Page 19

Chapter nineteen

R uby

The convention center smelled like a florist’s fever dream—jasmine, peonies, eucalyptus, and ambition. The kind of ambition that wore sharp blazers and didn’t sweat under pressure. I, on the other hand, was sweating profusely.

I balanced three armfuls of tangled stems, a folder of scribbled designs, and a travel mug that was mostly melted chocolate at this point. My hair had rebelled somewhere between mile eighty and the hotel check-in desk, and now it looked like a dandelion caught in a windstorm.

Welcome to the regional floral design competition.

Rows of sleek booths lined the room—each one an explosion of symmetry and curated elegance.

Crystal vases, imported orchids, mood lighting.

I passed a designer arranging white roses with surgical precision, not a petal out of place.

She looked like she could’ve stepped out of a bridal magazine.

Meanwhile, my table looked like a barn wedding after a windstorm. Burlap. Wildflowers. Twine.

“You're in booth seventeen?” a coordinator in heels that could kill a man looked me up and down. “Rustic charm. Bold choice.”

It wasn’t a compliment.

I nodded, throat tight. “Thank you?”

She pursed her lips and clicked away.

I took my spot and exhaled slowly, placing my vases one by one.

A sprig of lavender fell onto the floor.

I bent to pick it up and caught a glimpse of the competition’s frontrunner—Chantal, a French floral prodigy known for installations that made grown men cry.

She was adjusting the angle of a single tulip like it owed her money.

A voice beside me snorted. “What is that, a scarecrow centerpiece?”

I turned. A woman in fuchsia heels and a blazer that sparkled under the overhead lights was squinting at my setup like it was a crime scene.

“It’s inspired by a summer storm,” I said, forcing a smile. “Unruly, but intentional.”

“So... messy.” She sipped her green smoothie like it was laced with disdain.

By the time she walked off, my confidence was somewhere under the rug with the spilled mulch.

I took a step back and stared at my setup. It was messy. Wild. Nothing about it screamed couture. The daisies weren’t exotic. The tin watering can centerpiece had literal rust on the side.

What was I doing here?

I reached into my tote bag for my sketchpad, hoping to distract myself with something familiar—and that’s when my fingers brushed against the envelope.

Damien.

I pulled it out slowly. Cream-colored, soft. My name was written in his blocky, overcautious handwriting. I opened the flap.

Inside was a single pressed daisy. Its petals were slightly browned at the edges, like it had been carried too long in someone’s pocket. Tucked behind it was a small note, folded twice.

“You’re the only bouquet that ever rooted something in me.”

I stared at the words. At the flower. And my breath caught so hard it startled me.

I pressed the daisy to my chest and closed my eyes.

This wasn’t about the judges. Or the critics. Or the women in couture heels who rolled their eyes at twine. It was about standing in a room full of perfect arrangements and choosing to believe my kind of beautiful belonged here too.

I straightened my spine.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s make magic.”

I pulled out my wildflower bundles and loosened the stems, letting the colors spill across the table. Sunflower golds, indigo thistles, bursts of poppy red. I wove in mint sprigs, clover, a single crooked tulip.

The watering can centerpiece stayed. The rust was part of the charm.

Around me, competitors eyed my work with puzzled expressions. It didn’t bother me anymore.

Because Damien had reminded me who I was.

The girl who planted hope in forgotten corners.

The woman who turned chaos into something that bloomed.

I glanced up at the overhead banner— “Where Passion Takes Root.”

And smiled.

Let them scoff.

I had roots here, too.

By the time the competition hall emptied out for the night, my fingers were stained green and my jeans had acquired a second life as a walking mulch mat. The official schedule said setup ended at eight. It was now creeping past ten, but I wasn’t done. Not even close.

“The Bloom After the Storm.” That was the name I scrawled in looping script on the little white card by my display. I stared at it for a second, then ripped it off and rewrote it in big, messy block letters instead. It fit better.

I stood back and took in what I had made.

It wasn’t a bouquet. It wasn’t even a traditional centerpiece.

It was an experience—an immersive floral storm, wild and uncontained.

Sunflowers bent sideways like they were caught in a gale.

Delicate baby’s breath swirled in chaotic clusters, framed by branches that jutted in angles as if wind-stripped.

Thistle, poppies, and lavender clashed in unexpected harmony.

A cracked terracotta pot sat in the center, tilted and spilling a cascade of blooms onto a bed of moss like it had just weathered something mighty and was still standing.

Unpredictable. Vibrant. A little unhinged.

Just like me.

I adjusted one of the poppies, then stepped on a twist of ivy and almost faceplanted into my own display. Definitely like me.

As I steadied myself, I caught the sound of low voices on the far end of the room—two judges doing a walkthrough. I ducked behind a hanging vine curtain, pretending to be organizing supplies.

“That one,” a voice murmured, pausing a few feet away. “Booth seventeen. It’s… chaotic.”

A different voice replied, curious. “It’s risky. But compelling. Like it’s telling a story.”

My heart squeezed.

Risky. But compelling.

I’d take that. That was practically a standing ovation in this crowd.

I let the vine fall gently back into place and returned to my table, trying not to smile too hard. A few petals had fallen to the floor. I knelt to gather them, pressing each into my palm like they were lucky coins.

Compelling.

The word echoed in my head like an anthem.

That’s when my phone buzzed in my apron pocket. I pulled it out and saw Hazel’s name glowing on the screen.

I wiped my hands on my pants before answering. “Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” she said, practically vibrating through the speaker. “I saw the sneak peek you posted on your story. Ruby. You made an art installation that looks like the sky opened up and cried joy.”

I laughed, flopping down onto a crate. “It might also look like a floral tornado got drunk.”

“Well then, it’s your kind of tornado. The one that plants things instead of wrecking them.”

I looked over at my piece, and yeah. That was about right.

Hazel’s voice softened. “Listen… I know this isn’t just about impressing those judges.”

I swallowed hard, throat thick. “It’s about proving something to myself.”

“That you belong here?”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Yeah.”

Hazel paused. “Ruby… you’ve always belonged. You don’t need their clipboard checkmarks to tell you that. But I know how it feels to want it anyway. So go get it. For you.”

I blinked up at the ceiling, eyes stinging. “Thanks, Haze.”

She huffed. “Don’t make me cry before bed, Shea. I have mascara on.”

I smiled, letting the silence stretch, the way it only can between best friends who’ve seen your weirdest and still cheer you on anyway.

When we finally hung up, I lingered by my display, brushing stray petals back into place, adjusting a vine like it made any difference at that point.

I wasn’t sure if the judges would love it.

But I did.

And for the first time, that was enough.

I grabbed my bag and glanced back once more at The Bloom After the Storm. It looked like it belonged in a dream—or maybe in a storybook written by someone who believed in messy miracles and rain-splattered beauty.

Like someone who had finally stopped trying to fit into a mold and had started blooming outside the lines.

And maybe that was the whole point.

…

The morning sun filtered through the hotel curtains like it hadn’t gotten the memo that today could unravel everything.

I rolled over, still half-asleep, expecting to smell brewed coffee and panic in equal measure. Instead, my phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand, and a sharp knock rattled the door.

I bolted upright, heart thudding. I flung open the door to find a volunteer staffer holding a clipboard and wearing a painfully polite smile.

“Morning,” she chirped. “We just wanted to let you know there’s been a bit of a hiccup with some deliveries. One of the floral shipments didn’t arrive on time.”

I blinked, mind still foggy. “Wait—what?”

She flipped a page. “Name on the order was… Ruby Shea? The rare freesia from Oregon?”

My stomach dropped. “Yes. That’s mine.”

The staffer gave a sympathetic shrug, like we were talking about misplacing a sock and not the focal flower of my entire centerpiece.

“Courier said it was delayed in transit. Might not make it in time for judging.”

“Might?”

“Might,” she echoed, not unkindly. “Delays happen. You’ll figure it out.”

And just like that, she turned on her sensible flats and walked off, leaving me in the doorway with bedhead, a t-shirt that said Don’t Kale My Vibe, and a growing knot in my chest.

I didn’t move for a long moment.

Then I snapped into motion.

I threw on jeans, shoved my keycard in my pocket, and ran the block to the venue, hoping—irrationally—that the shipment had magically appeared overnight and was sitting in the receiving bay waiting for a hug and an apology.

It wasn’t.

The loading area was empty except for a couple of taped-up crates and a guy sweeping leaves into a pile like they’d personally offended him.

I found my booth, and the installation still stood—wild and brave—but the space I’d saved for the freesia centerpiece sat bare. Stark. Incomplete.

My chest tightened.

This wasn’t just a missing detail. It was the heart of the display—the one flower meant to represent regrowth. I'd even left a broken teacup on the table, its cracks filled with gold leaf, where the freesia was supposed to bloom, like something fragile made whole again.

Now it just looked like a mistake.

I crouched beside the crate I’d left empty for the stems and stared at it like it might grow legs and walk in my order.

“Come on,” I whispered. “Come on, come on…”

But there was nothing. Just splinters and silence.

My fingers curled against the edge of the crate. I felt the tears rise like steam—hot, fast, and humiliating.

“You’ll figure it out,” she’d said.

Easy to say when your whole design hadn’t been built around a flower that now existed only in a tracking number with no destination.

I sat down hard on the floor, legs folding beneath me, and leaned against the crate. The room buzzed around me—other designers adjusting final touches, volunteers setting up barriers—but it all blurred into background noise.

I had been so sure.

So confident.

And now I felt like I was unraveling in front of everyone.

That’s when my phone buzzed again, rattling against the wood.

I didn’t want to look at it. I didn’t want a schedule update or a perky email from the competition committee telling me to “breathe and believe.”

But something made me swipe it open anyway.

Damien: Don’t let a few missing petals fool you into thinking your garden’s any less beautiful.

My breath hitched.

It wasn’t the solution to the problem. But it cracked something open inside me.

Because it was him.

And he saw me.

Not just the put-together parts. Not just the storm of color and confidence I tried to project. He saw the panic and the doubt and still thought I was something beautiful.

And maybe I didn’t have the freesia.

But I had built this garden—this experience—with my hands, my instincts, and my heart.

I swallowed hard and rose slowly, wiping the back of my hand across my cheek.

Okay.

Let’s rethink.

Let’s get scrappy.

Let’s bloom anyway.

Because storms don’t wait for ideal conditions. And neither do I.