sighs and grabs two green T-shirts with SOUTH SIDE FLORISTS printed on the back from under the counter. Sheila had bought them back when Mickey had started, and Ian and Mickey had both refused point-blank to wear them. But today is big. Ian swaps his shirt, and Mickey pulls his on over his tank top with only a half-hearted grimace, then they start loading the bigger displays and the boxes with the flowers for the bridal party into the van.
“This ain’t right,” Mickey says after most of it is loaded. “Where’s the groomsmen’s stuff? You mix it up with another order or something?”
“It’s right,” Ian says.
“Two bouquets and no—” Mickey stops. “Oh.”
“What?” Ian says.
“That why the other florist canceled?”
Ian shrugs. “Didn’t say. Probably.”
Mickey scowls, and Ian braces himself. It’s not exactly surprising, considering how the rest of Mickey’s family is, but some part of Ian had hoped that Mickey would be less of an asshole.
“It’s fucking illegal,” Mickey says.
“No,” Ian says, stung despite himself. “Gay marriage is legal in all fifty—”
“Not that, fuckwad. The florist can’t deny them service based on who they’re marrying. It’s illegal.”
Ian blinks. “I mean—yeah. I guess.”
“’S bullshit,” Mickey mutters. Then he lets out an annoyed breath and shrugs, picking up the next two boxes with the centerpieces. “Oh well, guess it worked out good for us. Bonus and whatever.”
They load the rest of the order without talking.
The first half hour of the drive is silent, other than Mickey’s muttered cursing at other drivers. The van’s radio is busted.
Ian zones out, staring out the window at the lakeshore outside. It’s nice, actually. Not that he can complain about the uptick in business since Mini started to go viral, but it means that his previously slow and quiet job has become loud and busy and stressful the last couple of days. He wonders if Mickey feels the same.
Eventually they get off the expressway and start making their way through a quiet, green neighborhood.
Mickey snorts.
“What?” Ian says.
“Just—” He gestures with one hand. “Here I was feeling all bad for them, but they’re doing fine, you know? Some fucking asshole won’t do the flowers for your big gay wedding? No problem, just pay someone else twice as much. Must be nice.”
“Being rich? Yeah, probably is, Mick.”
“Fuck off,” Mickey says. “You know what I mean.”
Ian’s quiet for a minute. “Yeah,” he finally says. “They’re probably OK. But it still fucking sucks.”
Mickey makes a face, but doesn’t argue.
“Hey, who knows?” Ian says. “We keep getting orders like this, maybe you can get a place up here too, with all that extra cash.”
“Fuck off,” Mickey says again. But Ian thinks maybe, for a second, he smiles.
Once they find the venue, Ian gets a kick out of seeing Mickey in professional mode, smiling at the wedding coordinator who’s directing them where to drop off the flowers, and saying “excuse me” with only a little edge in his voice to the crowd of people from the wedding party standing in his way as the two of them make their way through the dining room with the centerpieces.
A black woman with long braids, dressed in a white button-down and black dress pants, is directing someone tying bows on the backs of all the chairs, but as soon as she catches sight of them, her face lights up and she hurries over.
“Thank you,” she says, relief in her voice. “I already told Sheila on the phone, but this has just been—well. You can imagine. Thank you so much.”
“You should tell that asshole—” Mickey starts, and Ian puts a hand on his shoulder. Mickey shrugs it off like it’s a poisonous snake.
“It’s our pleasure,” Ian says. “And congratulations.”
“Yeah, congrats,” Mickey says, and looking at him from the corner of his eye, Ian can’t detect even a hint of Mickey’s usual irony. But he still looks like he’s on the edge of giving the bride a lecture on Illinois anti-discrimination laws or something, so Ian steers him away, back toward the van to get the next load. Mickey shakes him off again.
“The fuck, man,” he mutters. “Am I not allowed to talk?”
“Not about how she should be calling up the Supreme Court on her wedding day,” Ian says.
“I’m just saying—”
“What do you care, anyway?” Ian asks. This is the most pissed off he’s seen Mickey about anything since Us Weekly’s story on Lemonade (“She’s Beyoncé, man! Who the fuck cheats on Beyoncé?”)
“Because it’s bullshit, that’s why,” Mickey shoots back. “What, you got a problem with it?”
“Mickey, I’m gay,” Ian says patiently, grabbing the next box.
Silence for a second. Then Mickey says, “Yeah, I know. So what.” Ian glances at him, but Mickey has his back to him.
“So, yeah, I agree that it sucks. I just don’t think you need bug her about it right now. And I don’t want her to get pissed off and leave us a bad review or whatever.”
“Good advertising, boys,” Mickey says, in a decent impression of Sheila, and Ian laughs.
“‘Flowers were perfect, but deliveryman wouldn’t stop offering unwanted legal advice,’” Ian says.
“‘Five stars, great service, would definitely hire for my next gay shindig,’” Mickey says. “We should put a rainbow flag out front, like some place in Boystown.” He snorts. “Like I don’t get enough shit for working here.”
“Who gives you shit about it?” Ian says.
Mickey doesn’t answer.
“Mick?” Ian says.
“Forget it,” Mickey says. But he doesn’t sound pissed. Just tired. “Hey, that the last of it?”
Ian nods.
“All right, let’s drop it off and get out of here, I gotta get the van back.”
Mickey is even quieter on the return trip, but less relaxed. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, over and over again. Ian keeps wanting to say something to break the silence, but he doesn’t know what has Mickey so worked up, so he keeps his mouth shut.
They turn off Lake Shore Drive, heading back to the South Side.
“Time is it?” Mickey says tightly.
Ian glances at his phone, sees another missed call from Lip.
“Uh, couple of minutes after five.”
Mickey licks his lips and nods, then hits the turn signal harder than he needs to. Ian darts a look at his face, but he can’t tell what Mickey is thinking.
Finally they pull into the alley behind the shop, and Mickey parks and kills the engine. Then he takes a breath, reaches over, and kisses Ian.
For a second, Ian is so surprised, he just sits there, his mouth open under Mickey’s. Then, when he feels Mickey start to pull away, he wakes up, and wraps a hand around the back of Mickey’s neck, tugging him closer again.
Mickey makes a noise and then pushes himself up and swings a leg over, so he’s straddling Ian, who stares up at him.
Ian opens his mouth to say something, but Mickey leans down and kisses him again instead, his hands going to Ian’s jeans.
Right now? Ian wants to ask. Here? But Mickey is kissing him hard, over and over, and his body feels so good against Ian’s, it’s impossible not to push back against him, and when Mickey gets a grip on him, Ian just closes his eyes and loses himself in it, making a noise into Mickey’s mouth.
“Would you be quiet? Gonna get us caught,” Mickey says, breaking the kiss.
“What?” Ian says, dazed.
Mickey rolls his eyes and clamps a hand over Ian’s mouth instead, then twists his wrist in a way that has Ian closing his eyes again and moaning, now muffled under Mickey’s hand. At the same time, he can feel Mickey riding him, rubbing against him through his jeans.
After a second, Mickey lets go, but only so he can yank his own jeans open and wrap his hand around both of them instead.
Ian glances down, and the shock of it, how sudden and filthy and hot it is, almost makes him come right then, but in the end it’s the feeling of Mickey leaning forward and burying his face in Ian’s neck, panting hot and frantic as he starts to come, that finishes him.
They sit there for a second, catching their breath. Ian’s body is buzzing and he feels weirdly lightheaded.
Then Mickey leans back enough to strip off his T-shirt, leaving just the tank top underneath, and uses it to clean them both up while Ian stares at him.
When he’s finished, Mickey balls up the shirt and throws it in the back of the van.
“Good advertising,” he says with a shrug, and Ian laughs.
After putting themselves back together as well as they can, they head back into the store. Ian fills Sheila in on how the order went, and then there’s a bunch of new orders to take care of—they’re seriously going to have hire some more people if this keeps up—and Mickey has to go return the van, and between one thing and another, they aren’t alone again until after Sheila’s finished up with paperwork and gone home for the night, leaving the two of them in the back room to finish preparing a big batch of corsages for a school dance.
Ian tries to keep his eyes on the baby’s breath and roses and carnations and little pearl-headed pins, but he can’t help glancing up at Mickey, who’s focused on his work, a cigarette tucked behind his ear, his tattooed fingers holding each bloom perfectly in place. Ian would never tell him, since he doesn’t want a sock to the jaw, but Mickey has a real knack for it.
“The fuck you staring at, Gallagher?” Mickey says without looking up.
“Nothing.” Ian takes a breath. “Uh, why did you—”
Mickey sighs and puts the half-made corsage on the table, then looks up at Ian. This close, Ian can still see the now-fading bruises on his face. And how blue his eyes are.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it, man,” Mickey says.
“But—”
Mickey’s face hardens. “You have any idea what it’s like trying to find a guy whose dick you can suck without getting shanked in this neighborhood?”
Ian does, but that’s hardly the point.
“Don’t remember you sucking my dick,” he says, and Mickey snorts, and then honest-to-god grins.
“Fine,” he says.
“Wait, seriously?” Ian says.
Mickey shrugs. “But you gotta move that plant to another room,” he says. “Keep feeling like it’s staring at me.”
It takes them an hour longer than it should have to finish the corsages, but it’s worth it.
After Mickey leaves, Ian starts locking up, still in a daze. He keeps replaying moments of the last few hours, like his mind can’t keep up with what’s been happening to his body.
He goes to get Mini so he can water her, but stops dead when he sees what’s happened to his plant.
She’s completely wilted, pod resting on the counter, vines limp and lifeless.
“Oh no,” Ian says. “Oh no oh no.” He rushes over and cradles the pod in his hands. “Please, please, no.” The store has been doing so much better, all the big orders, new customers who’ve seen Mini online or heard about her. Sheila is happy, Ian is making more money, Mickey—
“Well? Are you done ignoring me?” a voice says. Ian jerks away from the plant. He saw the pod moving. He saw it moving at the same time that he heard—but that—that doesn’t . . .
Mini lifts her head up, and fixes him with an accusing stare, despite the fact she doesn’t have eyes.
“W-what?” Ian says. He’s losing it. He’s seriously—
“I said, are you done ignoring me to screw around while I’m here starving to death?” Mini says.
It’s her talking. There’s no doubt in Ian’s mind.
“I-I-I’m sorry,” he manages to get out.
“You should be!” Mini says. “After everything I’ve done for you.”
“Done for me?” Ian repeats. He’s still stuck on the fact that the plant can talk. Talk.
Mini reaches out a vine and wraps it around his arm, pulling him closer. “Do you think it’s a coincidence, how well this place has been doing since I showed up? Or that your boy actually noticed you for once? Or that suddenly, you have enough money for anything you want?” She grins. “Well, you’re welcome.”
Ian tries to free himself, but the plant just tightens its grip.
“Get off,” he says.
“Or what?” Mini says.
“Or I won’t keep feeding you,” Ian says, and yanks the vine off him.
Mini sniffs, looking offended. “How would that be different from what you’ve been doing, exactly?” she asks.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Ian says. He’s as guilty as anyone of forgetting to water his plants sometimes. He just never imagined the plant giving him shit for it. It’s almost enough to make him laugh. Almost.
“It’s not really my fault,” he says.
“Oh? How so?” Mini says, with an accusatory jab of a vine. Ian steps back, out of her reach.
“We tried to give you the mice, you didn’t want them,” he says. “I can only give you so much blood at a time, and it’s not like I can hold up a blood-donation van for you.”
“Why not?” she demands. “I’m hungry!” Then she tilts her head, her tone changing from bratty to cajoling. “Anyway, it doesn’t have to be blood, you know.”
“It doesn’t?” Ian says, relieved.
“No. Meat would be even better.”
“You mean like raw beef?” Ian asks hopefully.
She scoffs. “Try again.”
Ian gulps, his stomach churning. “You mean like . . . a person?”
“Human,” she says silkily. “Tasty, fleshy, red and sticky, still warm and squishy—”
“Oh my god, stop talking,” Ian says. “Look, I’m sorry, but that’s just—it’s not possible. If you needed, like, a pint of blood a week or something, maybe we could figure it out. But I can’t feed you human meat.”
“No one?” Mini says sadly. “You can’t think of . . . anyone?”
“No,” Ian says. “No! Are you crazy?”
Mini hums. “Well, we’ll see.”
“No,” Ian says again. “We won’t. I’m not feeding you that! End of story.”
Mini puts her vines up. “Fine, fine. But you need to feed me something tonight. I’m really starving, Ian. If you don’t feed me, you’ll be sad.” She grins again. “What about the little one? I hardly got a taste of him.”
“No!” Ian snaps. “Stay away from Carl.”
“He liked me!” Mini says. “He said I was awesome.” Her impression of Carl is uncannily accurate.
“Yeah, well, consider the source,” Ian mutters.
“I bet Carl would feed me if I asked.”
That’s probably true, Ian has to admit. But he’s sure as hell not going to tell her that.
“Listen,” he says. “You can’t go asking other people about this, OK? Actually, I don’t think you should talk to anyone besides me. It’s not safe. They might—”
“Might what?” says Mini, sounding very young and innocent for something that was talking about how delicious human flesh would be a second ago.
“Nothing,” he says. “I’ll go get you something raw from the grocery store. And I’ll, uh, warm it up. Is that good enough for now?”
“For now,” Mini says. But she doesn’t look happy.
After spending some of his hard-earned bonus money to feed Mini, and trying not to feel sick about how enthusiastically she ate it, Ian goes home and finally calls Lip back, with a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach that he only now realizes he’s been trying to suppress all day.
“Oh, so he deigns to return my messages,” Lip says, picking up after only one ring.
“Sorry, man,” Ian says. “It’s been a hell of a day.” He’s not just saying that, either. Between Mickey’s . . . everything and the amount of work they had to do today and the discovery that his plant can talk and is hungry for human meat, he’s honestly not sure how much more he can take right now.
“Well, brace yourself, because the guy took one look at your plant and freaked out. He says it might be some kind of totally unheard of carnivorous hybrid”—Tell me something I don’t know, Ian thinks—“and he wants you to bring it over to his lab tomorrow so they can study it. He was talking about doing a dissertation on it.”
“Oh,” Ian says.
“Oh?!” Lip says. “Are you kidding me, Ian? This is crazy. He’ll pay you for it. Like, university funds. This could be huge.”
“I mean . . . yeah,” Ian says. He’s not sure which worries him more, what the scientists might do to Mini, or what Mini might do to the scientists. Especially once they find out she can talk.
And what she wants to eat.
On the other hand, the idea of making all of it someone else’s problem is tempting.
“Look, I’ll think about it, OK, Lip?”
Lip huffs out a breath of disbelief. “Sure, whatever,” he says. “Thought you’d be excited.”
“I am!” says Ian. He actually feels nothing except tired, but Lip doesn’t need to know that. “Seriously. Thanks for showing him. And for telling me.”
“Yeah, OK. I’ll see you this weekend?”
“Gonna be working, probably,” Ian says, distracted.
“How the tables turn, huh?”
“Yeah, guess so,” Ian says. “Catch you later, OK?”
“Yeah, fine.” Lip is pissed that his big announcement didn’t go over the way he wanted, Ian can tell. But if Lip knew the truth, it would be way worse. Better for him to just think Ian is being an asshole than for him to realize Ian’s hiding something. For now, anyway. Until Ian can figure out what to do.
When he finally goes to bed, though, Ian isn’t thinking about Mini or Lip or any of his other problems. He’s thinking about how he can still feel the ghost of Mickey’s lips against him and the pressure of Mickey’s fingers around him, and the look on Mickey’s face when he got on his knees.
The next morning, the coffeemaker is busted, so Ian gets coffee on the way to work, like a bougie North-sider going to some fancy finance job. It’s kind of fun, and he doesn’t feel too bad about it—at this point, the squirrel fund is so big, the lid hardly fits. He can buy a coffee. Hell, maybe he’ll buy them a new coffeemaker, instead of waiting for Lip to fix the old one, or Carl to blow it up trying.
Mickey is on time for once, but they barely have time to nod to each other before the morning rush hits. The high-school kids show up to get their corsages, and while Ian is ringing them up, he sees Mickey steal a sip of his coffee, then make a face.
“Jesus, Gallagher, heard of sugar?”
“Oh, sorry I didn’t check how you take it before I bought my own coffee,” Ian says. He’s trying so hard not to smile, but when he sneaks a glance at Mickey, he sees Mickey’s mouth twitch.
“What, you got a problem with how I take it?” Mickey says. The words are innocent enough, but the suggestive smirk on Mickey’s face gives him away. Flirty, it turns out, is a good look on Mickey. Ian likes it.
He’d like it even more if they were wearing less clothes and not surrounded by teens arguing over who was supposed to get the gold ribbon and who was supposed to get white.
Once the high-schoolers figure out their ribbon problems, all of them want a picture with Mini before they leave. Ian ignores the fact that Mini seems to be licking her lips every time one of them leans too close.
Mickey doesn’t seem fooled.
“Swear that thing grew, like, six inches overnight,” he says, squinting at Mini suspiciously.
Ian scoffs, but after throwing at uncomfortable look at Mini, he thinks Mickey might be right. Which is alarming.
“If it keeps that up, you’re gonna have to rename it,” Mickey says.
“Nah, it’ll just be like calling a big guy Tiny,” Ian says. Mickey chuckles.
“Um, can you take a picture with all of us in it?” one of the girls asks Ian. He takes her phone, shifting uncomfortably at the open-mouthed grin that Mini gives him, showing all of the thorns inside her pod.
“Tell your classmates,” Mickey calls after them as they leave. Ian raises his eyebrows, and Mickey shrugs. “What? It’s called word-of-mouth, man.”
“Huh, didn’t know you got a degree in marketing while you were in the joint,” Ian says.
“Could if I’d wanted,” Mickey says. “Anyway, that’s just sales. No different than anything else I ever sold to a high-schooler.”
“Uh, a little different,” Ian says. “Flowers make people happy.”
“Drugs make people happy. For a while,” Mickey says. “Anyway, what do you care how I make money?”
“Don’t you like this job better?” Ian asks.
Mickey tilts his head. “Eh. Paying income tax is a bitch.”
Ian doesn’t say anything, and after a minute, Mickey sighs.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Other than all the shit I get for it.”
“Can’t imagine anyone giving you shit about anything,” Ian says without thinking. Mickey’s mouth twists. “Oh. Seriously?”
“What do you think?” Mickey says. “You think my dad wants his son working at some pansy flower shop instead of making an honest living pushing product?” He snorts. “Pansy. Worst part is, he wouldn’t even get why that’s funny.”
“Is that the worst part?” Ian says.
Mickey throws him a look, and Ian knows he’s pushed it too far.
“Anyway.” Mickey looks around. “You seen Sheila this morning?”
“Not yet,” Ian says.
“So you opened this morning. Didn’t you lock up last night, too?” Mickey says.
“Yeah, guess so. Why?”
Mickey scowls. “If she’s not gonna hire someone new to help, she can’t start skipping out on top of it. It’s not a three-person job right now, and it definitely ain’t a two-person one.”
“Yeah,” Ian says. “Uh, should I call her?”
“What, you think I got her number? Yeah, man, call her. It’s 10:30, for fuck’s sake!” Which is pretty hypocritical for someone who’s been known to come in a few hours before they close, but Mickey’s not the owner, Sheila is. And anyway, he’s not wrong. Ditching hours when they had no customers is a lot different than doing it now, when things are finally going good.
Ian pulls up Sheila’s home number. The phone rings five times before she finally picks up, sounding out of breath. “Yes, hello?”
“Sheila?” he says.
“Yes—I mean, this is she!”
“Uh, it’s Ian,” he says cautiously. “We were just wondering if you’re coming in today? Because it’s kind of busy?”
Mickey rolls his eyes, and Ian gestures helplessly.
“Oh! Oh, my god, Ian, I’m so sorry! It’s just that Frank is—Oh! I mean . . .” She trails off.
Ian stares at the wall blankly for a second while his brain resets. “Frank. As in. Frank Gallagher? My father, Frank?” he asks. Which, not really, but he doesn’t know how else to clarify what he means right now. “What about him?” When was the last time he even saw Frank, come to think of it?
“Oh, Ian,” Sheila says. “I didn’t mean for you to find out this way, I truly didn’t.”
“Find out what,” Ian says. He can’t seem to fit Sheila and Frank into one place in his mind together, so this isn’t making any sense, despite the fact Sheila seems to think he’s leaped to whatever conclusion on his own.
“Well, Ian, your father and I are . . . together,” Sheila says.
Mickey is making What the fuck is she saying? faces, but Ian turns around and ignores him, which doesn’t stop him from hearing Mickey making an annoyed sound behind him.
“Together,” Ian says. “Like, in the house together? Or . . .”
“Like in a romantic relationship together.”
It’s so ridiculous, Ian starts laughing, as much out of shock as anything else. “OK?” he says. “I mean, good luck?”
“Oh! Thank you,” Sheila says, sounding choked up, like he meant it as his blessing or something. “Oh, that just means so much to me. To us.”
“So . . . you’re not coming in today?” he asks. And then immediately has to stomp on his brain coming up with explanations for why her being in a relationship with Frank would make coming into work impossible.
“Well, I don’t know that it would be a good idea for me to leave Frank here alone,” Sheila says, “all things considered. Not after what we—”
“OK, got it, no problem, Mickey and I will handle it, thanks, bye,” Ian says as fast as he can, and ends the call, then drops his phone on the counter. He considers getting up and washing his hands for good measure.
“Huh?!” Mickey says, his hands spread in a gesture of disbelief as Ian turns around to face him.
“You don’t even want to know,” Ian says. “Trust me. It’s better this way.”
“OK, fine,” Mickey says, giving up. “Guess that means more cash for us. But don’t blame me if we get trampled by a mob of people by lunchtime.”
They make it to lunch, but only just barely. By the time Mickey flips the sign around and heads out to grab them sandwiches, Ian’s head is spinning and his feet are killing him. He sits at the stool behind the register and puts his head in his hands.
As soon as the door closes behind Mickey, Ian feels a tap on his shoulder and jumps. But it’s just Mini.
“Happy?” she says.
“I mean, not really,” Ian says. “This is exhausting, we can’t keep up with just the two of us.”
Mini droops. “Oh,” she says. “I thought it would be better if Sheila went away, so the two of you could be together.”
“What?” Ian says, the familiar dread worming its way back into his stomach.
“And Frank was annoying you, wasn’t he?”
“I mean, Frank is a mess, we don’t want him in the house, but—what are you saying? You told him, what? That Sheila wanted—”
“I don’t tell anyone anything,” Mini says, oh so sweetly. “You said not to. I make things happen. For you.”
Ian leans away as Mini tilts her head in a way she must think is charming and gives him her thorny grin.
But they’re not thorns, he has to admit. They’re teeth.
“Mini,” he says. “I already told you, I can’t—” But before he can finish, Mickey is back, tossing Ian a sandwich and a bag of chips.
“Jalapeño,” Ian says, looking down at the bag, even though he’s not hungry anymore. “Thanks, these are the best.”
Mickey shrugs. “Whatever, man, they’re just chips,” which makes Ian wonder if Mickey noticed they were his favorite. It would have seemed impossible a few days ago, when he wasn’t even sure that Mickey knew his first name, but now . . .
Ian throws a look at Mini. Mini, who can make things happen, can make people do things, maybe, or feel things.
She smiles back at him.
The last person Ian wants to see come through the door at the end of a very long day is Lip. And the only thing that could make it worse is if Lip brought his eager botany friend along. So, of course, a few minutes after Ian’s managed to push the last few lingering customers out the door, Lip and the botany guy make a grand entrance.
“Didn’t know you were planning on coming by,” Ian says, with as much fake pleasantness as he can muster. He hears Mickey come out of the back room behind him to see what’s happening.
“Oh, wow. Oh my god, look at her,” the botany guy says, not even bothering to introduce himself before he crouches down to examine Mini more closely. Ian looks away resolutely, not sure if he’s hoping Mini will try to take a bite out of the guy or not. It might actually be for the best if she did. At least he would go away.
Unfortunately, Mini decides she’s shy around so many new people, and flops over instead, playing dead.
“Seriously?” Ian mutters.
Botany guy isn’t fazed. “Amazing! Is that a defense mechanism, you think?” He doesn’t stop for an answer, just pulls out his phone and starts recording. “What have you been feeding her?”
Ian can feel Mickey’s eyes boring into the back of his head.
“Oh, uh, beef, mostly,” Ian says. Once.
“That’s so weird, usually flytraps and stuff only do well with bugs. But I guess she’s too big for that, huh?”
“Getting bigger every day,” Mickey says. It doesn’t sound like a compliment.
“Really?” the guys asks. “What would you say is her rate of growth?”
“Way too fast to be normal,” Mickey says. The guy frowns, and reaches out to touch Mini.
“Uh, actually, please don’t touch it,” Ian says. He turns to Lip. “I said I was going to think about it.”
To his credit, Lip looks hangdog. “Look, we saw one of the videos on Instagram, and Danny wanted to get a jump on it before anyone else does. Did you know it got picked up by some ‘Believe It or Not’ weird science blog today?”
“Explains the afternoon we had,” Mickey says.
“I just think you should make sure it gets to the right people, before it blows up any more,” Lip says, ignoring him.
Ian closes his eyes. “It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” Danny says from behind him, stepping away from the plant. There’s a weird aggressive light in his eyes that Ian doesn’t know what to make of.
“Look, I just need another couple of days, to figure some stuff out, about her diet, and then—” He looks at Mini, who seems to be listening intently from her flopped-over position. “And then we’ll talk about it, OK?”
“But no one else has contacted you, right?” Danny says, with that same weird look.
“Just you,” Ian says. “Listen, we still have a few orders to fill tonight, and cleanup and everything, so . . .” He looks meaningfully at Lip.
“Sure, we’ll head out,” Lip says, grabbing Danny by the arm and practically dragging him away. “I’ll try to get Fi to save you something to eat.”
“Don’t worry about it, we’ll probably get something here,” Ian says, and instantly regrets it when he sees the way Lip’s eyebrows jump. He can feel Mickey tensing up behind him, and he has to suppress the urge to reach back and grab his hand or something equally gay, because he knows it will make everything worse.
“Cool” is the only thing Lip says, though. “We’ll talk to you soon, OK?”
“Call me! Lip can give you the number,” Danny says as Lip hauls him out the door.
“The fuck was that about?” Mickey asks as soon as they’re gone. Ian looks down at Mini, but she’s still playing dead, as far as he can tell.
Still, better safe than sorry.
He jerks a thumb at the door that leads from the back room to the alleyway behind the shop. “C’mon. Flip the sign and turn off the lights, so no one else barges in.” Mickey does it, then follows him outside, tapping out a smoke as he does. He offers Ian one, and Ian takes it gratefully, with a hand he realizes is shaking.
“Mini . . . hasn’t been eating beef,” he says.
“Yeah, no shit,” Mickey says. “You forget she tried to chow down on me first? Your plant’s a fucking monster, man.”
“She’s not,” Ian snaps. He takes a deep breath. “Well, maybe. But I don’t think she means to be. She’s just trying to help. And we can’t let that guy take her.”
“Why the fuck not?” Mickey says. “Sounds great to me. Let the egghead deal with the weird bloodsucking plant, he pays you enough money to make up the difference in sales, we keep doing the big orders from these new places—”
“That isn’t what’ll happen,” Ian says.
“Why not?”
Ian swallows, trying to figure out how to explain it without sounding crazy.
“She’s . . . not just a plant,” he says at last. “She’s—she’s intelligent.”
Mickey gives him a skeptical look. “What, you gonna enroll her in plant preschool? Been playing her Baby Einstein songs?”
Ian falters. “No, it’s just . . .”
He doesn’t know if he believes that Mini made Sheila and Frank hook up somehow. Or brought them all those new customers. Or somehow made Mickey, who’s basically hated Ian the whole time they’ve known each other—somehow made him feel . . . something else.
But if Ian says it, then Mickey will either believe it, or he won’t, and Ian isn’t sure which would be worse.
“He’ll probably cut her up,” he manages at last.
Mickey stares, incredulous. “Ian. You cut up plants all day long. It’s literally your whole fucking job.” But he seems to recognize that something else is going on, because after a second his face softens. “Hey,” he says, dropping his cigarette and grinding it with his heel, then reaching out and pulling Ian to stand closer to him.
Ian puts his smoke out too, then leans into him with a sigh and closes his eyes as Mickey wraps one hand behind his neck and puts the other on his waist. “We’ll figure it out,” Mickey says. “Don’t worry.” Ian can feel Mickey breathing, he’s standing so close, and it’s easy to push everything else out of his head and kiss Mickey, lose himself in how their bodies fit together, Mickey’s hips pressing into his, Mickey’s hand skimming down his arm to his back, and then his ass. Ian makes a sound into the kiss, and pushes against Mickey harder, and Mickey pushes back.
“We should—inside,” Mickey mumbles against his mouth, and Ian nods.
“The fuck is this.”
They break apart and turn around, and like a figure in a horror movie, Terry Milkovich is standing in the alley behind them, holding a crowbar. Ian feels Mickey freeze next to him, one hard tremor going through his body. For a second, neither of them even breathe. They stare at Terry, who stares back.
Then, in a flurry of movement, Terry starts toward them, and Ian grabs Mickey and pulls him through the door.
Before Ian can slam and lock it, Terry is wedging a shoulder against the door and bodily shoving it open, swinging with the crowbar at Mickey’s head. Ian yanks Mickey away from the door, to the other side of the room.
“Sonofabitch, you little fucking—” Terry almost can’t talk, he’s so furious, and Mickey is still frozen, and all Ian can think is how Mickey had once offered to get them a gun for the shop, and Ian had laughed and asked who the fuck would rob a place that didn’t make any money.
Terry charges in after them, and knocks over a row of glass vases, and then the table with the ribbon and cellophane and wire, which all go flying. The heavy wooden board with the big stem cutter bolted to it falls to the floor, the handle swinging open, leaving the guillotine blade exposed.
Without thinking, Ian steps forward and shoves Terry backward, managing to get a foot behind his ankle and pull his leg out from under him. Terry goes down hard on his back, right on top of the stem cutter.
He doesn’t make a sound. Just stares up at them, his eyes wide open with shock. He twitches once, twice. And then goes still.
There’s no sound in the room except Mickey’s harsh breathing. Ian stands, looking down at the white tile floor, covered with spilled glitter and unspooled ribbon and broken glass. Terry dropped his crowbar when he fell, and it looks out of place, black metal with patches of rust, resting on a pile of destroyed craft supplies. They’re going to have to get rid of it.
They’re going to have to get rid of everything.
“Oh fuck,” Mickey mutters. “Fuck.” He’s staring at Terry like he thinks he’s going to get up and come after him again. Like he’s just been knocked out.
Ian inches forward, and nudges Terry’s boot. Nothing.
“I think he’s—” Saying it seems weird. Almost rude. What if he’s wrong? “Mickey, I think he’s—”
Mickey puts a hand over his own mouth and closes his eyes. Ian’s not sure if he’s going to vomit or something else. Mickey stays like that for one, two, three seconds.
Then he lowers his hand and opens his eyes. He looks at Ian, his face hard.
“We’re gonna need garbage bags. Rubber gloves. Bleach.”
“The—the police . . . ?” Ian says weakly, and Mickey cuts him off with an impatient gesture.
“Fuck no, no fucking way. No way they’ll believe us, and I’m not going back to prison for that fucking piece of shit.”
“Mickey,” Ian whispers. “He’s dead.” He doesn’t know what he means by saying that. It just seems like one of them should.
“Shut up,” Mickey says, not looking at him. “Shut up and let me . . .” He puts his hands over his face.
The door to the main room of the shop creaks open, and Ian’s heart jumps so hard, he thinks he’s about to die.
Mini, one vine wrapped around the door handle, leans over from her place on the counter, and opens her mouth wide, exposing all of her teeth, and a thick purple tongue.
Ian is the one who goes to the hardware store. He doesn’t want to, but he doesn’t want to do what Mickey is doing back at the shop, either.
“Why was he even here?” Ian asks a little later. Anything to distract them from what they’re doing.
Mickey closes his eyes for a second. “The money,” he finally says. “The—fucking money. Must’ve found out how good we were doing, thought we weren’t here because the lights were off, figured it was a good chance to knock the place over.”
But Ian remembers Mini asking him, No one? You can’t think of . . . anyone? And he’s not so sure.
After it’s over, when they’re locking up, Ian realizes he can’t go back to Fiona and the rest of his family, not tonight. He’s sick and shaking, and he feels like they would be able to see it on him, everything he’s done.
“Can I come to your place,” he mutters as Mickey pulls the security grate shut and locks it.
“Yeah, guess so,” Mickey says, not meeting his eyes. Ian wonders if Mickey would rather avoid him, if Mickey is pissed at him for . . .
But it was an accident, or self-defense anyway, and Terry was—he was going to—
Mickey reaches out and wraps a hand around Ian’s wrist, squeezing once, hard. Then he lets go, his fingers brushing Ian’s palm softly as he pulls his hand away. “C’mon,” he says.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the Milkovich house, and they do it in silence. It’s late, past midnight, and there’s almost no one around.
The house is quiet and dark when they get there. Mickey pushes the door open, but doesn’t turn on the lights. Ian stands awkwardly as Mickey grabs two plastic cups from the kitchen and fills them. He offers one to Ian and then chugs the other. Ian sips his, the water tepid and metallic, but when he sees that Mickey is watching him drink, and apparently not going to leave until he finishes it, he gulps the rest of it down quick.
The hallway is filled with junk they have to step around, Mickey’s hand tight around Ian’s wrist again as he leads him to the bedroom.
“You go first,” Mickey says, throwing a towel at Ian and pointing him toward the shower. Mickey probably needs it more, but Ian doesn’t want to argue. He’s hoping that the water will drown out some of the buzzing in his head, but it just makes it worse. The shower walls feel like they’re closing in, and the water is scalding but he keeps shivering. Having Mickey out of his sight makes him feel panicky, so he turns off the water and barely dries off, pulling his boxers on. His shirt is still sweat-soaked, so he throws it in the corner of the room with his jeans. They should probably toss their clothes, just in case.
When he goes back into the bedroom, Mickey is sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. He looks up at Ian, but then down again quick, like he can’t look at him. Ian feels his heart stutter painfully.
“Done?” Mickey says. Ian nods, and Mickey snags the towel from him and goes to take his own shower.
Ian lies on the bed and closes his eyes, listening to Mickey in the shower. He shivers again, and pulls the scratchy blanket up over his chest. It smells like Mickey. He drifts for a while like that, the same few seconds repeating over and over again on a loop, like maybe they’ll be stuck here forever. He doesn’t mind the idea. It feels safe, like the eye of a hurricane.
Eventually the shower turns off and Mickey comes in. He didn’t bother to put his clothes back on, or couldn’t stand to. His hair is wet.
He climbs into the bed and then over Ian, so he’s between Ian and the wall, and pulls the blanket over both of them. He curls up facing Ian, almost in the fetal position, and Ian mirrors him, Mickey’s forehead pressed against Ian’s chest, and Ian’s knees tucked under Mickey’s.
Mickey rests his left hand on Ian’s waist, and slides the other around the back of Ian’s neck, just like he had in the alley before everything went to shit. His fingertips press against Ian’s spine with the perfect amount of pressure, grounding him.
Gradually, their breathing matches up, and Ian drifts again, lulled by it.
After a while, Mickey’s breath starts to pick up. Ian tilts his head so he can get a look at Mickey’s face. His eyes are squeezed shut and his eyebrows are pinched together like he’s in pain. His breath is coming faster, almost in gasps, and Ian reaches out and pulls him in even tighter against his body, so tight that Mickey’s knees are digging into Ian’s stomach. But Ian doesn’t loosen his grip.
Mickey uncurls his body and pulls Ian half on top of him, then buries his face between Ian’s neck and shoulder. Ian can feel Mickey’s tears, burning hot against his skin. He can’t get his arms around Mickey the way he wants to, can’t get his hands between their bodies and the bed, so instead he puts them on Mickey’s hips, rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs.
Mickey lets out a sob, muffling it against Ian’s neck, and Ian presses him down as hard as he can into the mattress, feeling Mickey go limp and relaxed underneath him
“You’re OK,” Ian whispers. “You’re OK, you’re OK.” Mickey’s hands curl around Ian’s shoulders, pulling Ian against him, rocking up into him.
The friction alone makes getting hard almost inevitable, but Ian still tries to pull away when he feels it, guilt rising inside him.
Mickey pulls him back down. “Don’t,” he says, and starts to tug Ian’s boxers off his hips. His face is wet, and his mouth is open and hot and desperate. Ian lifts himself just enough to get his boxers off, and then Mickey presses their bodies together again with a sigh of relief.
It’s messy and clumsy and it finally drives everything else from Ian’s mind. Only their bodies exist.
Mickey sobs again but he crushes it into a kiss and Ian takes it, takes everything.
Ian startles awake, confused, not sure where he is. Mickey stirs next to him, one hand wrapped around his arm, their feet tangled. It’s still dark. His whole body aches, and the sheets are damp and his skin is sticky.
He tugs free of Mickey, who stirs and squints up at him.
“Sorry,” Ian says. “Gotta pee.” Mickey grunts and shuts his eyes.
Ian’s jeans are on the floor in the bathroom, and he digs his phone out. It’s almost dead.
“Mickey,” he says when he goes back in the bedroom. “Gotta plug in my phone and set an alarm. We have to finish those orders from last night before we open.”
Last night. More like four hours ago. But there’s a weird break in Ian’s mind, almost a skip. Like if they just go in early and finish the orders and open the store, it’ll be like it never happened at all.
Mickey gestures toward an outlet by the door. “What time’s it?” he mumbles.
“5:43,” Ian says. He sets the alarm for 7:00.
“Never gonna get back to sleep,” Mickey says. “C’mere.” Ian climbs into bed next to him. He doesn’t protest when Mickey grabs his hand and puts it on his dick, already half hard, guiding him into a slow rhythm.
“You sure?” Ian says. Mickey sighs, and gives a pointed thrust into Ian’s hand. Ian takes the hint, and finishes him off slow and easy, like he’s still on the edge from last time. When Mickey reaches down to return the favor, he licks his lips, and Ian can’t help staring.
“Mickey,” he says, and Mickey nods, even though he didn’t really say anything. Ian closes his eyes, and the next thing he knows, Mickey’s mouth is hot around him. Everything feels raw and tender, almost bruised, like Ian’s skin can’t stand being touched again so soon, but Mickey’s tongue teases him and it’s such a rush of sensation that Ian lets out a small sob of his own.
And then it’s smooth, mindless, thrusting forward almost into Mickey’s throat, Mickey opening up for him eagerly.
“So good,” Ian hears himself slur out. He pets at Mickey’s head, trying not to push or thrust too hard, but feeling his hips twitch without his permission whenever Mickey gives a harder suck. “Mickey, you’re really good.”
Mickey makes a sound in answer to the praise, and Ian starts to come, not even expecting it, his body doing things again without warning him first.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “Sorry, Mickey.”
Mickey slides off him, catching his breath, and then crawls up to kiss Ian’s neck, his shoulder, his chest, his mouth.
“Sleep,” he says, and Ian nods and pulls the sheets up over both of them.
Too few hours later, Ian unlocks the door and lets them into the store. His stomach churns at the first thing he sees.
Mini has grown overnight, and not just a little. She’s at least four feet tall now, and her roots have burst out of the pot she was in, spilling dirt all over the floor.
She turns her pod toward him and smiles. Next to him, he can feel Mickey tense up, like he’s getting ready to run or fight.
“Morning, Mini,” Ian says cautiously. She hasn’t talked around Mickey yet, and he doesn’t want to sound like a crazy person trying to insist that she can. Anyway, he’s not sure he wants to hear what she has to say right now.
But she doesn’t say anything, just tilts her body toward the sun coming in through the front window, and presses her vines against the glass.
“I’ll get a new pot,” Mickey mutters. That means going into the back room. Ian’s been trying not to think about having to go in there.
“Wait,” he says. “I can—” But Mickey is already walking through the door, and shutting it behind him. Ian wonders if maybe he wants a chance to face it first, on his own.
An image from last night flashes through Ian’s mind, and he swallows, feeling sick.
“Happy now?” he says to Mini. She turns enough to look back at him.
“Aren’t you?” she asks. He doesn’t reply.
They finish the orders—a baby shower, a retirement party, and three different bar mitzvahs—with minutes to spare before opening. Ian’s fingers are pricked and bleeding, and he knows the displays for the baby shower could have looked nicer, but considering the night they had, he’s going to call it a win.
“Still no Sheila?” Mickey says. He’s going through their invoices. He looks pale and tired, but he’s functioning. For now. “We’re gonna need to up the wholesale orders again, and they won’t let me do it. You gotta get her to come in, man.”
Ian sighs. “I’ll call her. I’ll tell her . . . I don’t know what.”
“Tell her to come take care of her own fucking business,” Mickey mutters. He rubs his eyes with one hand.
“Hey,” Ian says, reaching out to cup Mickey’s elbow. “Are you—” He doesn’t know how to end that sentence. Why would Mickey be OK?
Mickey tenses under his touch, but seems to force himself to relax into it. “Gonna be fine,” he says. Then, after a second, “You?”
Ian blinks. He’s not used to anyone asking. He’s the one who doesn’t make trouble, who doesn’t need help. It feels good to have someone ask. Like he’s more solid than he was before.
“Gonna be OK,” he says, echoing back Mickey’s sentiment. Mickey gives him a nod, and looks almost like he’s proud of him.
Ian wonders if maybe this wasn’t the first time Mickey’s had to get rid of a body. Maybe it was just the worst.
The door jingles, and Mickey steps back at the same time that Ian lowers his hand.
“Sheila!” Ian says.
“Oh my god.” She’s staring at Mini, now taking up an entire corner of the store. “Ian, your plant is . . . Is that your plant? It’s huge! What have you been feeding it?”
Mickey chokes out a laugh, and Ian can feel a similar hysteria rising up in him.
“New plant food,” he says.
“Oh my goodness.” Sheila looks half fascinated, half disturbed, and Ian finds himself staring at the floor. He knows they cleaned it up. They cleaned everything up. But he can’t help feeling like they missed a spot. Mickey nudges him.
“Snap out of it, man,” he whispers.
“Uh, Sheila,” Ian says. “You need to sign off on the invoices from yesterday, and update our orders. They won’t let Mickey do it without you on the phone.”
“Yes, of course!” she says. “Oh, boys, I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean to miss yesterday, it was just, well, I didn’t want to leave—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Ian cuts her off before she can traumatize them any more than they already are today. He hands her the phone, and she dials the number for one of their wholesalers, then covers the mouthpiece long enough to say, “Oh, by the way, Frank said he might come by today after we close. I hope that’s OK.”
“Why?” Ian says.
“Because he’s proud of you and how well you’re doing, Ian!” Sheila says scoldingly. “He is your father.”
“He actually isn’t,” Ian mumbles, but so only Mickey can hear him. Ian likes Sheila, but his sympathy for people who get tricked into putting up with Frank is less than zero at this point, and he’s not going to waste energy he doesn’t have today arguing about Frank’s nonexistent merits as a father.
Ian wonders if Mini’s new size will make customers nervous, but the opposite seems to be true. Everyone who comes in gazes in awe at the huge pod. Ian thinks he can see Mini preening under all the attention, although she never moves around as much as she does when it’s just him, and she still hasn’t talked to anyone else. Not even Mickey.
When yet another kid gets within chomping distance, Ian trades a look with Mickey and goes into the back room to find something to rope the plant off.
The door closes behind him and he’s left in the quiet darkness. He reaches out and snaps on the light. Everything is clean and organized, exactly the way they left it. He’s not sure why he expected to see Terry’s body still stretched out on the floor, surrounded by ribbon and glitter and blood.
He grabs a few spools of hemp twine and some of the wreath stands, turns off the light, and shuts the door behind him without looking back.
Things are busy enough to keep Ian from having to think for the rest of the morning. But the text he sees when he finally has a chance to check his phone puts an end to that.
Danny won’t stop bugging me, Lip says. Figure your shit out man
If there had ever been a possibility of making Mini someone else’s problem, it disappeared the second Terry hit the ground. Mini is basically a living crime scene now—and that’s without considering the fact she might decide to just tell Danny and whoever else what he and Mickey did. Even if she didn’t mean to, even if she only meant to complain she wasn’t being fed as well as she was used to.
And then there’s another problem: Every time he’s fed Mini, she’s had a growth spurt, and then been hungrier than ever. This is the biggest meal she’s ever gotten.
How long until she asks for more?
“Danny wants an answer,” Ian tells Mickey once they duck behind the store to eat lunch. The idea of eating in the back room makes Ian so nauseous, he would have had to skip it anyway.
Mickey blanches and swallows his bite of sandwich. “Danny can fuck off.”
“I don’t think he’s going to,” Ian says. “I think there’s something wrong with him.”
Mickey snorts. “There’s something wrong with anyone who does school for a living.”
“No, I mean, something to do with Mini.”
“Huh?” Mickey says through another bite.
Ian takes a breath. “I think Mini can make people do things.”
He’s expecting Mickey to scoff, but Mickey doesn’t say anything. He takes another bite, chews it slowly. “Like what?” he finally says.
“Like . . .” Ian’s courage fails. He can’t tell Mickey he thinks Mini is responsible for getting them together. He just can’t. “Like making people come in and buy a whole bunch of stuff. Or like getting Sheila to stay away from the store.”
“Why would a plant care about any of that shit?” Mickey says.
Ian grimaces. “Because she wants me to do stuff for her too, and she thinks if she makes me happy, I’ll do it.”
Mickey puts his sandwich down. “The plant. Wants you to do stuff,” he says.
“Look, I know what it sounds like,” Ian says. “I’ve been . . . I’ve been trying to think of a way to explain, but it’s hard.” He tries again. “She wants to eat. And I think she had your dad come here, knowing that he’d try to do something, try to hurt us, and we’d have to, I don’t know. Fight back.”
Mickey is staring at him now, looking almost worried, and Ian shakes his head. “Never mind,” he mutters. “Forget it.”
“No, hey,” Mickey says. “I didn’t say—”
“I said forget it.” Ian takes the last few bites of his sandwich, wads up the wrapper, throws it onto the pile of trash next to them. “I’m just going to tell Lip that Danny can’t have the plant, end of story. He might get weird about it, but that’s not our problem.”
“Yeah, OK, fine,” Mickey says. “But, Ian—”
Ian stands up. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Hey. Hey!” Mickey reaches up and grabs Ian’s hand. Ian stares down at him, surprised. “We’ll talk, OK? After work. We’ll go back to my place and talk it out.”
Ian thinks for second he might cry, but he chokes it back. “OK,” he says. He blinks until his eyes are clear again. “OK.”
Frank, for maybe the first time in his life, shows up early. Mickey is unloading a rush order in the back, so he misses the scarring experience of seeing Sheila run up to him and kiss him, but Ian gets a front-row seat.
It’s got to be Mini messing with Sheila’s mind, because the other option is just too fucked up.
“Well, will you look at this,” Frank says once he’s unsuckered himself from Sheila and gotten a good look at Mini. “My boy, the star horticulturist. That thing has got to be five feet tall.”
Ian’s been trying not to think about it, but Frank isn’t wrong. Mini’s been growing all day. Which definitely doesn’t mean anything good for Ian. He ignores Frank to ring up the next two customers in line.
“What do you want, Frank?” he finally asks, once the customers have left.
“Want?” Frank asks. His tone is equal parts injured and offended. “What do I want? That’s no way to talk to your father, the man who—”
“I’ll keep that in mind, if I see him,” Ian says.
“Oh, Ian.” Sheila sounds disappointed, like some parody of a TV mom whose boys won’t stop fighting.
Ian usually thinks of Frank as pathetic, but there are some times when Frank looks at him, eyes blank and cold, and he can picture Frank lunging for him without even a thought. Right now Frank’s lip curls, and Ian feels his stomach sink, in that familiar oh-shit sensation he remembers from so many times as a kid.
The door to the back room slams behind him, and Mickey comes in.
“The fuck is he doing here,” he says, hardly giving Frank a glance.
“Frank is here as my guest, and I’d like you two to be nice to him!” Sheila says, her voice rising.
Ian and Mickey stare at her, which she apparently takes as agreement. “Thank you! Now, I have to make some calls. Can I trust you all to not tear the whole place down around our heads while I’m busy?”
“Of course, pookie,” Frank says, and Mickey mimes gagging, but pulls a straight face when Sheila turns toward him to grab the phone.
As soon as she’s distracted, Frank leans in close to Ian. He smells like fake flowery soap, and under that, beer and sweat, like whatever Sheila did to try to clean him up only scraped off the top layer of filth.
“Actually, to be honest,” he says, “I need some cash. Sheils was telling me how well you boys are doing now, so if you can just slip your old man, say, a couple hundred—”
Ian shakes his head. “Seriously, Frank?”
“It’s for a good cause!” Frank says, with wide-eyed innocence. “I just want to take her out for a nice meal, instead of her having to cook for me all the time. Is that really so much to ask?”
All Ian wants is to go home, or actually, back to Mickey’s place, to Mickey’s bed, with the lights off and a chair under the door, away from Mini, away from Sheila, away from all of this. But most of all right now, away from Frank.
“Please,” he says through clenched teeth. “Frank, just get out of here.”
When Frank opens his mouth to argue, Mickey steps closer, getting up in Frank’s face, and then grabs his arm.
“Wouldn’t if I were you,” he says.
Frank twists and wriggles, like a fish on a hook. Mickey tightens his grip.
“Ah, fuck!” Frank whines, then goes limp. “Fine, fine.” Mickey lets go, and Frank shuffles backward, rubbing his arm, looking wounded. “Don’t see how this is your problem, Mickey,” he says, his eyes darting back and forth between Ian and Mickey in a way that Ian definitely does not like.
“Got enough problems today without you hanging around,” Mickey says. “Scram.”
“But Sheila—”
“I told you, fuck off, Frank,” Mickey says, and Frank subsides.
“Oh, fine.” He calls to Sheila, who is still on the phone, “Will you make that fish I like for dinner?” Sheila waves him off, looking impatient, and after throwing the two of them another look, Frank slinks toward the door. As he walks by Mini, he somehow manages to trip over one of her sprawling vines. “Ah! This thing is a menace. Be careful, you’ll get yourselves sued” is his parting shot.
“This day over yet?” Mickey mutters to Ian, who nods in weary agreement.
Mickey looks at him for a second, and then says, “Hey, you know what? Fuck it. We’ve been working crazy overtime. Sheila can lock up tonight. We’ll deal with the rest of the orders tomorrow, OK?”
“Closed tomorrow anyway,” Ian says. Monday is their day off.
“Fine,” Mickey says. “We’ll knock ’em out early on Tuesday. OK?”
Ian nods. Considering how few times Mickey has hugged him, it’s crazy how desperately Ian wants it right now. Seems like he should be able to make it more than a couple of hours without touching him. But he’s dying for it. He wonders if Mickey feels the same—he might, if the speed at which he hustles them out of the shop after making their excuses to Sheila is any indication.
Ian can feel Mini staring after them as they go, her pod moving just enough to follow them on their way out the door.
Ian expects that Mickey will start pressing him for answers about what he said earlier about Mini as soon as they’re outside, but instead Mickey says, “We gotta get groceries. What d’you want for dinner?”
Ian thinks about saying he should go home at least for a while, just to show Fiona he’s still alive, but then he looks at his phone and realizes that, other than the earlier texts from Lip about Danny, there’s nothing from his family. No one else seems to have even noticed he’s not there. No calls or texts from Fiona. Maybe Lip told her where he was last night, but still, it’s been a day since then, and nothing. So instead, he shrugs and says, “Tacos?”
“Fuck yeah, taco bar, let’s do it,” Mickey says.
It’s fun shopping with Mickey instead of Fiona or Lip, who are always trying to figure out what they’re out of, how many lunches they need this week, whether they brought the coupons, who needs toothpaste or shampoo . . . Getting stuff for just the two of them is easy, and they both have enough extra cash that they don’t stop with the taco stuff. They get two six-packs of beer instead of one, and a container of chocolate pudding and some whipped cream—not even Cool Whip, actual whipped cream, with a stupid cartoon drawing of a cow on the can. Ian doesn’t know if it tastes any different, but he wants to find out.
Mickey raises his eyebrows when Ian drops the last two things in, and Ian shrugs. “Carl and Debbie only like vanilla stuff, so that’s what we always get.”
“What kind of weird-ass kids like vanilla?” Mickey looks scandalized. “Hey, grab one of those bags of peanut butter cups, too. The little ones. We’ll put ’em on top.”
“Think your brothers will be home tonight?” Ian asks when they’re in line to pay. He doesn’t know how Mickey would explain having Ian there for dinner, let alone if he stays over. “Or Mandy?” Mickey’s sister had been in Ian’s grade back in high school, and he had been in detention with her a few times, but other than that, they’d never talked. He’s not even sure she’d remember him.
Mickey doesn’t answer. He’s silent while they pay for the groceries and then divvy up the bags for the walk home. He looks uncomfortable, chewing his lip. Ian doesn’t know whether to ask again, or to apologize for asking, so he doesn’t say anything. It’s not until they turn the corner onto Mickey’s street and they can see the Milkovich house, dark and quiet, same as last night, that Mickey finally says something.
“Mandy split last summer,” he says. “Don’t know where, she didn’t say.”
“Jesus,” Ian says. “Mickey, I’m—” But Mickey ignores him and keeps talking.
“’Bout a month ago, Iggy and Colin went up to Canada on a run for Dad. Some prescription pill racket. But they might have split too. Or they got caught. Haven’t heard from them either. Dad was real pissed.”
“Wait,” Ian says, “so it was just you and Terry? Everyone else is—Christ. Mickey, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what,” Mickey says flatly. He goes up the stairs to the front door, and Ian follows him into the house. It feels eerie now, knowing there’s no one else around, no one coming home.
“Sorry for—” Ian can’t say it. “Jesus, Mickey, you know. Just . . . sorry.” Sorry I killed him, sorry your sister split, sorry your brothers left you alone with a psychotic abusive dickbag, sorry for your loss . . .
Mickey drops the bags of groceries in the kitchen. His back is to Ian, and for a second Ian thinks he’s pissed, like he might take a swing at him. Ian takes a step back, bumping into the kitchen table.
Then Mickey turns around, and he does look pissed, but not at Ian.
“He was gonna fucking kill me,” Mickey says. “You get that? Sooner or later. For that, for something else. Doesn’t matter.” He stops, takes a breath, tilts his head back, and then sighs. He looks at Ian, his eyes hard. “Don’t you dare fucking say you’re sorry. You hear me?”
Ian swallows, nods. “Yeah, Mick,” he whispers.
“Good.” Mickey looks down at the floor, at the bags of groceries. “Stick the dessert stuff and the beer in the fridge. Unless you want dessert first or some shit.”
“Nah, I’m good,” Ian says.
“Good,” Mickey says.
If Ian thinks they’re done with awkward emotional conversations for the night, he has another thing coming. As soon as they sit down with their food and a beer each, Mickey says, “So. The plant wants you to do things?”
Ian manages to swallow the bite of beef and cheese he’d just taken, and then puts his plate down on the coffee table.
“I know about your mom,” Mickey says after a second. “How she’s—”
“Stop,” Ian says. It comes out harsh, but he needs Mickey to stop. “This isn’t that. OK? It’s not in my head.”
“OK,” Mickey says. “But why hasn’t she had anyone else do anything? Why hasn’t she messed around with my head?”
I think she has. Ian wants to say it. Wants to trust Mickey enough to say it and hear him say that no, he wants to be with Ian, he did before any of this. But what if he didn’t? What if Ian says it, and then he has to see the slow realization and doubt creeping across Mickey’s face as he thinks back to how he used to be around Ian, how he used to feel about him . . .
“Don’t know,” Ian finally says instead. “But that’s what she told me. That she was hungry, and that she’d done all this stuff—the new customers, Sheila and Frank—to try to . . . make me happy, I guess. To help.”
“Well, shit,” Mickey says, taking a gulp of beer.
“You still don’t believe me,” Ian says. Mickey sighs.
“Look, I agree this is some weird shit,” he says. “That plant is . . . sure as shit not normal. And the Sheila and Frank thing, yeah, there’s something wrong with that, too. But—”
Ian’s phone starts buzzing on the coffee table and they both jump.
“Sorry,” Ian says, fumbling for it. “Probably just Fiona.”
But it’s not. It’s the flower shop’s number. Ian frowns, and answers it.
“Hello?” he says cautiously.
“Ian!” It’s Sheila, and she sounds upset. “Ian, I don’t know what happened, I was just starting to lock up, and then I heard this sound and I turned around and—” Her voice is panicked, going higher with every word.
“Sheila, calm down, what’s wrong?” Ian says.
“It’s your plant!” Sheila says. “Oh, Ian, I’m sorry, I don’t know what I did, I turned around and it was just flopped over, on the floor, like—”
“Oh, fuck, Sheila, don’t touch it!” Ian says. Mickey gestures at him, asking what’s going on, but Ian can’t, he has to stop her. “Sheila, don’t get any closer, just leave it there, don’t worry about it, just—”
“Ian, I think there’s something in its mouth. I think . . .”
“Sheila, NO!” Ian shouts, standing up, like he can reach out and stop her, but it’s too late. It was too late as soon as they left her in the shop alone, without feeding Mini.
But he has to try. He drops his phone. “Mickey, we gotta go, c’mon, now!” He’s already running for the door, Mickey right behind him.
It’s a fifteen-minute walk to the shop, but they run it in four. When they get there, the lights are off, but the security grate isn’t down. They come to a stop in front of the window, breathing hard. Ian reaches for the door, but Mickey puts a hand out to stop him.
“Wait,” he says. “See if you can see anything inside.”
Ian steps closer to the darkened front window, his heart pounding. The streetlight outside makes it impossible to see anything but his own reflection. He leans in closer.
The lights inside flick on, and Ian jumps back.
Mini is there, inside, but instead of being in her corner, she’s right in the middle of the room somehow. And Sheila isn’t there at all.
Mini raises one of her vines and waves to Ian. Her mouth opens in a smile, and Ian can see her teeth are stained red.
“Fuck,” he says, stumbling back. “Fuck.”
“Ian?” Mickey says from behind him. “What—”
“We gotta go,” Ian says. He fumbles his keys out of his pocket and locks the door, then pulls the security grate down and locks that too. It suddenly feels flimsy, almost like a toy.
Through the metal bars, he can see Mini’s grin get bigger, and then she starts to laugh.
“Holy shit,” Mickey says. “Is she . . .”
“Sheila wasn’t in there,” Ian says.
“Maybe she went out the back?” Mickey offers, but he doesn’t sound convinced.
“No,” Ian says. “She didn’t.” He starts to walk away, as calmly as he can, reaching out and pulling Mickey away from the window. “We gotta go. Mickey, come on, let’s go.”
Mickey is frozen in front of the store, staring at the plant.
“That thing is alive,” he says. “Like, seriously fucking alive.”
“No shit, Mickey, come on.” Ian starts walking faster, pulling Mickey along with him. “Before she gets you in there for dessert.”
Mickey is silent the whole walk back, but he stops Ian before they go back inside the house.
“You were right, man,” he says. His eyes are still wide. “That thing is—you were right. Sorry I didn’t—you know.”
Ian laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Can’t blame you. It’s a crazy thing.”
“What are we gonna do?” Mickey asks. “My dad, the stuff he was mixed up in, it’s not that weird if he disappears. Sheila, though? People are gonna ask questions. We can’t just say , ‘Oh, sorry, our plant ate our boss.’ What the fuck are we gonna do?”
Ian shakes his head. “I know. Come on, we can’t talk about this out here. Someone’s gonna hear.”
“Jesus,” Mickey mutters. “She’s dead.”
“I know. Mickey, come on. Inside.”
Their food is sitting there, still warm. It’s been less than twenty minutes.
Ian sits down heavily on the couch, and Mickey starts pacing back and forth.
“People saw her, Frank saw her, everyone’s going to know she didn’t go anywhere.”
“Robberies happen. Murders happen,” Ian says.
“There’s blood, though,” Mickey says. “On the plant. Inside the plant. And if they cut it open, people will just think . . . They’ll still think we did it.” He stops, turns to look at Ian. “If we want to run, we gotta do it now. Tonight.”
Ian shakes his head again. “We’re not running, Mickey. They’d know, and you’re still on parole. It’ll look even worse if we—”
“I’m not,” Mickey blurts out, then looks surprised that he said it.
Ian’s heart kicks up again. “What?” he says. “What do you mean? Wasn’t that . . . wasn’t that the whole reason you were even working there? Sheila was the only one who would hire you with employment as a condition of your parole?”
Mickey won’t meet his eyes. “I mean, yeah, at first.”
“Mickey,” Ian says slowly. “How long?”
“How long since what.”
“Since you didn’t need that job anymore.”
Mickey shrugs, like it’s not important, but the way he still won’t look at Ian is telling a different story. “Year, year and a half.”
“Why’d you stay?” Ian’s mouth feels dry.
“What, you’re gonna make me say it?”
Ian leans forward and grabs Mickey’s hand. “No,” he says. “No, you don’t have to say it.”
“Good,” Mickey says. He squeezes Ian’s hand, and then lets go. “So? We doing this, or what?”
“We’re not gonna run,” Ian says again. For the first time since this started, he doesn’t feel scared anymore. He knows what they have to do, and he knows how to do it. “We’re gonna kill that fucking plant.”
“You’re going to have to distract her,” Mickey says. “You know that, right?”
“I know.” Ian looks down at the pile of supplies they’ve scavenged from around the Milkovich house, spread out in front of the couch. Maybe not surprisingly, they managed to find everything they need. “But I think we need someone else to help you. She’s probably going to catch on quick, so you’re gonna have to move fast.”
“Maybe I should be the one to go in with her, and you should—”
“No way,” Ian says. “She’s never even talked to you, she’ll probably just grab you and—” He stops, tries to calm himself down. “Anyway, this is my fault. If I hadn’t . . . When it first started, if I’d just . . .”
“Hey, hey, don’t,” Mickey says. “You couldn’t know what she was going to do. What she was going to turn into.”
It would have been easier if Mickey had been pissed, if he had blamed Ian, yelled at him, called him a fuckup. But the soft, worried tone of his voice, a tone Ian’s never heard from him before, that breaks him. The tears well up, and this time, he can’t stop them.
“Shit,” he says. “Shit. I did know. I knew what she wanted, I just—” He buries his face in his hands.
“Ian, Ian, hey, listen.” Mickey crouches down in front of him, puts his hands on Ian’s knees, and leans his head against Ian’s. “We’re gonna make this right, OK? You and me, we’re gonna fix it.”
“We can’t fix it,” Ian says. “She’s dead.”
“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Everyone dies, though. But no one else is gonna die from this. OK? We’re gonna end it. Now. Tonight.”
“Yeah.” Ian nods. “Yeah, we’ll end it.” He wipes his face as much as he can, and grabs his phone. “I’m gonna call Carl. He can help you, but don’t let him get anywhere near her, OK?”
“Carl?” Mickey says. “Why Carl? Why not Lip or Fiona?”
“They’re not gonna believe me until they see it, and then it’ll be too late. Carl already knows.” Ian shrugs. “Besides, he likes setting stuff on fire.”
In fact, Carl has a few notes, once he’s heard their plan. “Gasoline is fine,” he says, looking at the stuff they’ve gathered, “but you can’t just splash it around. Way too obvious. You gotta make, like, kind of a Molotov cocktail that burns real slow for a while and then blows up? But you should use stuff you already have in there. Makes it less obvious. And then it doesn’t matter if your fingerprints are on it, because why wouldn’t they be, you know?”
“Good thinking,” Mickey says. He looks impressed.
“Christ,” Ian mutters. “OK, well, don’t touch anything we’re gonna use then, Carl. Mickey and me have a reason to have been in there, you don’t.”
“Fine,” Carl says. “But I get to light it.”
“Deal.” Ian nods, takes one last look around. “We got everything?”
“Oh, wait, hang on,” Mickey says. He ducks into his bedroom and comes back with a dark green sheath and a leather belt, which he puts on.
“Is that . . .”
“What? It’s for plants,” Mickey says.
Ian smiles. “It’s not that, it’s just—of course you have a machete.”
“You don’t?” Mickey says. “OK, enough chit-chat, let’s get this fucking show on the road.”
A few blocks from the store, they get ready to split up, so Mickey and Carl can go in through the alley without Mini seeing them, while Ian goes in the front door to distract her.
“It’s gonna take maybe . . . ten minutes, once we get in there,” Carl says.
“OK,” Mickey says. “Ian, keep an eye on the clock behind the register. If you haven’t seen us by, like, a quarter after, just get out of there, we’ll figure something else out.”
Ian nods.
“And, uh, if she tries to take a bite out of you, just scream or something. I’ll come get you.”
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Ian says.
“Like, she’s not going to try to eat you?” Carl says.
“No,” Ian says. “I won’t have a problem screaming.”
“Can’t blame you,” Mickey says. “OK, you ready?” They stare at each other for a second, both overly aware of Carl standing there next to them.
“Guys?” he says.
Mickey blinks. “Eh, fuck it,” he says, and cups his hand against Ian’s face, leaning in for a kiss. “Don’t get eaten.”
“Don’t set yourself on fire,” Ian says.
“Copy that.” Mickey turns to Carl. “C’mon, kid.”
Carl is staring, but Ian ignores it. “Be careful,” he says, and gives him a hug.
“Are you kidding? This is going to be amazing.”
Mickey gives Ian one last nod, then heads off down the street. He doesn’t look back.
Ian takes a deep breath, and walks the rest of the way to work.
Mini must have turned the lights back off after they left, because the shop is dark again when Ian gets there. He knows he’s not the one who’s supposed to be sneaking in, that Mini needs to know he’s there for this to work, but the loud rattle as he pulls the security grate open again still makes him wince.
He unlocks the door and steps inside, turning on the light.
Mini is back in her corner, and everything is clean and tidy. It’s enough to make Ian doubt himself for a second. Is it really all in his head?
Then he sees the phone on the floor.
He looks up at Mini, more closely this time, and sees that she’s broken the pot she was in, and below her is a writhing mass of roots and dirt. And she’s so tall now, her pod is almost to the ceiling.
“You came back,” she says. “Good. I’m still hungry.”
“Wait,” Ian says weakly. “Don’t—”
“Didn’t I warn you?” she asks. “If you don’t feed me, you’ll be sad. You’re sad now.”
“Did you do it?” he demands. “Did you kill her?”
Mini licks her lips. Her fat purple tongue is slimy and rotten-looking now where it peeks out of her mouth.
“Not as nice as the one you gave me before, all oozing and bite-size,” she says. “She kicked all the way down. But better than nothing.”
Ian’s stomach roils, a sick mixture of guilt and disgust. “What do you want from me?” he asks. “You can’t just keep taking people. The police will show up, they’ll have questions. They’ll be able to tell that something’s wrong.”
“Will they?” she asks. “Maybe they’ll be like her. Maybe they’ll just be very, very . . . curious.”
She lets her pod droop to the floor and opens her maw. Ian staggers back from the smell: rotting meat, the tang of blood, and below that, a sickly, sticky sweetness.
“Fuck!” he says, bringing his arm up to cover his nose, but the smell is overpowering. And while he’s trying to keep from vomiting, two of Mini’s vines sweep his feet out from under him, and he goes sprawling onto the floor.
As he does, he turns his head and gets a look at the clock on the wall. Seven more minutes. He has to buy them more time.
“I know you lied,” he says. “About Mickey. He didn’t need the job here, but he stayed anyway.”
“And why wouldn’t he?” she says. “You did all the work, covered for him, tried to be his friend. Chased after him like a puppy. Why wouldn’t he enjoy the attention? Better than having to work.”
“That’s not true,” Ian says. “I didn’t. I didn’t do that.” But the doubt is back, stronger than ever. You’re gonna make me say it? Mickey said. He didn’t want to say he’d stayed because he’d had feelings for Ian, or liked Ian, or just wanted to stay close to him. Maybe Mickey didn’t want to lie to him, or didn’t want Ian to turn on him. They’re accomplices now. Maybe Mickey thought that if he didn’t tell Ian what he wanted to hear, Ian would turn on him, turn him in, say the deaths were Mickey’s fault. The police would believe him. Mickey has a record. He has a motive, for his dad, anyway.
And what’s really more likely? That Mickey hid his interest in Ian by ignoring him and bitching at him for over a year, or that Mickey saw that getting Ian on his side was his best chance of staying out of prison?
Hell, maybe Mickey is just waiting for a chance to turn on him first.
Ian chokes on a sob, still gagging from the smell, but the sweetness is starting to overpower the decay as Mini leans in closer.
“Ian,” she says, and he blinks back his tears and looks up at her. The vines are waving in the air above him, and he sees that each vine has one or two fat little bulbs near the end. As he watches, they start to split open, and he sees two, five, seven . . . more baby Minis than he can count, all opening their mouths wide and hungry.
“Hey! Over here, you fucking house plant!”
Mini turns, and behind her, framed in the door with smoke starting to billow behind him, is Mickey, machete in hand. He’s grinning in a way that Ian recognizes: ready for a fight. Before Ian can say a word, Mickey hurls a narrow-necked glass vase with a flaming wad of what looks like tulle at Mini’s roots, and as it breaks, the gasoline inside ignites and envelops Mini in flames.
She shrieks, a high, piercing, inhuman sound, and flails her vines toward Mickey, all the baby pods snapping and screaming in unison. He swings the machete, and a couple of severed vines and pods go soaring through the air.
“Ian, come on!” Carl is kneeling next to him. “It’s spreading way faster than I thought! We gotta get out!”
“Mickey!” Ian says. Mini keeps trying to wrap a vine around Mickey’s knees and pull him down, but Mickey is hacking through them as fast as she gets them around him.
Until he hears Ian shouting, and turns to look at him. Their eyes meet for a second, and Ian sees the fear, and love, on Mickey’s face. Then Mini rears up behind him, and wraps a vine around his shoulders, yanking him back toward her.
“NO!” Ian is on his feet and lunging for them before he can think. He gets one hand locked around Mickey’s wrist, the other scrabbling at his waist, finally snagging the machete sheath, and pulls Mickey as hard as he can.
But Mini is stronger.
She tears Mickey out of his grasp, and Mickey flies backward and hits the floor, still restrained by the vines, his head cracking against the tile. The machete falls from his hand.
Ian reaches down and snatches the blade off the floor, then hacks at the vines mindlessly, as fast and hard as he can.
The vines let go, flopping around on the floor like dying fish. Ian hauls Mickey’s body toward him, slams the machete back into its sheath, and heaves Mickey over his shoulder, staggering for the door.
Behind him, he hears Mini give another shriek, and then the sound of falling debris as the burning ceiling starts to collapse around her. The smoke burns in Ian’s lungs, the smell of melting plastic finally overcoming the rotting smell of the plant.
Carl is at the door, holding it open, his T-shirt over his face. As soon as Ian is over the threshold, Carl swings the door shut and yanks the grate closed. Then he helps Ian slide Mickey down off his shoulder and loops one of Mickey’s arms around his, so they’re supporting his body between them.
They stumble three or four blocks at a run, then duck into an alley. Ian lowers Mickey to the ground and kneels down next to him, leaning over him. Mickey’s eyes are closed. He isn’t moving.
“Mickey?” Ian says. He grabs Mickey’s hand. “Mickey, come on.”
Carl is standing at the entrance to the alley, looking anxiously back the way they came. Ian can hear sirens in the distance, the wailing of a fire truck.
“We need to get out of here,” Carl says.
“Not yet,” Ian snaps. The force of the words makes him cough, his eyes still watering from the smoke. He reaches out and cups Mickey’s face. “Mickey,” he whispers. “Wake up.”
Mickey’s fingers twitch in his, and Ian clutches his hand.
“Gallagher?” Mickey’s eyes blink open, and then he squints and frowns. “Ah, fuck. My head.” He tries to look around. “Did we do it?”
“Yeah, Mick,” Ian says. “We did it.”
They can’t go to the hospital—the smell of smoke on their hair and clothes would be enough to raise suspicion, let alone Ian’s coughing and Mickey’s weird scrapes and bruises. So Ian takes them where the Gallaghers always go: to Vee, who isn’t exactly thrilled to give them urgent medical advice in the middle of the night, but lets them in anyway.
She tells them that Carl is fine (Ian wonders if maybe spending his childhood setting his action figures on fire has made him immune to the effects of smoke inhalation), and Mickey has a concussion.
“No shit,” Mickey says. Vee threatens to hit him up alongside the head again, if he thinks that’ll help.
“Ian, you shouldn’t be running around for at least a week, till your breathing sounds normal. But you’d be better off actually having someone who knows what they’re talking about listen to those lungs,” she says. “And I don’t even want to think about whatever the hell else you breathed in.”
“We can’t,” Ian says. “You can’t even tell Fiona, OK?”
“Uh-huh,” Vee says doubtfully. “And how are you going to avoid her seeing you, exactly?”
“He’s gonna stay with me, make sure I don’t die in my sleep or whatever,” Mickey says.
“Sure.” Vee looks them up and down. “Look, Ian, if it gets any worse, promise me you’ll go somewhere. Better you get caught for whatever the hell this was than you end up dead, OK?”
“I will,” Ian says. He turns to look at Mickey, who raises his eyebrows. “You need anything else?”
“My head is killing me.”
“Oh, like I’m going to share my stash with the biggest pill-pusher in Back of the Yards.” Vee shakes her head.
“Hey!” Mickey protests. “Come on, I’ve been out of business since I got mixed up with this asshole and his fucking flowers. Give me a break.”
Vee gives him enough painkillers for three days.
“If you’re not feeling better by then, you’re in serious shit. Now get the hell out of here and let me get back to sleep,” she says.
It’s three in the morning by the time they make it back to the Milkovich house. Mickey’s house, now that there’s no other Milkoviches around.
Their dinner is still on the table in the living room, cold this time, so Ian picks up the plates and scrapes them into the trash while Mickey lowers himself onto the couch with a groan.
“God, I’m so fucking exhausted, but I don’t think I’m gonna sleep for a week,” he says.
Ian comes back with water for the pain pills, along with the chocolate pudding and the whipped cream, and sits on the floor, leaning his head against the arm of the couch. “Since we’re awake anyway,” he says.
Mickey hums in agreement.
They eat in silence for a while, passing the plastic container back and forth, Mickey’s eyes finally starting to get heavy from the pills.
“Hey,” Ian says. “I’m gonna have to wake you up a couple times, make sure you’re OK.”
Mickey nods, then winces from the movement. “Thanks.”
“Thank you,” Ian says. “For not leaving me in there.”
Mickey snorts. “Come on, like I was gonna let that fucking psychotic salad get you.”
Ian laughs. “She got in my head, you know,” he says. “At the end. Made me think . . .”
“Think what?” Mickey asks.
“That you didn’t like me,” Ian says. “All that time we were working together. And even now. That maybe I was just, you know. Useful. Or—”
“Hey.” Mickey reaches down, turns Ian’s face toward him with a gentle touch. “Ian. The only thing I never liked about you was that fucking plant.”
Ian laughs again, but this time, there’s a sob caught at the back of his throat. “What’re we gonna do, Mickey?” he whispers. “It’s gone. The store, Sheila. Everything’s gone.”
“Not gonna worry about that tonight,” Mickey says. “We were OK before that thing came along. We’re gonna be OK again. Better than OK.”
“Yeah,” Ian says. “OK.”
It’s not the same, them having to work different jobs—Mickey as a bar-back at the Alibi, Ian taking double shifts at a convenience store near the L where the owner is a pregnant woman whose husband left her, which means that Ian’s pretty much running the place within a month. It’s boring without Mickey there to talk to.
But they manage to get some time off together, now and then. Sure, maybe spending the day down by the lake or at a Sox game or hanging out at the park isn’t quite as good as being some rich gay couple with a nice place on the North Side, but it’s also a hell of a lot cheaper. And they’re saving up.
Maybe they will get married, sometime. At the courthouse, or in the Gallaghers’ backyard. But they already know one thing for sure: there won’t be any flowers.
And if, at a lab on a college campus not too far away, a botanist with an eyedropper is leaning over a whole row of little plant pods—carefully cloned from a stolen clipping—who are just beginning to open their hungry mouths, Ian and Mickey are perfectly happy not knowing anything about it.