A/N: Okay, so I'm ridiculously excited about this. See, there was a story I wrote almost six months ago, which I'm sure two or three people remember, and I was kind of fond of it. This is kind of a rewrite of it, because the plot starts out the same, and some of the characters are similar, but it's going to be very different later (no road trip, no Rebecca). Also, the whole thing might actually make sense this time. Anyway, I'm going to shut up and let you read it now. :)

I grew up in the town of Applegate, Ontario. It's a tiny place, barely more than a hamlet; the population is only 1056. That's right, not 1 056 000; not even 10 560. It's exactly one thousand and fifty-six. When I move away in approximately a month and a half, it will be 1055. Actually, a bunch of the high school students are going to university like I am, and then there'll be people dying and kids being born too, and maybe someone will move in, which is always exciting, so I guess it won't actually be 1055. You get my point, though, right?

Applegate is lost in the wilderness a few hours north of Toronto. It's a town where the streets are narrow, the buildings are charming, and the people are friendly, at least until you get to know them. It's an pretty whitewashed place, too. There's literally two black families in town. I know one person from each of them: Roger Angus, who played on the hockey team with me, and Mr. Paulo, who owns the flower shop I'm in at the moment.

The shop is clean and bright, with vases, pots, and buckets filled with every type of flower you could imagine. The air smells like an open field in the summer. It would be a pleasant place to be, except for one thing. You know that other small-town stereotype: no matter where you are, somebody knows your name and your business? Well, this shop is no exception. Considering who works here part-time, it's basically the opposite of an exception. It doesn't prove the rule, it is the rule. Do you understand me? I'm saying the girl at the cash register is the nosiest little bitch I've ever met.

"Hi, Derek!" she coos at me, smiling.

Her name is Camille Brown, and she went to school with me. Almost all the kids in this town go to Applegate Catholic Elementary or Applegate Catholic High, like we did. I only really know one person who didn't, which is my friend Jo. She took a bus for an hour and a half every day to get to a private school for "smart" kids. It feels pretty strange to be saying all of this in the past tense, but it's the truth. I'm still kind of adjusting to it. We graduated just over a week ago, and I'm kind of ecstatic. It's not that I didn't do well in school, but I never liked it. I had my friends and hockey, and I'll miss them, but I'm pretty damn glad to be out of there.

Camille has blonde hair that touches her shoulder blades, large hoop earrings, and a flower shop uniform. She also has a sweet little ass, which I might be interested in if it weren't for the personality that comes along with it. She, like half the other girls in this town, wants me. That doesn't translate into me getting laid, though. I'll explain in a minute. Anyway, Camille is perky, ditzy, and all-around stupid.

"Hey, Camille. How much are two dozen red roses?"

See, I also have a girlfriend.

"Aww," she says, trying to hide her envy. "They're for Ellen, right?" I nod. Ellen is a busty brunette who also went to school with me and Camille. She's crazy and beautiful and wild, and I adore her. "Are you taking her to dinner, too?" Camille asks.

"Yeah."

"At Raw Eggs or Jenny's Diner?" Those are the only two half-decent restaurants in town. As you can tell by their names, they're closer to half than to decent.

"How much are the flowers, Camille?"

She's clearly not satisfied with the information she's been able to pump out of me so far, but she finally tells me. "Ninety-nine ninety-nine."

My stomach drops, and I whistle softly. I have a strategy, though. Pushing my sunglasses down to display my handsome gray eyes, I lean on the counter and try to appear sincere. "Can't you give me a tiny break? They're for our six month."

Camille sighs deeply. "My boss will kill me, but for you I guess I could possibly make it ninety even."

I try to look sad and pathetic. "Seventy. For our friendship."

"Our friendship?" She's right to question that statement. We went to school together from the first grade until last week, but we rarely spoke there, and we were nothing close to friends. She is kind of tight with Ellen, though, which I hate, but that meant we did hang out with the same people sometimes. "For our friendship," Camille continues, "I'll make it sixty."

"Damn!" I exclaim, surprised. Maybe this bitch isn't so bad after all. She takes me the wrong way though. "Fine! Fifty! We'll go bankrupt here." I'm not about to argue with her. I pay and she starts to put together a bouquet. "Where are you taking Ellen tonight?" she asks again.

"I'm making her dinner, actually. I'm going to surprise her at her place." I smile a little, imagining her excitement when I show up unannounced with the candles and food that are in my car right now, and two dozen red roses. She's going to be so happy. I do everything I can to make her smile, and she seems to enjoy it. Somehow, we're still not getting it on, though.

Before Ellen, I used to get handjobs, blow jobs, even one foot job, but I never did the rest, by my own choice. I wanted to save the special things for someone special. Actually, the foot job was pretty "special," but you know what I mean. I got one handjob from Ellen, on our two-month anniversary, and she bitched and complained the whole time. I kind of wish this gesture would get her in the mood, or something, but I'm not getting my hopes up.

Then I realize I just told Camille a secret. Shit! What was I thinking?

She drops the flowers and squeals. "Oh my God, Derek! Oh my God oh my God oh my God, that's so sweet! Oh, that's way too sweet! Just wait until I tell the girls!"

"No, no! Camille, just make the bouquet. You can't tell anyone!"

It's too late. She's reaching for the phone, she's picking it up. I have to stop her! Oh, I think I know what will do it. It's just a hunch, but there's nothing else I can do. "Mr. Paulo?" I call.

"What are you doing?" Camille whispers furiously. "You'll get me fired!"

A heavy dark-skinned man in a sweat-stained undershirt comes lumbering out from the back room. This is the store's owner and Camille's boss. "Camille was about to make a phone call on company time," I say like a second-grade tattletale, pointing to her hand, which is still holding the receiver.

Mr. Paulo wags a fat finger at Camille. "Didn't I warn you about this?" he asks. "Haven't we had this discussion before?" I knew it! With Camille, they would've definitely had this discussion before. "One more time and that's it!" he says, although he doesn't sound too angry. He shuffles back where he came from.

"Thanks a lot, Derek Emerson," Camille hisses at me. "Take your flowers and go." She thrusts the half-finished bundle at me.

"But these aren't even arranged!"

"I don't have time. There are other customers who need to make purchases," she growls. I look behind me. The store is completely empty.

Whatever. She's clearly psycho, and I can fix the roses myself. I just hope Ellen doesn't hear anything about this. I'm going to be at her place in under ten minutes.