Page 55 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

I sat back; the phone cradled to my ear like it might anchor me.

“What if I say no, and in ten years I regret it?”

Brandon didn’t hesitate. “Then you regret it. But you’ll do it with someone who holds your hand through every ‘what if.’ That’s the trade-off. And only you get to decide if it’s worth it.”

I closed my eyes, pressing my thumb into the center of my palm.

“And what if I say yes… and lose her?”

This time, the pause was longer. Then he said, “Then you’ll have all the accolades in the world and still be alone at the end of the day. No career, no city, no award will warm your bed or calm your storms like she does. That woman… she’s the one you call home.”

I didn’t respond.

Because I knew he was right.

I ended the call and set the phone down next to the letter. Ruby’s handwriting was still visible on a note she'd left this morning—Don’t forget to water the basil or it’ll yell at you. A heart drawn beside it.

She saw the world in color. In chaos. In things that grew because someone loved them enough to keep them alive.

And somehow, she’d managed to bring me back to life without even trying.

I ran a hand over my face.

The only thing I was truly certain of anymore—was her.

The way she laughed in the middle of a disaster. The way she kissed me like she was fastening herself to solid ground. The way her fingers trembled slightly when she handed me dreams drawn in pencil and ink.

The rest? Just noise.

I picked up the letter one more time. Folded it in half. Then folded it again.

And slid it back into the envelope without reading the rest.

Some doors weren’t meant to stay open forever.

Because sometimes, the miracle wasn’t in going back.

It was in finding the strength to stay.

That night, the world quieted.

No gala. No emails. No decisions. Just the warm scent of lavender tea and the soft murmur of Ruby’s voice as she lay curled beside me on the couch, one foot tucked under her, the other brushing against my leg. She held an oversized book with cracked leather corners and faded gold lettering across the front—The Wild Encyclopaedia of Blooms & Blunders—and was flipping pages like it held the secrets to the universe.

“This one’s calledScabiosa atropurpurea,” she read, her voice dramatically formal. “Sounds like a spell. Or a particularly nasty skin condition.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Attractive.”

She grinned, eyes twinkling. “Apparently, it symbolizes ‘unfortunate love.’ Cheerful, right?”

“You’re really selling it.”

“Wait, there’s more!” She traced the description with her finger. “Also known as mourning bride. Which sounds like a soap opera I absolutely want to star in.”

I laughed, unable to take my eyes off her. Her hair was messy from the wind, her sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder, and her socks—two entirely different colors—were poking out from under the afghan draped across her legs. She looked like chaos personified.

And I’d never seen anything more beautiful.

She looked up and caught me staring.

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