For half a second after she said oh she had glanced at the bouquet and Ford had been hopeful she would take it, but no such luck. Ford was beginning to wonder if there was something the matter with these flowers particularly; he knew little about the meanings behind flowers except that they existed and some people cared greatly about them. He'd trusted Miss Potts to make up something appropriate when he'd stopped to buy them and had given her no direction; hopefully she hadn't steered him wrong? The way to go wrong, he thought, would have been to make a bouquet that was too sentimental; he imagined she would find that off-putting, given that neither of them wanted to be doing this.
But there was nothing to be done about the flowers now if they were wrong, so he continued clutching them between both hands (bruising the stems from the tightness of his grip, not that he noticed) while he turned his attention to her question. "Uh, good, yeah," he said, electing to stay on the superficial rather than try to respond to that look of immense sadness she'd given him as she asked. Then, without pausing to consider whether she actually wanted to know, he launched into a hasty explanation of 'everything': the permit for the building expansion had been approved and the contractors had visited the house and finalized the new floor plan, and though the upcoming cold would likely prevent them from starting immediately they still intended for work to be complete before the wedding and certainly before the pair of them returned from the honeymoon; the food for the reception had been confirmed; the room for the honeymoon reserved; the flowers arranged; invitations seemed to have been delivered correctly; everything progressing according to schedule. It was the same content he would have told her father — the same things he had already told her father, in fact, as there were no new developments since his last letter. What he did not include in 'everything': any of the conversations he found himself thrown into the middle of at work; the rumors still circling; the unresolved argument with his sister; how he was faring with any of it, personally. Partly he suspected she wouldn't like the answers, and could probably guess them for herself anyway; partly he didn't know that she really cared to know at all. She didn't know him — they didn't know each other. Why would he tell her how difficult things were?
"— anyway," he said when he at last realized that he had been prattling on for several minutes without pausing for questions or reactions. He shifted his weight to the other foot, wrung the flowers slightly in his hands, and looked sheepish. "How, uh, how are you?"
But there was nothing to be done about the flowers now if they were wrong, so he continued clutching them between both hands (bruising the stems from the tightness of his grip, not that he noticed) while he turned his attention to her question. "Uh, good, yeah," he said, electing to stay on the superficial rather than try to respond to that look of immense sadness she'd given him as she asked. Then, without pausing to consider whether she actually wanted to know, he launched into a hasty explanation of 'everything': the permit for the building expansion had been approved and the contractors had visited the house and finalized the new floor plan, and though the upcoming cold would likely prevent them from starting immediately they still intended for work to be complete before the wedding and certainly before the pair of them returned from the honeymoon; the food for the reception had been confirmed; the room for the honeymoon reserved; the flowers arranged; invitations seemed to have been delivered correctly; everything progressing according to schedule. It was the same content he would have told her father — the same things he had already told her father, in fact, as there were no new developments since his last letter. What he did not include in 'everything': any of the conversations he found himself thrown into the middle of at work; the rumors still circling; the unresolved argument with his sister; how he was faring with any of it, personally. Partly he suspected she wouldn't like the answers, and could probably guess them for herself anyway; partly he didn't know that she really cared to know at all. She didn't know him — they didn't know each other. Why would he tell her how difficult things were?
"— anyway," he said when he at last realized that he had been prattling on for several minutes without pausing for questions or reactions. He shifted his weight to the other foot, wrung the flowers slightly in his hands, and looked sheepish. "How, uh, how are you?"
Set by Lady!