Valentine’s day is Antwan’s favorite day of the year. Orders come flooding in, the tips are magnificent, and the extra money makes his boss less nitpicky than usual. 

Other than that, Valentine’s day is the worst. Because Antwan was single. And all the extra orders were the worst reminder.

As a flower delivery man, Antwan saw three types of people every day. Women gushing to receive a gift from their partners, families mourning over lost loved ones, and receptionists accepting flowers that just had to be delivered to a corporate building. It was monotonous and tiring. Antwan’s feet ached from so much walking. His fingers were constantly blistered from thorns and damp flower stems. 

Yet the best and worst part of his day was when he placed a bouquet directly into someone else’s hands. There was always a moment of confusion–people who receive flowers usually don't expect them. Then shock. And finally, the joy. Antwan was painfully single. Has been for too long to count. But he enjoyed giving flowers to lovers. There was a special expression that came over someone’s face when they got such a timeless expression of love.

Antwan anticipated that same reaction as he jogged up to this next house. He’d sneaked a glance at the message tucked into the flowers before getting out of the truck.

You are beautiful. You are incredible. You are loved.

The phrasing was incredibly romantic. Just another example of people getting more poetic with the messages these days. But in this economy, buying flowers was a sure fire way to find all the hopeless romantics.

Whoever lived in this small gray house wasn’t quick about answering the door. Dark brown fingers fiddled with the buttons on his all black jumpsuit as he waited. It was the standard work uniform. The silver rings and matching studs were the only customization he got away with. 

Finally, a young man opened the door. He looked Indian, or at least South Asian. A strong jaw, full lips, and large dark eyes caught Antwan’s attention. Then he saw the stray hairs tugged out from his man bun, the faded band t-shirt (Nirvana?), and the complementary pajama pants. He was handsome, tired, and caught completely off guard.

“Flower delivery, sir,” Antwan recited robotically. He handed the shorter man the bouquet. Steps 1 and 2 complete, just like usual. 

But something went wrong. The confusion came first, like it always does. But there was no shock. 

No joy.

In an instant, the young man’s face scrunched up. Thick brows drew together, almost as if he were in pain. He gripped the bouquet tightly between smooth, unblemished hands. Antwan’s curiosity spiked. 

Who was the woman who got him the flowers and how did she get him this upset? No, it was a man. A man got him these flowers. 

If Antwan looked past the guy’s bare, brown feet and snoopy pants, he could see gay men’s pride flags sticking out the flower pots. 

The young man trailed a finger over the flower petals, sighing heavily. It was like he forgot Antwan was even there. He was just frowning at those flowers, mouth turned all the way upside down.

“I’m sorry, sir. Are you okay?” Antwan asked. When the man made eye contact with him for the second time that day, he regretted asking. Those dark eyes were too honest, too sad. The stare made him uneasy and Antwan scratched underneath his locs awkwardly.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Antwan grabbed his clipboard, ready to get down a signature. With a simple scribble, he’d be free to leave this strained interaction. 

Antwan took a step back. His delivery was complete, he could leave anytime he wanted. But the expression on the shorter man’s face made him pause. His customer dragged one of those full lips in between his teeth, eyes clouded. 

“I just feel stupid.”

In a dramatic turn of events, he tossed the flowers on the floor. Antwan could see the red and white columbines wilting from the impact. His hands twitched to do something—those flowers aren’t cheap. But more importantly, the cute brown boy was pushing both hands deep in his hair, staring at those flowers with conflicted eyes.

“You know, whoever got you these flowers seems to really love you,” Antwan said. 

“That’s the problem,” the shorter man groaned, his voice cracking. “I got them.”

Antwan’s mouth dropped open. Oh. 

In the face of the shocked delivery man, the man who bought his own flowers started laughing. It revealed his gummy smile, bright and full in an innocent kind of way. But the laughter didn’t sound happy and Antwan was more confused.

“It was in this self-help book about increasing confidence or something,” he explained with an eye roll. “But now I just feel more alone because of course they came late, on Valentine's day.”

The laughter the shorter man had been able to muster disappeared. Antwan had no idea what to say. Smiling women and indifferent receptionists felt like worlds away. He couldn’t see past this lonely guy, tearing up at the flowers he bought himself. 

“I’m sorry for making you come all the way here for nothing,” the man shrugged. Then he leaned against his doorway, peering up at Antwan with slightly damp lashes and the smallest of smiles. Before he knew it, Antwan was picking up those flowers. The only pen he had was connected to a clipboard but the wire was long enough. Antwan opened up the little note and scribbled down a couple things.

“I don’t think it was for nothing,” Antwan told him. He handed the shorter man the bouquet for a second time, watching those dark eyes scan the new words. 

You are beautiful. You are incredible. You are loved. 

             -From Antwan

“It seems like you got a secret admirer,” he winked. “Have a good day, sir.”

The poor guy’s eyes went wide. The whole time Antwan walked back to his truck, he could feel the other’s man stare, narrowly focused on his back. Maybe the wink was too excessive. But Antwan couldn't bear to see a cute guy like that sad on Valentine’s day. 

When Antwan was climbing into that truck and well out of ear, the lonely man finally whispered back “You too.”