Rocky II

The cost of being "too nice"

In my February Substack Coffee, Donuts, Tea, I wrote about my Valentine’s Day surprise of two dozen red roses from Rocky, one of my regulars at Mister Donut, the coffee shop where I worked during my Senior year of High School.

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The flowers should have been a warning, but I told myself they were just a kind gesture….

Luckily, I didn’t have to spend much more time trapped in that awkward moment with Rocky. After our brief interlude in the back room, he left, and I was left standing there with Sam, who had a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Two dozen red roses, damn!" Sam said. "He must like you a lot!"

I shrugged, trying to keep my face neutral. "That was so nice of him," I said, forcing the emphasis onto nice and hoping he didn’t catch the nerves underneath.

My shift ended at nine, and soon my dad would pull up in his grey 1980 T-Bird, ready to drive me home.

Through the plate glass windows at the front of the donut shop, I spotted his car pulling to the curb. I grabbed my winter coat, the long white floral box, and the card, and headed for the door.

"Bye, Sam!" I called over my shoulder.

I climbed into the passenger seat, plopping the box in my lap. As always, I reeked of cigarettes, donuts, and coffee after a shift — the smell clinging to my hair and clothes, impossible to escape without a shower.

"Hi, honey," Dad said as I buckled in. "How was work?"

"Good," I replied quickly.

He glanced at the box. "What's that?"

It was apparent it was a floral box, but my dad was clueless about those things, so maybe he didn’t recognize it.

"Roses," I said. "Rocky gave them to me."

"Oh," was all he said.

If he thought it was strange or inappropriate, he didn’t show it.

I certainly didn’t tell him about the kiss in the back room. I didn’t want to think about it myself — the quick, awkward press of Rocky’s mouth against mine. I tried to shove it away, to believe this whole thing was innocent.

Rocky wasn’t anything more than a quirky, lonely guy trying to be nice. That’s all it was.

That’s what I told myself, anyway.

When we got home, I rushed upstairs to the kitchen, eager to show my mom the flowers.

"Hi, Mom — look what I got for Valentine’s Day!" I said, flipping open the long white box to reveal the roses.

"Oh my gosh, wow! Those are beautiful!" she said. "Who gave them to you?"

"Rocky," I said, feeling my cheeks warm a little. "One of my customers — remember the guy who gave me the pink carnations?"

"Oh yes," she said, smiling. "That was nice of him!"

She helped me unpack the flowers and arrange them in a vase, which I later carried to the bedroom I shared with my little sister.

I propped the card with the fluffy white Angora cat surrounded by a sea of pink chiffon next to the vase. I can't remember if I showed it to my mom or not. I’m unsure if she ever saw it was signed, Love, Rocky.

At first, I let myself enjoy the flowers. Their rich, sweet fragrance filled our bedroom, and they meant even more after the meagre handful of carnations I got at school. I tried to tell myself Rocky was just being kind.

But the stupid cat on that card started getting under my skin. Every time I saw it, it reminded me of Rocky’s kiss in the back room — his eager face, the awkward press of his tiny mouth against mine. It made my stomach turn.

After a few days, I couldn’t take it anymore. I crumpled the card and threw it in the trash.

The roses stayed. I wanted to believe they came from a good place. But deep down, I knew better.

And yet, I was flattered that someone cared about me—even if it was a 47-year-old man who wore a toupee, a Western suit with cowboy hat, and boots every Sunday at Mass.

When I returned to work after Valentine’s Day, my shifts continued as usual. My regulars — Al, Rebel, Frank — came in like clockwork, ordering the same things, and I still gave Rocky his tea and corn muffin right on cue.

St. Patrick’s Day rolled around, and since I’m Sicilian/Italian, it wasn’t exactly a major holiday for me, even though half the school was Irish or Irish/Italian. And guess what? There were more carnation giveaways at school, but I didn’t care much about them this time.

However, when I got to work that afternoon, guess who had a bunch of green carnations wrapped up in a box just for me?

You guessed it — Rocky, who despite the penchant for Western wear was as Irish as they come.

There was no card this time, and no awkward kiss in the back room either—just the flowers. Silly me believed they were an innocent gesture. Everyone celebrates St. Paddy’s Day in Boston!

One night, sometime after St. Patrick’s Day, my dad warned me about my recent floral gifts.

We were probably talking about the donut shop, swapping stories, joking around, and interrupting each other like we always did. Our dinners were loud and animated, full of cross-talk and laughter.

Dad said, “You know, Doreen, you shouldn’t accept any more flowers from Rocky. You’re giving him the wrong idea. You’re being too nice.”

Then he added, with a little smirk, “Doreen, the friend of friends who have no friends.”

My mom and siblings laughed.

That was Dad’s m.o. — sarcasm as a delivery system for deeper meaning. It was part joke and warning wrapped in his usual dry humor.

I didn’t say anything, but I didn’t like how it felt. It seemed like the problem wasn’t Rocky giving me flowers—it was me for being kind.

But that was how it was back then — and honestly, it still is.

If a guy crossed a line, people didn’t ask what he was thinking. They wondered what the girl did to make him think it was okay.

Dad made it clear that if Rocky gave me any more flowers, I was to return them—no exceptions.

I promised I would. Even though part of me still didn’t understand why it had to be this way. I was just being kind, nice. And I liked Rocky. Why was that bad?

After that conversation, I tried not to think too much about it. I figured maybe the flowers would stop, and everything would go back to normal.

But Easter was right around the corner — and Rocky wasn’t finished yet.

Easter was early that year — the first Sunday in April — and right after it came Opening Day for the Red Sox.

At work, the talk shifted from holiday plans to baseball predictions. Everyone wondered if this would finally be the year the Sox broke the curse and won the World Series. Wade Boggs was our new hope, and people speculated whether Carl Yastrzemski would finally retire.

For a little while, it felt like everything was normal again — donuts, coffee, baseball, and small-town chatter.

But underneath it all, my dad’s warning hung over me. Easter wasn't going to pass without another test.

On my Thursday shift right before Easter, Rocky came in, just like always. We exchanged quick hellos and asked about Easter plans, and I handed him his usual tea and a corn muffin.

After serving him, I slipped into the back to finish donuts while Elaine, the other counter lady, held down the front. When I returned, Elaine had already left, and Rocky was sitting apart from the rest of the crew at the counter with a brown paper bag in front of him.

I picked up his empty mug. "Another cup of tea?" I asked.

"Sure," he said, smiling in a way that made me uneasy.

When I brought the fresh tea, I nodded toward the bag. "What's in there?"

His eyes lit up. "It's for you," he said. "For Easter."

My stomach twisted. I already knew.

"Oh, Rocky," I said, trying to keep my tone light, teasing. "You didn't have to do that!"

But he wanted me to open it — I could see it in how he leaned forward, waiting.

So I did. A breathtaking pink orchid corsage was inside, cushioned in a plastic box.

It was stunning. My heart softened, but it felt like a trap. If I accepted them, I would be “leading him on.”

My father's voice echoed: If he gives you more flowers, you have to give them back.

I swallowed hard. "Thank you, Rocky. It's beautiful," I said, voice low.

I didn’t have the heart to hand it back right there, with him smiling and the regulars still around. I carried the box to the back room and set it carefully on Sam's baking table, still wrapped in the brown bag.

When Sam came in later to start his shift, I showed him. "My dad said I have to return it," I told him, feeling miserable.

Sam just shook his head. "Man," he said, "he's got it bad."

I leaned against the wall. "I don't want to give him the wrong idea."

Toward the end of my shift, Rocky stood up to leave. My heart pounded.

I grabbed the bag and handed it to him. "I can’t accept this," I said gently. "Thank you so much for thinking of me, but I can’t take any more flowers."

I might’ve even said something about my dad, trying to soften the blow.

I saw it then — the surprise first, then the hurt. He tried to cover it, tucking the bag under his arm like it didn’t matter.

But it mattered.

Photo by Hendrik Kilimann on Unsplash

When I got home after my shift that night, I went straight to the basement, where my parents were watching TV. The heaviness of the whole night was still sitting on my chest.

I told them about the orchid — how Rocky had given it to me, and how I had thanked him but gave it back, just like Dad told me to.

Dad nodded. "Good," he said. "You don’t want to give him the wrong idea."

He sounded satisfied, like it was all settled now.

I think he believed that was the end of it — that returning the flower would send a clear message and Rocky would leave it at that.

And for a little while, it felt like it might be true.

But by May, flowers were the least of what I had to worry about.

I thought giving the flower back would be the end of it.
I was wrong.

What happened in May, you ask? Find out in Rocky III