Page 9 of Love in Full Bloom

"Hello, plant babies," I murmur to my collection of green friends crowding the windowsills. "Your mom had quite a day."

I pull my phone from my pocket, looking at the new contact entry: Ben Thompson. My thumb hovers over his name, tempted to text him already, but I resist. Monday morning isn't that far away, even if it feels like an eternity right now.

Instead, I dial Elena.

"Spill everything," she demands by way of greeting. "How many pieces did you sell? Did anyone important see your work? Did you wear something besides that green dress?"

I laugh, collapsing onto my couch. "Hello to you too. I sold seven paintings, including the chicory and the wild rose. And yes, I wore the blue dress with the pattern you like."

"Seven! Jas, that's amazing! I told you people would connect with your work." Her voice brims with genuine excitement. "Any collectors I should know about?"

"A couple from Oakridge bought the rose painting for their sunroom. But that's not even the most interesting part of the day." I pause, suddenly feeling shy about sharing.

"What? Did Marcus show up? Did someone famous buy something?" Elena's questions tumble out rapidly.

"I met someone." The words come out in a rush. "A landscape architect named Ben. He really understood my paintings, Elena. Not just thought they were pretty, but actually got what I was trying to say about resilience and finding beauty in overlooked places."

"Wait, wait, wait. You met a guy? At the festival? Who actually appreciates your art?" The surprise in her voice would be offensive if it weren't so justified by my dating history (or lack thereof).

"He helped me secure my display when the wind kept knocking everything over. After I spilled coffee on him." I cringe at the memory. "But he didn't even care about his shirt. He was too busy looking at my meadow painting and talking about plant communities."

"Plant communities? Sexy." Elena's tone is teasing, but I can hear the genuine interest underneath.

"It was, actually." I feel my cheeks warm at the admission. "The way he looked at my work... it was like he was seeing me. The real me."

"So when are you seeing him again?"

"Monday morning. I'm showing him some of the places where I find my wildflowers. For his work," I add quickly.

"Mmhmm. For his work. Sure." Elena's smile is audible. "I want every detail after. And Jas? I'm really happy for you. You deserve someone who sees you."

After hanging up, I wander to my studio, pulling out a fresh canvas. The evening light streams through the window, casting long shadows across the floor. I don't usually paint at night, preferring natural morning light, but right now my fingers itch to create.

I set up my easel and squeeze colors onto my palette—rich greens, warm browns, vibrant purples, and golds. No specific plan in mind, just letting the feelings of the day guide my brush. As I begin laying down broad strokes of color, I realize I'm painting a garden. Not a wild meadow this time, but something that blends structure with wilderness—architectural elements softened by untamed growth. Organized paths winding through seemingly chaotic plantings that reveal their harmony only when viewed as a whole.

A garden that might exist in the space between Ben's world and mine.

My brush moves faster now, adding details—a stone bench nestled among tall grasses, dappled sunlight creating patterns across a path, wildflowers pushing between carefully placed stepping stones. The painting takes shape beneath my hands,becoming something I've never created before—a vision of wildness contained but not constrained, of structure enhanced rather than diminished by spontaneity.

As I work, I catch myself smiling, remembering the way Ben's eyes crinkled at the corners when he looked at my paintings. The gentle confidence in his movements as he secured my display. The surprising softness in his voice when he said he'd enjoy my company.

My inner critic whispers:Don't get carried away. He was just being nice. He's interested in your work for his project, that's all.

But for once, I don't listen. The warmth I felt in our connection wasn't imagined. The way our hands fit together when we shook goodbye wasn't coincidental. The spark when our fingers brushed wasn't just in my head.

Was it?

I step back from the canvas, suddenly uncertain. My excitement dims as doubt creeps in. Am I reading too much into a professional interaction? Creating a romantic narrative where none exists?

I set my brush down and wrap my arms around myself. This is what always happens—I get carried away by possibilities, by what could be rather than what is. I build elaborate fantasies from the smallest interactions, only to be disappointed when reality doesn't match my imagination.

My phone chimes with a text, startling me from my spiral of self-doubt. I wipe my paint-smudged hands on a rag before checking it.

Ben: Just wanted to say thanks again for today. Your work has already sparked some new ideas for the Hamilton project. Looking forward to Monday.

A simple, friendly message. Professional. But then a second text appears.

Also, I can't stop thinking about your meadow painting. The way you captured the relationship between those plants... it's changed how I see the wild spaces I passed on my drive home.

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