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Chapter twenty-one

R uby

The exhibition hall buzzed with low murmurs, the kind that made your skin prickle with anticipation. I stood behind my installation—barely breathing—as the judges made their slow, deliberate way down the row. Every step they took felt like thunderclaps in my chest.

My hands were stained with chlorophyll, fingertips still speckled with pollen. I hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the past two nights, and my heart thumped as if it were trying to break free and run for the hills. But I stood tall—next to my piece, The Bloom After the Storm.

It wasn’t the flashiest. It didn’t have rare orchids flown in from halfway across the globe. But it had something else.

Heart.

Each quadrant told a story—Winter's wilted grays and brittle branches. Spring’s cautious new shoots of hyacinth and crocus.

Summer bursting with wild color and unruly growth.

And Fall, soft and rich in warm amber marigolds and rust-red dahlias.

Nestled in the center was a spiral path of moss and freesia—a quiet invitation for reflection, or renewal.

“This installation,” one of the judges said, eyes scanning the spiral, “is deeply narrative.”

I didn’t speak unless asked. That had been one of the rules. But something in his voice felt like an opening.

“It’s a journey,” I said, heart hammering. “From grief to growth. From hiding to blooming.”

Another judge nodded slowly. “There’s an intentional imperfection here. Wild edges. Crooked lines.”

I smiled, even as my stomach tightened. “Healing’s messy. So, I left space for that.”

The panel scribbled notes, murmured again, and moved on.

I exhaled—finally—and only then realized I’d been holding my breath.

A woman with a sharp bob and a badge that said “SPONSOR – NORTHERN BOTANICA” approached quietly from the side. “Ruby Shea?”

I blinked. “Yes?”

“I’m Nancy Garrett, creative director at Northern Botanica Magazine. We’re curating a feature on innovative florists redefining the artform. Can I have your card?”

My mouth went dry. “You want… my card?”

“I do.” She smiled. “Your work’s unlike anything else here. It has soul. The kind readers connect with.”

I fumbled in my bag and handed her one with slightly smudged ink and a small dried lavender sprig tucked into the corner. “Sorry, it’s homemade.”

She held it like it was gold. “Even better.”

As she walked away, I stared after her, dazed. My knees wobbled. My work had connected. Someone outside Cedar Springs had seen me.

Just as the announcements began over the loudspeaker.

I made my way toward the front of the hall where the rest of the participants stood. Sleek floral gowns and elegant tuxes flanked me. A woman with crystal earrings offered a strained smile. Another man adjusted his cufflinks like he was preparing for battle.

“And now,” the announcer said, “the Special Award for Innovation & Impact…”

I didn’t hear the rest at first. Because I heard my name.

“Ruby Shea.”

There was a pause. Then applause—louder than I expected, genuine and warm.

Me?

Someone nudged me gently. “That’s you, sweetheart. Go.”

I stepped forward in a daze, my heels clicking softly on the polished stage floor.

The presenter handed me a delicate etched plaque with an embossed gold floral motif.

“For bravery in vision and beauty in story,” she read aloud.

“This award honors the kind of artistry that doesn’t just impress—it heals. ”

I swallowed hard, blinking fast.

My hands curled around the plaque like it might vanish if I let go.

A tear slipped out, trailing warm and slow down my cheek. “Thank you,” I said into the mic. “This isn’t about medals. It’s about finally blooming on my own terms. And I’m just… really grateful you saw that.”

More applause. A few whistles from the back.

I smiled, wide and shaking, then walked offstage.

Hazel met me near the exit, her arms open and her grin massive.

“Ruby freaking Shea, you did it!” she yelled, throwing herself into a hug that nearly knocked the plaque from my hands.

I laughed through my tears. “I didn’t win first.”

Hazel pulled back, hands on my shoulders. “Girl, you didn’t need first. You changed the rules.”

We stood there in the glow of string lights and camera flashes, and for the first time in my life, I felt it:

Not just loved.

Not just lucky.

But seen . And enough.

Not because I fit in—but because I finally dared to stand out.

—

The hotel room was quiet, the kind of quiet that creeps in after a storm of adrenaline and applause. My shoes were kicked off by the door, my plaque resting on the nightstand beside an untouched cup of lukewarm chamomile tea.

I sank onto the bed, the softness catching me like a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

The thrill of the ceremony still pulsed in my chest, but beneath it was something quieter. Something… hollow. Not empty, exactly. Just incomplete.

I reached for my tote bag, thinking I might pull out my sketchbook, maybe jot down some flower combinations that had come to mind during the award ceremony. Instead, my fingers brushed against something firm, rectangular—and unfamiliar.

An envelope.

I blinked and pulled it out slowly. My name was written on the front in Damien’s unmistakably sharp, blocky handwriting. Like he couldn’t quite help his surgeon’s precision even when he was trying to be tender.

My heart thudded.

He must’ve tucked it in while I wasn’t looking—probably when he delivered the freesia, right before he kissed my forehead like it was a promise and disappeared like smoke.

I ran my thumb along the edge before tearing it open, careful not to rip what felt suddenly sacred.

The paper inside was thick, slightly textured, and smelled faintly like cedarwood and something else I couldn’t name—something that was just… him.

His words were simple. But they reached right through me.

Ruby,

You are the color in my grayscale world. I've spent years keeping things tightly controlled. Predictable. Safe. But you walked into my life like spring after a too-long winter, and suddenly everything felt possible again.

I don’t know where this journey takes us next. I wish I did. I wish I could map it like an artery, cut it open and stitch it closed with absolute certainty. But life doesn’t work like surgery.

All I know is this—I want every step to include you. Even if I have to learn how to hold wildflowers without crushing them.

—D

I didn’t cry right away.

I read it again. Then a third time. And finally, I pressed it to my chest, closing my eyes as a slow breath escaped me.

Damien Cole, the man who had once treated emotion like a foreign language, had written me poetry.

Not rhyming poetry. Not neat or flowery. But raw. Honest.

And heartbreakingly beautiful.

My chest ached with the force of missing him. But it was laced with something sweeter—hope.

Because this wasn’t an ending.

It was a beginning.

The kind that starts not with fireworks, but with a letter slipped quietly into a bag. With a pressed daisy and a man who had learned how to whisper “I love you” in actions long before he said the words out loud.

I curled up on the bed, clutching the note like a lifeline.

The city lights blinked outside my window, cold and unfamiliar. But Damien’s words wrapped around me like a quilt.

Maybe we didn’t know what came next.

Maybe we didn’t need to.

Because some things weren’t meant to be dissected.

Some things were meant to be felt.

And I was done pretending I didn’t feel everything—all at once—for the man who taught me how to bloom with both roots and wings.

—

The ballroom shimmered with gold string lights, the kind that made everything feel dreamlike.

Servers drifted past with trays of sparkling cider and hors d’oeuvres that looked too pretty to eat.

People clinked glasses, laughed politely, and clutched program brochures that listed names and floral installation descriptions in looping calligraphy.

And I sat frozen, heart doing a jittery dance against my ribs.

Not from nerves. Not from exhaustion either—even though I was running on three hours of sleep and one lukewarm coffee.

It was the chairwoman’s voice echoing through the PA system.

“And now, before we wrap this year’s competition, we’re thrilled to announce an exciting new opportunity, sponsored by the North American Floral Arts Council.”

Chatter quieted. All eyes turned to the podium. My fingers gripped my napkin like it might keep me grounded.

“This year,” she continued, her smile glowing as bright as the chandelier above, “three artists have been selected to participate in a national showcase tour—where their work will be exhibited in major botanical centers across the country.”

A murmur rippled through the room. My stomach flipped.

Please let Hazel be filming this. Please let this be real.

The chairwoman glanced at her card, then beamed. “Our featured artists are… Javier Esteban from New York City… Maisie Rhodes from Vancouver… and Ruby Shea from Cedar Springs!”

Everything around me blurred.

People clapped. Some even stood.

But I barely heard them.

I felt it more than I heard it—a rush of warmth, of disbelief, of something I couldn’t quite name yet. Not pride. Not exactly. Something deeper.

I stood on shaky legs as applause rose again. A few competitors turned to smile at me, others offered polite nods. A judge from earlier—silver-haired, sharp-eyed—leaned over and whispered, “Your piece made people feel. That’s rarer than you think.”

I muttered a thank you, barely coherent.

A handler gestured for me to join the other winners near the stage for photos. I posed numbly, smile trembling as cameras flashed. People called my name, asked for my card, gushed about my installation like it had just reshaped how they saw grief and growth.

But all I could think about was Damien.

Because as thrilling as this was, as career-changing and surreal as it felt, none of it meant as much if I couldn’t share it with him.

The moment the crowd dispersed, I slipped out to the hallway, phone clutched in my hand. My heels clicked against the marble until I stopped near a potted fern in a quiet corner.

I hit Damien on speed dial.

It rang once. Twice.

Then voicemail.

My heart squeezed.

I was about to try again when a message pinged across my screen.

Damien: Call me when you can. I have news too. It’s… big.

I stared at the words, pulse thudding louder than the music still playing in the ballroom.

Something inside me twisted—hope, fear, maybe both tangled up in the possibilities of that one little ellipsis.

Big could mean anything. A breakthrough. A breakdown. A decision he wasn’t ready to say out loud.

I ran my thumb over the screen, hesitating. Part of me wanted to drop everything, find a quiet room, and call him back immediately.

But I didn’t.

Not because I didn’t care.

Because I did. So much, it physically hurt.

But I wanted to tell him everything, too. About the announcement. The invitation. How I almost burst into tears on stage. How every step I took today felt like stepping closer to the version of myself I’d always been too scared to become.

So instead, I texted back:

Me: You first. What happened? Also… I have a story for you. A big one.

I stared at the screen like it might light up with his face.

When it didn’t, I tucked the phone against my chest, leaned against the cool wall, and smiled softly to myself.

Maybe life wasn’t about knowing every twist in the path.

Maybe it was about holding onto the people who reminded you why the journey mattered in the first place.

And Damien? He was my favorite detour I never saw coming.