Page 2 of Love in Full Bloom (Zaftig Ever After #2)

CHAPTER TWO

JASMINE

I dab my brush into a blend of crimson and cadmium yellow, watching the colors swirl together like a sunset caught in a raindrop.

With a flick of my wrist, I add another petal to the wild rose taking shape on my canvas.

Each stroke brings the flower to life—not a perfect botanical illustration, but something wilder.

Something more me . The rose emerges with delicate imperfections (a slight tear in one petal, a subtle discoloration in another), exactly as I found it growing stubbornly between cracks in a forgotten corner of the park.

"There you are," I whisper to the painting. "Coming out to play finally." I lean in closer, adding tiny veins to the petals with my finest brush, the kind of detail most viewers might never consciously notice but would feel somehow.

My studio—actually just the spare bedroom of my apartment—catches the morning light perfectly.

The eastern exposure bathes everything in a golden glow that makes even my paint-splattered drop cloths look artistic.

Canvases in various stages of completion lean against every wall, some barely started with just a whisper of an idea, others nearly finished but waiting for that final spark of inspiration.

Dried flowers hang from strings across the ceiling—Queen Anne's lace, lavender sprigs, black-eyed Susans—spinning slowly in the breeze from the cracked window.

My inspiration wall is a chaotic collage of torn magazine pages, pressed petals, and handwritten quotes about art and nature.

A postcard from Monet's garden in Giverny.

A dried dandelion I preserved after making a wish on it last summer.

This is my sanctuary. My safe place. The only room where I never question myself.

I step back from the easel, tilting my head to study my work, smudging a bit of paint on my cheek without realizing it.

The wild rose painting is nearly finished.

It's part of my new collection for the community arts festival this weekend.

Ten pieces celebrating wildflowers that most people overlook.

The ones that grow in sidewalk cracks and abandoned lots.

The fighters. The survivors. Not the cultivated beauties in manicured gardens, but the ones that make their own way against all odds.

I've spent weeks scouting forgotten corners of parks and empty lots, photographing and sketching these resilient blooms in their natural habitats.

My phone buzzes with a text from Zara, my friend who's helped me secure a booth at the festival. The screen lights up with her name and the little flower emoji I've assigned to her contact.

Elena: How's the painting coming? Can't wait to see everything displayed!

Me: Almost done with the wild rose. Just hope people connect with them. Sometimes I worry they're not serious enough for collectors.

Elena: They will. Your work makes people feel things. That's what great art does.

That's exactly what I fear. What if the feelings my paintings evoke are disappointment? Or worse—indifference?

I set down my brush and wander to the kitchen for more coffee, carefully stepping over the drop cloths protecting my hardwood floors.

Paint splatters mark the path I travel daily between easel and coffee pot—a colorful trail of my creative process.

My apartment is small but flooded with natural light—a lucky find in this neighborhood.

The rent stretches my budget to its limit, but the light makes it worth every penny.

Plants crowd every windowsill, each one named after a different artist. Monet, my sprawling pothos, needs watering.

Georgia, my stubborn succulent, is finally sprouting a new leaf after months of seeming dormancy.

A tiny fiddle leaf fig I've named Frida is struggling, but I refuse to give up on her.

"Morning, friends," I murmur, touching a leaf here, a stem there.

"Anyone feeling particularly inspiring today?

" People think it's quirky that I talk to my plants, but they don't understand.

These silent green companions are better listeners than most humans.

They never tell me to be more practical or suggest I try painting "something people actually want to buy. "

The coffee machine gurgles as I gaze out my kitchen window at the maple tree outside.

Its leaves have just started turning, showing hints of orange and gold among the green.

Nature's own artwork, changing every day.

I've been meaning to capture that transition in a painting but haven't found the right approach yet.

How do you paint something that's between states, neither what it was nor what it will become?

My phone rings, startling me from my reverie. My gallery owner's name flashes on the screen, and I take a deep breath before answering.

"Morning, Marcus," I answer, trying to sound more awake and professional than I feel with paint in my hair and coffee not yet in my system.

"Jasmine! How's my favorite floral artist?

" His voice booms through the speaker, full of the confidence I always envy.

"Just checking on your pieces for the festival.

The last show generated quite a buzz, you know.

People are asking when they can see more of your work.

That couple from Westside bought the large peony piece and apparently it's become quite the conversation starter in their dining room. "

I blink in surprise, nearly spilling my coffee. "They are?"

"Of course! That sunset peony series sold out completely. I have three collectors specifically asking to be notified when you bring in new pieces. One mentioned something about the 'emotional honesty' in your work. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

"Oh." I pour my coffee with my free hand, unsure how to process this information. The mug I choose has "Create Bravely" written on it—a gift from Elena that often feels more like a challenge than encouragement. "That's... good."

Marcus sighs, and I can practically see him shaking his head. "You sound surprised. When will you accept that your work resonates with people? You have a unique vision, Jasmine. Not everyone can see beauty in the things others walk past without noticing."

There it is. Unique . The word people use when they don't know what else to say.

Like when my third-grade teacher called my science project "unique" because I'd painted the solar system in watercolors instead of using styrofoam balls like everyone else.

Or when my college boyfriend described my style as "uniquely bohemian," which I later realized was his polite way of saying he wished I'd dress more conventionally.

"Thanks, Marcus. I'll have everything ready for setup tomorrow afternoon. The varnish on the last few pieces should be dry by then."

After hanging up, I carry my coffee back to the studio and stare at my paintings leaned carefully against the wall.

Ten wildflowers, each one captured not in photorealistic detail but in emotional impression.

How they make me feel. How they move in the wind.

How they stubbornly push through concrete to reach the sun.

The chicory with its surprising blue blossoms. The defiant dandelion.

The persistent clover. The overlooked beauty of Queen Anne's lace catching dewdrops like tiny diamonds.

Is that too fanciful? Too dreamy? Maybe even too soft for what people expect from “real” art?

My mother's voice echoes in my head: "Jasmine, honey, have you thought about painting something people actually want to buy? Like landscapes or portraits? Something that would look nice over someone's couch?"

I tried that once. The resulting paintings were technically proficient and utterly soulless. Like I'd abandoned myself at the door and let someone else hold the brush.

With a sigh, I pick up my brush again and return to the wild rose.

Its imperfection is what makes it beautiful to me.

That's what makes it real. I add a hint of dew clinging to the edge of a petal, reflecting the first light of dawn.

A tiny detail that might go unnoticed but feels essential to the story I'm telling.

I work steadily through the afternoon, losing myself in the flow of creation.

Time disappears as colors and shapes emerge from the canvas.

The festival is two days away, and while the paintings are nearly finished, I still need to varnish them, attach hanging wire, and create labels with thoughtful descriptions that won't sound pretentious.

Plus figure out how to arrange my booth to best showcase my work without overwhelming viewers.

And decide what to wear: something professional enough to be taken seriously but that still feels like me.

As twilight falls, I finally set down my brushes.

My back aches from standing all day, and paint speckles my hands and forearms like a constellation of tiny stars.

I catch my reflection in the window—auburn hair escaping its messy bun in copper tendrils, a smear of yellow ochre across my cheek, my favorite green dress spotted with paint despite my apron.

The dress that always makes the green flecks in my eyes stand out, now probably permanently marked with ultramarine blue.

I look exactly like what I am: an artist who forgets the outside world exists when she paints.

Is that so bad? Is there something wrong with losing myself so completely in creation?

My phone buzzes with another text, this time from my friend Elena:

Elena: Dinner tonight? Need to hear all about your festival prep! Plus I have gossip about that guy from the coffee shop who always orders the complicated pour-over.

Me: Rain check? Covered in paint and still have work to do. Haven't eaten since breakfast and might just collapse into bed with a peanut butter sandwich.

Her response makes me smile.

Elena: Artist mode activated. I get it. But remember to eat something besides coffee! And wear something besides that green dress to the festival. First impressions matter when you're selling yourself. Love you!

I wander to the bathroom and scrub the paint from my hands, watching the colors swirl down the drain in a miniature whirlpool.

I study my face in the mirror, noting the smudge of paint I'd missed earlier.

Hazel eyes with flecks of green stare back at me, currently more green than brown in the bathroom light.

People always comment on my eyes—how they seem to change color with my mood.

Right now, they look tired but bright with creative energy, like I'm running on some fuel only artists can access.

"You can do this," I tell my reflection, pointing my dripping paintbrush at the mirror. "Your work matters to someone, even if it's just you. Even if no one buys a single painting."

Back in the studio, I carefully set the finished wild rose painting aside to dry and uncover my final canvas.

This one will be different—a meadow scene featuring all the wildflowers from the individual paintings, growing together in harmonious chaos.

Dandelions intertwining with chicory, clover nestled against Queen Anne's lace, wild roses climbing over everything.

The centerpiece of my collection, larger than the others and meant to tie everything together.

As I sketch the initial composition in light charcoal strokes, I feel that familiar mix of excitement and anxiety bubbling in my chest. Will people understand what I'm trying to say?

Or will they just see pretty flowers? Will they grasp that these paintings are about resilience and finding beauty in overlooked places?

About surviving despite not being cultivated or tended?

The festival will be my biggest public showing yet. Hundreds of people will pass by my booth, judging my work and, by extension, judging me. Some will stop, others will glance and move on. The thought makes my stomach tighten and my palms sweat.

But beneath the anxiety lies a tiny, persistent hope.

Maybe someone will see these paintings and feel what I feel when creating them.

Maybe someone will understand that these aren't just flowers—they're stories about resilience and beauty in unexpected places.

About finding your way even when no one plants you in the perfect spot.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll finally find my audience. People who see the world the way I do, who appreciate the beauty in imperfection.

I step back from the blank canvas, brush poised, and take a deep breath. The evening light casts long shadows across my studio, turning everything golden and mysterious.

"Show me what you want to be," I whisper to the empty white space, feeling that familiar tingle of possibility in my fingertips. Something is coming—I can feel it in my bones. This festival will change things.

I just don't know how much.