Chapter 2: Bouquets, Backlash, and Bulletproof Lies

I rented a tiny apartment in the university’s family housing building.

It was barely bigger than a closet, with a view of the parking lot and a leaky radiator that clanged all night. But it was mine. And it was paid for—mostly by tips and flower sales.

As soon as the flowers were moved into my living room, I took some photos and started sorting them.

I arranged the roses in neat rows, snapping pictures for Instagram and Facebook Marketplace. The lighting was terrible, but with the right filter, they looked almost magical.

999 roses! Ecuadorian long-stems. Jackpot.

I Googled them, just to make sure I wasn’t getting scammed. Turns out, they were worth even more than I thought. Lucky me.

Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day.

Perfect timing. The whole city would be desperate for flowers, and I had the hottest bouquet in town. Couldn’t have planned it better.

I can sell them for $9.99 each—major profit! Best hustle yet.

I did the math in my head, my heart racing. If I sold even half, I’d be set for weeks.

I’ve picked up unwanted flowers on holidays before and resold them. No shame.

Last year, I’d made a killing after prom. Cash is cash. People were sentimental, and I was happy to capitalize on it.

I still had plenty of wrapping paper at home. No one will notice.

Leftover from Christmas, a little crumpled but still usable. I dug it out from under my bed, smoothing the wrinkles with my hands.

I worked non-stop, wrapping flowers all night until dawn.

My fingers ached, but I didn’t care. The smell of roses filled the air, drowning out the scent of burnt coffee and cheap detergent.

Last night, I even started a pre-sale on the anonymous campus confessions page: “Same as Carter Voss.” Didn’t see that coming.

The post blew up overnight. People DM’d me, begging to reserve a bouquet. I could barely keep up with the notifications.

By the time I woke up, 666 were sold. Creepy number, but I’ll take it.

I blinked at my phone, barely believing the numbers. My Venmo was blowing up. I did a little victory dance in my pajamas. No one saw, thank God.

No classes today, so I hired a few friends to help deliver the flowers. Teamwork.

I texted my group chat: “$20 an hour plus tips, who’s in?” Within minutes, I had a crew assembled—mostly other broke students, happy for the work.

After costs, there were 200 left. Economics 101.

I set those aside, planning my next move. Supply and demand, baby.

So in the afternoon, I waited in the grove where the most couples hung out on campus. Prime real estate.

The quad was buzzing with energy—couples holding hands, friends lounging on blankets, someone strumming a guitar under an old oak. I picked a spot with good foot traffic, laying out my bouquets like a street vendor at a summer fair.

Set up my sign: “Same roses as Carter Voss. Honest seller.” Sometimes simple works.

I used a Sharpie and a piece of cardboard from my last Amazon delivery. It wasn’t fancy, but it got the point across. A few people stopped to snap photos, giggling.

Halfway through selling, I was about to move to a new spot.

I gathered up my bouquets, ready to chase the crowd over to the student center. The sun was starting to set, painting the sky pink and gold.

Just as I stood up, I saw the real deal. Here we go.

Carter, in a navy windbreaker and jeans, hands in his pockets, walking straight toward me. My stomach dropped. Busted.

Crap. Not now.

I tried to play it cool, but my hands started to shake. Hoping he’d just keep walking. No such luck.

Caught red-handed selling the goods. Game over?

There was no hiding it. The sign was right there, my name all over it. I braced myself for the fallout.

Our eyes met—Carter stared at my flowers, jaw tight. “Didn’t you say you’d take care of the flowers the way you care about me?” Busted.

His voice was low, almost hurt. I could see the disappointment in his eyes, and for a split second, I felt guilty. Just a split second.

“Selling them—is that what you meant?” Great, an audience.

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for my answer. People nearby started to whisper, sensing drama.

“Uh, I can explain.” Nothing came out.

I fumbled for words, my mind racing. There had to be a way out of this. Think, Savannah, think!

My brain froze. Think fast! Help, please.

I could almost hear my imaginary comment section screaming advice, each suggestion more desperate than the last.

Emergency comment rescue: [Cry now! Act pitiful!]

[No, no, now you should be bold!]

[Forget it, let me handle this. Most important thing is to make him believe you like him. Play the emotional card.]

I took a shaky breath and went for it—all of it. If I was going down, I was going down swinging. No regrets.

No time to think—I did all of them. Oscar-worthy.

I let a tear slip down my cheek, clutching my chest like I was in a soap opera. I let my voice quiver, but then straightened, meeting his gaze head-on.

So I squeezed out a few tears, clutched my chest, and pretended to be heartbroken. I sniffled, blinking rapidly. Sell it, Savannah.

“Have you ever stayed up all night just staring at something that belonged to your crush? Carter, you just don’t get it.” Let him stew.

I let my words hang, heavy and raw. The crowd was silent now, everyone watching to see what he’d do.

“It’s worse to cling to stuff and keep missing someone. Better to let go—especially since you don’t like me.” Fake it till you make it.

I shrugged, trying to look brave. "It’s just... easier this way."

Carter looked stunned—three parts regret, three parts guilt, and four parts wanting to say something but holding back. Math never lies.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, running a hand through his hair. He looked like he wanted to apologize, but couldn’t find the words. Story of my life.

But he quickly snapped out of it. “You were so heartbroken, but you still had time to post on Instagram and the confession board?” Busted, again.

He fixed me with a skeptical look, arms crossed. The crowd snickered, and I felt my cheeks burn.

Crap!

I cursed myself. Rookie mistake—I should’ve blocked him from seeing my posts. Lesson learned. Next time.

Last night I was so busy wrapping flowers, I forgot to block him.

I made a mental note: always check your privacy settings before pulling a stunt like this. Lesson learned.

[This is too real.]

[It’s over! Carter’s too sharp!]

[What now, strategist? I’m so anxious! Carter’s birthday is coming, that’s another big chance—Savannah has to get invited!]

The imaginary comment section was in meltdown mode. I could almost see the group chat lighting up with frantic emojis.

I quickly racked my brain. Think, Savannah.

I wiped away my fake tears, looking for a way out. My mind raced through every rom-com plot twist I’d ever seen.

Carter was stunned. The sharp look in his eyes faded. Got him.

He looked almost... touched? I had to fight the urge to smirk.

He bought it.

Relief washed over me. I’d dodged a bullet—at least for now. Crisis averted.

Finally, helpless, he said, “Why do you have to do this?” Soft spot, maybe?

His voice was tired, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

[Carter: It’s all my fault for being too attractive—Savannah’s gone crazy for me.]

[He looks annoyed, but he’s actually smiling.]

[Strike while the iron’s hot, say you want to go to the birthday party.]

[Wait! Don’t be too eager, sis—now’s the time to play it cool!]

[Tsk tsk, playing hard to get. That’s high-level.]

The imaginary peanut gallery was back, full of conflicting advice. I took a deep breath, deciding to play it cool.

I packed up the flowers and said lightly, “Isn’t it normal to prepare a surprise for someone you like?” Exit stage left.

I tossed my hair over my shoulder, acting nonchalant. "You’ll see." Then I turned on my heel and walked away, heart pounding.

I didn’t look back. If I did, I knew I’d lose my nerve. The crowd parted, some people whispering, others just watching in silence.

[Let’s guess—what’s Carter thinking as he watches Savannah’s back?]

[He’s probably thinking, ‘She must be too sad to cry in front of me again.’]

[No, sis, why didn’t you wait to see what Carter would say before leaving?]

I could almost hear Tasha yelling at me from across the quad: "Girl, never leave the field before the final whistle!"

Of course I couldn’t wait. Time is money.

I had bigger fish to fry. Valentine’s Day was tomorrow, and those flowers weren’t going to sell themselves.

If I stayed any longer, I’d miss Valentine’s Day and the flowers wouldn’t sell! Priorities.

I hustled back to my apartment, my mind already on logistics. Time was money, and I wasn’t about to waste either.