Page 35 of Raising the Sun

Close enough.

“I suppose he is, yeah.” She was fishing, and it was all part of her agenda of finding me a nice fella to settle down with. It felt pointless to even think about Ash in that capacity, what with him leaving once the bond was broken. But we also hadn’t spoken about the situationourselves, so I wasn’t about to air it with my mother.

Not that he wouldn’t make a desirable partner—the last month had proven it.

“He’s been a massive help, and we’ve become friends,” I said truthfully. “That’s all.”

She seemed suspicious, but Ash chose that moment to wander back into the living room, a tray with four mugs and a plate of biscuits in his hands.

“Here we are.”

He handed them out, leaving mine for last as he perched himself on the sofa’s arm. The mug surprisingly wasn’t scalding hot, but I still blew away the steam before taking a sip. My brow furrowed. It wasn’t the bitter instant coffee I was used to. It was much richer and smoother—fucking delicious—and I knew Ash had used his magic to whip up the expensive stuff just to impress my parents. He had his chin raised when I looked up at him, a grin on his face as if he could sense my withering stare.

Show-off.

The conversation that followed was mostly Mum nattering on about me and what I was like as a kid. My dad chimed in once or twice, but after forty-odd years of marriage, he was mostly content just to listen—he wasn’t often granted a word in edgeways.

She asked Ash questions about himself, and he handled them all with grace, spinning elaborate tales of his childhood and family that I knew weren’t entirely fabricated, sharing only what was necessary. It was actually fascinating to watch how easily he twisted the truth to fit the narrative. He never fumbled or panicked, just slipped from one perfect lie to the next without so much as a single eye twitch. It would have worried me if I hadn’t been so certain he found enjoyment in beingtoohonest where I was concerned. Just yesterday, he’d told me that my cooking was horrendous, then proceeded to act like I’d poisoned him.

So it was safe to say that white lies were considered a bit of a joke in our household.

For a good twenty minutes, everything seemed to be going smoothly, though, I was always in the habit of speaking too soon. Inevitably, the conversation switched to the Flower Festival, and that was where I’d predicted it would go south. Mum had told me weeks ago how excited she was for me that I’d been accepted, but she obviously wanted to revisit the topic now we were face to face.

And she had company.

“Remember when I used to take ye there as a boy?” she said wistfully, patting my leg as she directed her next words to Ash. “He loved it. The Sunflower Corner was always his favourite. They held a competition there to see who had grown the biggest sunflower, and some of them were humongous. As tall as Christmas trees.”

“They were especially tall for a kid.” I laughed, and Ash smiled down at me.

“That was when he started taking a real interest in flowers,” she continued. “I’d come home from work and he’d be in the garden, dirt mounds all over the grass, his school uniform in a state and trainers ruined. I remember having to scrub the carpets for hours to get the muddy footprints out.”

Slight exaggeration.

There wasonefootprint, and it wasmewho’d scrubbed it clean, but I let her carry on.

“He asked for tools and seeds for every birthday and Christmas. It was all he ever wittered on about, but I’ll admit, it wasn’t until the year he managed to grow his own sunflower, seeing the excitement on his little face, that I knew he’d found his calling.”

“Didn’t he fancy himself an astronaut the summer after?” my dad teased, earning a scathing look and a tut from my mum for his efforts. He winked at me when she looked away.

I hid my snort with a cough, pleased to know I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the embellishments for Ash’s benefit, but not willing—or daring—to call her out on it.

Mum angled herself towards me, giving me her full attention. “When you rang to say you’d got in, it felt like that day all over again. I knew it was meant to be.” She rested her hand on top of mine, and I could tell by the way her eyebrows scrunched that she was gearing up to add something sappy. “I just want you to remember how far you’ve come, love. You’ve worked bloody hard for this, and it’s okay if you don’t win. It’s the taking part that counts.”

You’re not going to win.

It was disorientating how quickly every ounce of pride I’d felt in my progress drained from me. My vision grew distant, blurring slightly at the edges, and my chest suddenly felt too heavy, too tight. The last dregs of my rationality chanted that she didn’t mean it badly, that she was only trying help and be supportive, but all I heard was…

Why bother trying?

I know you’re not good enough, so don’t be surprised if they figure it out, too.

All you ever do is fail.

She was right.

It was naive of me to think I stood a chance, that being accepted was cause for celebration. It was probably out of pity, or a mistake, because of all the florists in all the country, why the hell would they pick me? It had been a childish dream not meant to see the light of day. I should never have entered. It was a waste of time, money, and resources, and for what? To come back even more of a failure than I already was?

I should have just thrown in the towel the first time she’d told me to, should have listened to reason, but I’d wanted so badly to prove myself. To surprise everyone, and go further than I ever had before.

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