Page 33

Chapter thirty-three

R uby

The first thing I noticed was the sound. Laughter. Soft music spilling from the speakers Eleanor swore were Bluetooth but somehow still needed a dozen cords. The buzz of conversation wove through the air like a happy hum, and every corner of the Hearts in Bloom Center felt alive.

Kids darted past me, chasing butterflies and one another, their sticky fingers clutching juice boxes and wildflower crowns.

Elders lounged beneath the pergola in the herb garden, sipping lemonade and chatting like old friends who finally had the time.

Someone was playing a gentle melody on a violin near the sensory trail, and the scent of rosemary, lavender, and just-cut daisies lingered in the air.

It was everything we dreamed.

I moved slowly through the garden path, soaking it in.

The signage was perfect, the flower beds full of promise, and every detail bore the fingerprints of love—Hazel’s handmade signs, Eleanor’s poetry quotes painted on stones, even Marge’s lopsided topiary rabbit by the welcome arch.

It was chaotic, colorful, and completely Cedar Springs.

Inside the main building, Damien stood in the wellness commons, holding a foam heart model in one hand and sporting a flower crown made by a very enthusiastic five-year-old named Molly. It tilted dramatically to one side, pink carnation clinging for dear life.

“So,” Damien said to a circle of attendees, “when it comes to heart health, it’s not just about blood pressure. It’s about joy. Movement. Connection. Like showing up to a grand opening wearing this ridiculous thing because a kid asked you to.”

The crowd chuckled. He smiled.

And my knees? They wobbled. Right there, in the middle of a medical demonstration.

I leaned against the doorframe and watched him work the room—in his own awkward, surprisingly charming way. He’d always been commanding, but this version of him? Playful. Grounded. Happy.

I slipped away before he caught me staring like a starstruck teenager.

Near the reflection pond, I found Hazel directing a group of kids planting sunflower seedlings. "You're not just digging holes, tiny gardeners. You're making history."

"History's itchy," one of the boys grumbled, scratching his arm.

Hazel winked. "So's greatness."

I laughed and helped a little girl find a missing glove, marveling at how far we’d come. Just a year ago, this place was a pile of permits, dreams, and overgrown weeds. Now? It was something real. Something we built with our hands, hearts, and just enough chaos to make it interesting.

Eleanor approached with a clipboard and a confident stride. “You haven’t cried yet. Impressive.”

“I’m pacing myself,” I said, blinking back a suspicious prickle behind my eyes.

She handed me a fresh corsage. “For the woman who made hearts bloom.”

I took it gently, fingers brushing the petals. “That plaque still makes me cry, you know.”

“Good. It’s supposed to.”

We hugged, and she moved off to manage the guestbook table, shouting something about ink refills and rogue glitter.

I took a slow lap around the outer courtyard, letting my fingertips graze the leaves, the bricks, the railings. My lungs filled with cedar-sweet air, and the knot that had lived beneath my ribs for years slowly, sweetly, began to unravel.

“Excuse me,” a man said behind me. I turned to find a visitor holding one of our maps upside down. “Is this where the meditation garden is, or have I wandered into a tea party for bees?”

I grinned. “That’s actually both. Meditation garden that way, honeybee education circle to your left.”

“This place is incredible,” he said.

It really, really was.

Just then, Damien emerged from the building, the flower crown now drooping over one eye, but his grin was fully intact. He found me across the lawn, paused, then walked toward me like I was the only person in the crowd.

“Hey,” he said, tucking the crown back into place like it was just another stethoscope.

“Nice headgear,” I teased.

“Jealous?”

“Furious,” I replied.

We stood together, watching the swirl of people, the laughter, the kids playing hopscotch with painted bricks. Our center wasn’t just a building. It was a beginning.

Damien looked at me, and his smile softened.

“We did it, Ruby.”

“Yeah. We did.”

The sun glinted off the mosaic tiles lining the walkway, sending tiny flashes of color across the garden paths.

Children laughed in the background, weaving between raised beds and picnic tables while Hazel played her ukulele under the cherry tree.

I could barely breathe, not because of nerves, but because I couldn’t believe how much beauty had bloomed from a blueprint and a maybe.

I turned toward the stage, where Damien was standing, adjusting the mic with all the poise of a man more used to scalpels than speeches.

His white shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, his tie was off, and a crown of sunflowers sat crooked on his dark head—courtesy of Ava, who had declared him “King of the Garden.”

When his eyes found mine, I felt it like a heartbeat skipping in my chest. Steady. Certain.

“Can I steal the mic for a second?” he asked Eleanor, who had just wrapped up a passionate speech about civic pride and geranium propagation.

Eleanor stepped aside with an approving grin, handing Damien the mic as if she knew exactly what was about to happen.

Damien looked out at the crowd—locals, volunteers, families, kids—and then turned to me, holding out his hand. “Ruby.”

I blinked. “Me?”

He nodded, eyes unwavering. “You.”

I walked up slowly, heart pounding. When I reached him, he took my hand and held it between both of his, grounding me. The entire crowd hushed. Even Hazel’s ukulele fell silent.

“This woman,” he began, voice low but strong, “dragged me out of darkness. She argued with me over tulip colors and paint swatches, challenged every plan I thought was perfect, and loved me anyway.”

I blinked fast, trying not to cry in front of two hundred people. His thumb brushed mine, steady and warm.

“She didn’t just help me build a center. She helped me rebuild myself.”

A soft murmur passed through the crowd. Hazel sniffled somewhere behind us.

Damien turned to me fully, the mic forgotten in one hand as he kept the other around mine. “We built something that will outlive us. Something made from our stubbornness and hope and maybe too many daisies.”

Laughter trickled through the audience.

“Damien Cole,” I said, voice shaky, “you grumpy, brilliant, ridiculous man…”

He leaned in. “That’s my favorite title, you know.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. Especially if it comes with you.”

I kissed him then. Right there in front of everyone. A real kiss—sweet and sure, with laughter pressed between our lips. And when we pulled apart, the applause nearly knocked the petals off the roses.

Kids clapped with sticky fingers. Elders stood, cheering. Someone popped a confetti cannon. And Hazel, bless her chaotic soul, started playing “Can’t Help Falling in Love” with just enough twang to make it feel like home.

I leaned into Damien’s side as he wrapped an arm around me.

“You think they’ll keep cheering when we forget to water the basil next week?” I whispered.

“Probably not,” he murmured back. “But they’ll forgive us.”

“Because we named the center after ourselves?”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Because we gave them something real.”

I looked out at the people gathered in our garden—smiling, hugging, celebrating.

We hadn’t just survived our storms. We’d grown something from them.

And the roots ran deep.