Page 15

Chapter fifteen

R uby

I stood barefoot on my porch, blinking against the early morning sunlight and clutching a steaming mug of chamomile tea. The wood was cool beneath my feet, the breeze gentle as it ruffled the hem of Damien’s oversized T-shirt that I’d shamelessly borrowed.

Then I saw it.

My breath caught in my throat as I stepped forward.

Right there at the edge of the porch, nestled in a freshly dug bed of dark, rich soil, was a garden.

Not just dirt and empty space—a plan. A promise. A future.

The hand-painted sign sat crooked but proud, staked firmly in the middle. I crouched to read it, my fingers trembling slightly as I brushed away a curl of morning dew:

For every bloom you’ve ever planted in me.

My knees hit the porch, a soft thunk lost in the hush of sunrise. I reached out and touched the edge of the sign, worn wood and uneven lettering that could only belong to one person.

Beside the bed was a cardboard box, slightly open at the top. Inside: tulip and daffodil bulbs, packets of seeds for zinnias, daisies, and marigolds, each labeled in Damien’s unmistakable handwriting.

There were even planting instructions written in the margins.

So they don’t die on me. I asked Google.

I laughed through a watery sob.

The man had researched perennials for me. For us.

The screen door creaked behind me.

“I was hoping you’d sleep a little longer,” Damien said, his voice still scratchy with sleep. He held two paper cups of coffee and a brown bag folded over with grease stains—our local bakery’s signature packaging.

I turned slowly; the sign clutched in my hands. “You did this?”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “Figured it was time I started planting things instead of just patching them.”

I stared at him, trying to gather my words, but everything in me had gone soft and unsteady. He set the coffee down on the railing, then moved to stand beside me.

“You made this for me?” I asked, my voice catching on the last word.

Damien didn’t look away. “No,” he said quietly. “I made it for us.”

That did it. My heart cracked wide open.

I lunged into his arms, wrapping mine around his neck so fast the coffee nearly tipped over behind us. He caught me with a grunt, laughing into my hair as I kissed him fiercely.

Tears stung my eyes. I didn’t care. I kissed him anyway—his cheeks, his jaw, his lips—every part of him I could reach as he held me like he never planned to let go.

“This is...” I whispered against his mouth. “I don’t even have a word.”

“Good thing I’m not asking for one,” he murmured, cupping the back of my head. “Just this. Just you.”

I leaned my forehead against his. “Do you know how many times I’ve imagined waking up to something like this?”

“No. But I’m guessing it didn’t usually include a guy with dirt under his nails and a lopsided sign.”

“It didn’t,” I admitted, “but that was before I knew what love really looked like.”

We stood there for a while, tangled up on the porch in a quiet, sleepy Cedar Springs morning.

Eventually, I pulled back, just far enough to catch his eyes. “You’re staying. You really meant it.”

“I’m staying,” he said, no hesitation. “For this garden. For you. For every stubborn, beautiful inch of this life we’re building.”

I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blur in my eyes. “I really didn’t expect that sign to hit so hard.”

“Should’ve used glitter paint. Might’ve softened the emotional blow.”

I smacked his arm lightly, laughing through tears.

Then I looked back down at the flower bed and exhaled slowly. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m about to become a very confused gardener?”

I grinned. “That too. But mostly... it means we’ve got roots now. Together.”

He slid his hand into mine, our fingers locking like they belonged that way.

“I like the sound of that,” he said. “Roots. Flowers. Maybe even a little chaos.”

“You’re definitely getting the chaos,” I warned.

“Perfect,” he said, lifting our joined hands to kiss the back of mine. “I’m counting on it.”

…

Dirt flew.

Not in a graceful arc, not with the precision of an expert gardener—but in a wildly chaotic cloud that narrowly missed my face.

“Damien!” I shrieked, laughing as a clump of soil landed on my shin.

He froze, crouched at the edge of the new garden bed like a mischievous raccoon caught red-handed. His hair stuck up in every direction, and there was a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He looked way too pleased with himself.

“What?” he asked innocently, holding up the tiny trowel like it was a weapon of mass destruction. “I’m digging.”

“You’re excavating.” I grabbed a bulb and scooted closer. “This is why I told you to let me mark the rows first.”

“You were taking too long.”

“I was making a plan!”

He grinned at me, all smug and unrepentant, then promptly dug another crooked hole. I sighed and reached for my little wooden tray of daffodil bulbs, determined to maintain some level of floral dignity while he tore through the garden like a toddler with a spoon and a sandbox.

“Supervising,” I muttered, plopping down on my knees beside him, “was clearly a mistake.”

“Supervising is code for judging my technique, which, by the way, is called ‘freestyle botany.’”

I snorted, brushing my hair off my face and gently pressing a bulb into the earth. “More like ‘botanical chaos.’ Honestly, how did someone with hands that steady in surgery manage to plant a flower upside-down?”

“You noticed that, huh?”

“Pretty sure the bulb did, too.”

He glanced at me sideways, then flicked a clump of soil toward my boot. “I’ll stick to hearts. You stick to flowers.”

“I’m trying,” I said, reaching for another bulb. “But you keep planting them sideways and giving them an existential crisis.”

He laughed, deep and carefree, the sound curling around me like sunlight. For all his seriousness, Damien was learning to laugh again. With me. Around me.

We worked side by side for the next half hour, digging, planting, and occasionally arguing over spacing. By the time we’d covered two neat rows, we were both smudged with dirt, our hands grimy and our jeans worse for wear.

I sat back on my heels, looking over our messy masterpiece with a breathless sort of pride.

“You know,” I said softly, “I always dreamed of doing something like this. A healing garden. A place where people could breathe again.”

He dropped the trowel and leaned on his hands, the breeze ruffling his shirt. “It’s a good dream.”

I turned to him, brushing my palms on my thighs. “It doesn’t have to stop here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” I gestured around us. “You and me. This garden. What if we built something more? Together.”

His expression shifted, curiosity flaring. “More?”

“Not just flowers. A full community space. We could renovate the rooftop above the shop. Add benches, a little greenhouse. You could do wellness workshops. I could do grief florals or therapeutic arrangements.”

He stared at me, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if I’d said too much.

“You want to combine medicine and flowers?” he asked, half teasing.

“I want to combine us.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You heal people with your hands. I heal them with beauty. Let’s give this town both.”

He was quiet for a beat, then reached out and brushed his thumb across my cheek, smudging away a little fleck of soil. “You really believe we could pull it off?”

“With you?” I smiled. “Yeah. I do.”

We sat in the dirt, sunlight dappling our shoulders, the garden bed before us blooming with promise.

Then I stood, brushing off my knees, and reached for a small wooden sign I’d hidden earlier under my sweater. The paint was still drying on the edges, and the letters weren’t perfectly even—but it was mine. Ours.

Damien cocked his head as I held it up.

“Officially naming it?” he asked.

I nodded and knelt at the head of the flower bed. With a soft press into the soil, I staked the sign in place.

Hearts in Bloom.

He stepped beside me, reading it aloud. “Hearts in Bloom,” he murmured. “That’s perfect.”

“It felt right.”

He looked at the bed, then at me, his voice husky with something deeper than pride. “You’re still the bravest person I know.”

I reached for his hand and squeezed it. “And you’re still the best thing that ever happened to my mess.”

His fingers tightened around mine. “Guess we’re planting roots for real now.”

I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. “With you, I think I finally know what that means.”

The breeze carried the scent of fresh earth and croissants and us. Damien and Ruby. Blooming where we’d once been broken.

And I knew without a doubt—we weren’t just planting flowers.

We were planting forever.

The news spread like lavender in bloom—soft, fragrant, and impossible to ignore.

By lunchtime, my phone was buzzing with messages. By midafternoon, people were stopping by the shop not to buy bouquets, but to offer help.

Eleanor brought a mason jar full of change from her bakery tip jar. “It’s for the benches,” she said, setting it down with a wink. “Every good garden needs a gossip corner.”

Hazel came next, arms full of clipboards and her trademark energy. “We’re doing a dedication. Saturday. I’ve already called three vendors. You’re welcome.”

“Hazel, I—”

“Nope,” she said, steamrolling right over me. “You’re going to need bunting, a ribbon, probably a brass plaque. Oh, and lemonade. Nothing says hope like lemonade.”

I blinked. “Did you plan a grand opening in the time it takes most people to check their email?”

“Sweetheart,” she said, tugging me into a one-armed hug, “I’ve been waiting years for something in this town to feel like new beginnings. You and that garden? You’re it.”

By the time the sun dipped low, the whole town seemed to hum with excitement. The rooftop was swept. Vendors were booked. Someone—probably Hazel—hung twinkle lights around the wooden arch Damien and I had built that morning.

And then there we were—sitting beneath the glow of those lights, shoulder to shoulder on the garden’s edge. My hand curled around his. His thumb brushed my knuckles like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I can’t believe this,” I whispered.

Damien tilted his head, watching the lights flicker above us. “What? That we planted something without burning it down?”

I laughed, resting my cheek against his arm. “That this place… us… is becoming real.”

He was quiet for a beat, then said, “It’s always been real. You’re just finally letting yourself believe it.”

The rooftop buzzed with soft music from someone’s portable speaker below. The scent of night-blooming jasmine floated in on the breeze, tangled with the faint trace of soil still under our nails. For the first time in what felt like forever, the world wasn’t too loud or too much.

Just enough.

“Do you think we’re crazy?” I asked suddenly, my voice almost shy. “For believing we can build something that actually lasts?”

Damien turned toward me, our joined hands resting on his knee. His gaze held steady.

“No,” he said. “We’d be crazy for thinking we couldn’t.”

I blinked at him, warmth rising in my chest like spring after frost.

Because I did believe. In him. In us. In the messy, beautiful risk we were taking by not just loving each other—but building a life around that love.

He shifted slightly, and I felt it—the subtle change in his breath, the tension in his arm. Then he reached into his jacket pocket.

My heart skipped.

Damien pulled out a small velvet box.

I stilled.

He didn’t open it.

His fingers curled around it like it held something delicate. Sacred.

“One day,” he said softly, eyes locked on mine. “Soon. Just not yet.”

I swallowed, my eyes suddenly prickling.

Not yet.

Not a no.

Not a maybe.

Just a one day wrapped in certainty.

“Okay,” I whispered. “I can wait.”

He exhaled slowly, tucking the box back into his pocket. Then he pulled me closer until my head rested on his shoulder and his arm wrapped securely around me.

We sat like that for a long time—watching the stars emerge one by one above our garden. Our home. Our beginning.

And all around us, Cedar Springs glowed with the quiet hum of something rare and precious:

Hope.