Page 8 of Love in Full Bloom

The festival continues to bustle around us, but in this moment, it feels like we're in our own small bubble of shared understanding. A connection forms between us—tentative but unmistakable.

"There's an abandoned lot behind the old textile factory," she says, her voice taking on a dreamlike quality. "Nature has reclaimed it completely. That's where I found the wild rose in that painting—growing right through a crack in the concrete, its roots somehow finding soil beneath all that pavement."

I can picture it perfectly. "Adaptive. Resilient."

"Exactly." Her eyes light up. "And there's a forgotten corner of Riverside Park that the maintenance crews never seem to touch. It's where I found that Queen Anne's lace. In the early morning, when dew catches on those tiny umbrella blooms, it looks like someone scattered diamonds across the field."

The way she describes these places makes them sound magical, sacred almost. In my work, I'm usually imposing order on nature, creating deliberate beauty through careful selection and placement. Jasmine's approach is the opposite—finding beauty in what emerges without human intervention, in what persists despite neglect or active discouragement.

"I'd love to see these places," I say, meaning it more than I expected to. "To understand what you see in them."

"I could show you." The offer comes quickly, eagerly, before she seems to catch herself. "I mean, if that would be helpful for your project."

"It would be." I pause, then add more quietly, "And I'd enjoy your company."

Another customer approaches, and Jasmine turns to greet them. I step back again, giving her space to work, but I can't help watching her. There's something captivating about the way she lights up when talking about her art, the way her hands move expressively, the way her entire being seems engaged in sharing what she sees with others.

I realize I'm smiling, and it feels unfamiliar—not the polite, professional smile I offer clients, but something more genuine. Something that reaches my eyes and warms my chest.

My phone buzzes with a text from my sister.

Lil Sis: How's the festival? See anything inspiring?

Me: More than you know. You might have been right about the matchmaking thing.

Lil Sis: !!!!! Details!!!!!

I slip my phone back into my pocket without responding. Some experiences are too new, too precious to share right away, even with Leah. This unexpected connection with Jasmine feels like finding a rare seedling—something promising but delicate, needing protection and nurturing before exposure to the wider world.

When Jasmine finishes with her customer, I help her rearrange her display to fill the space left by the sold painting. Ourmovements fall into an easy rhythm, as though we've worked together before. When our hands brush accidentally, I feel that same jolt of awareness I noticed earlier: a spark of something that has nothing to do with art or professional collaboration.

"So," I say as we step back to assess our work, "when would you be free to show me these wildflower havens of yours?"

She tucks a strand of copper hair behind her ear, a gesture I'm beginning to recognize as a thinking habit. "I'm here all weekend for the festival. But maybe Monday? Morning light is best for seeing the dew on the Queen Anne's lace."

"Monday morning it is." I pull out my phone to add it to my calendar, then hesitate. "I should probably get your number. For coordination purposes."

She smiles, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "For coordination purposes. Of course."

As we exchange numbers, I'm struck by how easy this feels. How natural. Like plants growing together in that meadow she painted—different species finding harmony in the same space.

"I should probably let you get back to your customers," I say reluctantly as more festival-goers begin to cluster around her booth. "But I'm looking forward to Monday."

"Me too." Her smile is warm, genuine. "And Ben? Thanks for seeing what I was trying to show in these paintings. That means more than you know."

As I walk away, I glance back to see her already engaged with another visitor, her hands moving expressively as she explains her work. The morning sun catches her hair, turning it to livingflame, and for a moment she looks like she belongs in one of her own paintings—vibrant, resilient, unexpectedly beautiful.

I touch my phone in my pocket, feeling the weight of her number saved there. Monday suddenly seems very far away. But some things—the most worthwhile things—are worth waiting for. Like gardens. Like connections that promise to grow into something beautiful.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel a sense of anticipation that has nothing to do with work or obligation. A feeling that something important is beginning. Something unplanned, unexpected, and all the more precious for it.

Like wildflowers pushing through concrete, finding a way to bloom against all odds.

CHAPTER FIVE

JASMINE

I nearly dance into my apartment, closing the door behind me with a gentle push of my hip. The festival exceeded all my expectations—not just in sales, which were surprisingly good, but in ways I never anticipated. I set my bag down and kick off my shoes, still feeling the lingering excitement of the day buzzing through my veins.

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