Page 25

Chapter twenty-five

R uby

The garden was quiet—too quiet. Late afternoon sunlight spilled over the petals like honey, warm and golden, but I sat frozen on the bench, a pen balanced between my fingers, a blank journal page staring back at me like it had all the answers I was too afraid to ask.

Beside me, my award from the competition gleamed faintly in its polished glass case. Innovation & Impact. Words that once filled me with pride now echoed in my mind with a tinge of uncertainty. Because how do you celebrate a victory when your heart feels... half-present?

Hazel walked up the path with a basket of fresh herbs, her apron smeared with soil and calm wisdom.

“You haven’t moved in twenty minutes,” she said, setting the basket on the table. “I’ve seen garden statues with more animation.”

I let out a small laugh, but it died quickly.

She glanced at the open journal. “Trying to write?”

I nodded. “Trying. Failing. Rethinking my entire existence.”

Hazel dropped onto the bench beside me and plucked the pen from my fingers. “You know,” she said, spinning it slowly between her fingers, “a lot of people wait for the perfect words. The big, sweeping moment. But real love? Real healing? That comes when we stop waiting.”

I looked at her, my heart full. “I want to tell him everything. But I’m scared it won’t come out right.”

Hazel smiled. “Then don’t wait for it to be perfect. Just write what’s true. Create the moment yourself.”

She stood and walked back toward the porch, leaving me with the pen, the journal, and the hollow ache in my chest that only had one name.

Damien.

I stared at the page a little longer. Then finally, finally, I let the words come.

Dear Damien,

I don’t know where to start. So maybe I’ll begin at the moment I realized I loved you.

It wasn’t dramatic. It didn’t come with fireworks or epic music swelling in the background. It was quiet. Gentle.

I fell for you in the space between arguments. In the way you mumbled apologies you didn’t know how to say out loud. In the quiet grace you showed my chaos. In the way you fixed broken things—plants, hearts, your own wounds—even when you were the one cracked open.

You taught me that love doesn’t have to be a thunderstorm. It can be a garden after the rain. Wild, unruly, breathtaking.

I know you’ve been standing at a crossroads. I’ve felt the distance, the weight of all the choices piling up behind your eyes.

I can’t make the decision for you, Damien. And I don’t want to.

But I want you to know—whatever path you choose, whether it curves toward me or somewhere else entirely—you’ve already changed my life.

You gave me a home, not just in Cedar Springs, but in myself.

You helped me believe I could grow beyond my old limits.

That I could stand tall without having to be anyone else.

If you come back—if you choose this messy, beautiful life we’ve started—I’ll be waiting.

And if not, I’ll still be grateful. Always.

Because I found the garden. And that’s because of you.

Yours, Ruby

I stared down at the letter, my heart thudding against my ribs like a caged bird.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, and the wind stirred the lavender near my feet. I folded the letter and tucked it into an envelope, scribbling his name across the front like a prayer.

The journal stayed open, the rest of the page blank. But for the first time in days, my chest didn’t feel hollow. The ache was still there—but now, it was wrapped in something soft and steady.

Hope.

Hazel stepped out again, this time with two mugs of tea. She handed me one and glanced at the envelope in my lap.

“Better?” she asked.

I nodded. “Not fixed. But better.”

She raised her mug in a quiet toast. “That’s all we can ask for most days.”

We sat in silence after that. Not the heavy kind—the peaceful kind. The kind that speaks volumes without a single word.

The letter lay across my palm like a seed.

Now it just needed planting.

The envelope left my hands with a flutter of nerves and a ridiculous amount of hope. Hazel offered to drop it at the post office on her way into town, and I gave it up like a mother handing off her firstborn—reluctant, tender, terrified.

The rest of the morning passed in small, jittery movements.

I rearranged stems that didn’t need rearranging.

I double-checked flower orders I’d already confirmed.

I pulled out the travel-size iron and pressed the fabric for the display table at the Hearts in Bloom event, even though it had no creases.

And still, no word.

By late afternoon, I gave up and flopped on the couch, one arm over my eyes, my heart swinging between cautious optimism and bone-deep vulnerability.

Then Hazel walked through the door, holding something in her hand. “He wrote back.”

I sat up so fast I knocked a pillow onto the floor. “What?”

She nodded and handed me a soft, slightly crinkled envelope. My name was scrawled in Damien’s neat, almost-too-formal handwriting. My fingers shook as I broke the seal.

The paper inside was folded precisely, like he’d taken his time. My heart pounded in my ears as I opened it.

Dear Ruby,

I read your letter in a tiny café on the corner of Waverly and Main, just outside the hospital. The coffee was lukewarm. The city traffic groaned like it always does. But none of that mattered because, in that moment, I wasn’t in the city.

I was in your garden. I was beside you on the bench. I was back in the place where my life finally started to feel like mine.

Your words wrecked me, in the best way. I didn’t even realize my hands were trembling until the barista asked if I needed help. I told her no. But the truth is, I do need help—your kind of help.

I used to think I had to choose between a life of purpose and a life of feeling. Between making an impact and feeling alive. But you… you made me realize it’s possible to have both. You, with your messy optimism and wildflower soul. You, who turned grief into beauty and fear into art.

Your chaos didn’t scare me. It freed me.

You didn’t fix me. You reminded me I didn’t need fixing. Just unlearning.

I don’t want a sterile life.

I want one that smells like jasmine in the spring and burns cookies in the oven. One where the kitchen is never clean and the garden is always blooming and the only constant is your laughter echoing down the hall.

I want a life where I get to hold your hand when we argue, and kiss your forehead when we make up.

I want a life where we wake up every day and choose each other, even when it’s hard, even when the weather changes.

You taught me that love isn’t a clean line. It’s layered. Tangled. Deep-rooted.

I’m not afraid of the wild anymore.

I’m ready.

Come home. Or stay where you are. Either way, I’ll find you. Because home isn’t Cedar Springs or the city or even the garden.

It’s you.

Always you.

—Damien

I didn’t cry right away. I just stared at the letter like it might vanish if I blinked. Then, slowly, the weight that had been pressing on my chest for days lifted.

I folded the letter with care and held it to my heart.

He still felt it. Still wanted it. Still wanted me.

Hazel sat beside me and nudged my shoulder. “So?”

“He’s still all in,” I said quietly. “And so am I.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the kind that didn’t require words.

Later that evening, I placed both letters—his and mine—side by side in my journal, like twin blooms preserved between the pages of something enduring.

They weren’t just notes.

They were roots.

And now, we both felt anchored again.

I stared at the last line of the letter I'd just written and felt a tingle run down my spine.

“Let’s merge our dreams.”

It wasn’t poetic or overly grand. Just honest. Just… us.

The idea had been percolating since the night I returned from the competition and found myself pacing our garden. Everything around me had grown from seed and soil and intention. Why couldn’t the same be true for the life Damien and I were building?

I tapped my pen against the table, glancing at the faint ink smudge where my hand had brushed the words. The rest of the proposal was neatly outlined on the next page:

A community wellness hub.Part floral therapy studio, part wellness space. A garden for meditation and healing. A classroom for nutrition workshops and stress relief strategies. A space for people to come not because they’re broken—but because they deserve to feel whole.

The more I wrote, the more I saw it: sun-drenched rooms filled with blooms and books, quiet corners with benches and tea, laughter drifting through wide open windows. A place where wellness wasn’t clinical—it was comforting.

Cedar Springs doesn’t need more appointments. It needs connection. And so do we.

I wrote that last part in bold.

And then, underneath it all, I added the simplest line of all:

Let’s build this together.

I folded the pages with a deep breath and slid them into a new envelope addressed to Damien. I didn’t text him. I didn’t send an email. Some things need ink and paper and a bit of courage.

When Hazel stopped by later, I handed her the envelope and grinned. “One last delivery.”

“Another love letter?” she asked, arching a brow.

“Kind of. But it’s also a blueprint.”

Her eyes sparkled. “Of course it is. You’ve always made beautiful things out of chaos.”

I tried to act cool, but my stomach twisted into a nervous knot the second she left. I wanted Damien to love the idea. I also feared he’d say no. That it was too much. Too fast. Too far from the clean-cut life he once led.

But mostly, I feared he’d think I was asking him to give something up again.

I wasn’t. I was asking him to make something with me.

I watched the sky change colors as evening rolled in. The same soft golden glow spilled over the porch railing, and I sat on the steps, knees tucked under my chin, listening to the wind in the trees and the distant hum of life returning to Cedar Springs.

A week ago, I’d wondered if I still fit here.

Now, I realized the question wasn’t whether I fit—it was whether I could help this place grow, the way it had helped me.

That night, I slept with a calm heart and dreams full of wildflowers and wide-open doors.

Damien – Two Days Later

I stood just outside the hospital’s staff lounge, flipping through the letter like it might rearrange itself the fourth time I read it.

Ruby’s handwriting was like her—looping, expressive, unapologetically bold.

A community hub… floral therapy, heart health, mental wellness…Let’s merge our dreams.

My throat tightened.

I’d expected another beautiful letter, maybe poetic closure or another confetti cannon of emotions. What I hadn’t expected was a fully realized dream that somehow managed to feel like both an ending and a beginning.

Holistic healing. Rooted in the community. Rooted in us.

I dropped into the nearest chair, the hospital sounds fading behind the glass. I read the proposal again.

And then again.

There was no doubt. Not anymore. Not after the last surgery. Not after standing outside that little girl’s room, heart racing, realizing that I could be good at something… and still not want it anymore.

I didn’t want sterile brilliance.

I wanted mornings that smelled like lavender and afternoons that ended with soil under my fingernails. I wanted Ruby humming in the kitchen and a chalkboard by the door with the day’s community offerings scribbled in pastel pink.

My phone buzzed.

It was a reminder: Contract deadline—12:00 p.m. today.

I didn’t hesitate.

I pulled a notebook from my bag and wrote a single word beneath Ruby’s closing line.

Yes.

Then, I added something more—something that had lived in the back of my mind for weeks but finally demanded a voice.

Let’s make Cedar Springs the heartbeat of something real. Together.

I folded the reply, slid it into an envelope, and walked it to the nearest mailbox like it carried something holy.

Afterward, I returned to the staff lounge, picked up my duffel bag, and turned in my ID badge.

“Heading out for a break?” the receptionist asked, glancing up.

“No,” I said, adjusting the strap over my shoulder. “I’m heading home.”

She smiled politely. “Back soon?”

I looked down at the pressed daisy Ruby had given me, still tucked safely in the corner of my wallet.

“Not this time.”

Because I wasn’t just visiting anymore.

I was coming home.

For good.