Page 118 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

Marge groaned. “Eleanor, nobody’s gonna forget your name. You’re the only woman in town who still writes checks at the grocery store.”

Laughter fluttered through the courtyard like wind chimes.

As I stood and wiped my hands on my skirt, I caught sight of the mural Damien and I had finished together—a sweeping wildflower landscape with silhouettes of people holding handsthrough the seasons. Children, elders, people in wheelchairs, doctors, artists, dreamers. It was messy and colorful and alive.

Just like us.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Damien:

"Ready to change the world, petal?"

I smiled and typed back: "I thought we already did."

I made one last round through the center—checking the community room where Eleanor had insisted on hosting monthly open-mic nights, peeking into the garden library where Hazel had alphabetized the fiction by emotional healing theme, and making sure the health nook Damien had designed was stocked with blood pressure cuffs, thermometers, and handouts written in plain, friendly language.

He’d even added a suggestion box labeled: “Got feelings? Drop them here.”

By the time the sun climbed to its highest point, everything was ready. Every flower fluffed. Every welcome station labeled in pastel chalk. Even the water fountain sparkled.

I walked to the center of the courtyard, spun in a slow circle, and let the moment sink in.

We’d built this.

Not just a building. A home. For every messy, aching, joyful part of who we were.

Hazel caught my gaze from across the path and gave me a thumbs-up.

I closed my eyes and whispered a quiet thank you to the sky.

Because for the first time in forever, I wasn’t searching for what came next.

I was standing in it.

…

There’s a certain kind of magic in messy hands and glitter-covered cheeks. The kids’ class was in full swing, and I stood infront of them with my apron dusted in pollen, paint, and the joy of too many enthusiastic flower picks.

“Remember,” I said, crouching beside little Ellie as she pressed petals into a mason jar lid, “centerpieces don’t have to be perfect—they just have to come from the heart.”

She grinned, missing one front tooth and sporting a daisy crown too big for her head. “Like the center, right Miss Ruby? From the heart!”

“Exactly.” I gave her a wink, but something in my chest swelled with more than just pride. I glanced around the airy workroom of the Hearts in Bloom Center—sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows, the tables lined with wildflowers and clay vases the kids had painted themselves. It was chaotic. It was vibrant. It was everything I’d dreamed.

Hazel popped in holding a tray of lemonade. “How are we doing in here? Any flower glue casualties?”

“Just three minor glitter explosions and one rogue ladybug rescue mission.”

“Sounds about right.” She winked and set the tray down. “You’re doing good, Ruby. Real good.”

My throat tightened as I nodded. “Thanks.”

The class wrapped up with the kids proudly displaying their handiwork, some of which were more abstract art than floral design, but every single one held something pure. Love. Joy. A whole lot of elbow grease.

As the last parent picked up their child and the room began to clear, I sat down on the bench near the archway we’d built last month—the one that overlooked the herb beds and now held my favorite wind chimes.

A shadow fell across the gravel path, and I looked up just as Damien approached. He was in his usual rolled-up sleeves, but his hands were tucked behind his back like a man with a secret.

“I come bearing gifts,” he said, eyes twinkling.

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