Page 49 of Hooked on Emerson
Under STAY: The shop. Mom’s legacy. Familiar community. Comfort. Security. Emerson.
She paused at his name, the pen hovering above the paper. Was it fair to list him as a reason? He’d never asked her to stay for him, had explicitly told her not to make her decision based on his feelings. But he was a reason, perhaps the strongest one, whether she admitted it or not.
Under GO: Career growth. New challenges. Independence. Proving myself. Adventure. Freedom.
The words stared back at her, black against white, a simplification of the complex tangle of emotions that had been her constant companion for months. The list felt hollow somehow, inadequate to the task of capturing what was really at stake. It reduced everything to a transaction—give up this to get that, sacrifice security for adventure, trade connection for freedom.
She crumpled the paper, the crisp sound loud in the quiet shop, and tossed it toward the small trash can beside the counter. It missed, bouncing off the rim to land on the floor, a small white ball of indecision. She didn’t pick it up.
In the corner, a fresh sheet of paper caught her eye. It was another list, this one started yesterday and abandoned when a customer had interrupted. Two simple columns: WHAT I WANT and WHAT I FEAR. Both nearly empty, just the headings stark against the white. She had meant to fill it in, to truly examine her heart rather than just the practical considerations.
What did she want? Not what she thought she should want, not what others expected her to want, but what her heart truly desired?
She reached for the pen again, tapping it against the counter as she considered the question. The shop was silent around her, as if it too were waiting patiently. Sunlight had crept further across the floor, warming the boards beneath her feet. The clock ticked steadily, marking time that wouldn’t pause for her indecision.
Her phone buzzed on the counter with a reminder that her cab would arrive in an hour. She needed to finish here, to lock up, to be ready. The interview in Seattle was tomorrow morning. A hotel room waited for her, a car service arranged from the airport, a schedule of meetings with the design team and studio directors. All the pieces were in place for her to take this step, to explore the path that led away from Millfield.
She left the second list unfinished, tucking it into her pocket instead. Perhaps on the plane, in the neutral space between here and there, she would find clarity.
Ava gathered the small box in her arms again, its contents shifting slightly with the movement. The weight was manageable, but its significance felt enormous. These were pieces of her past, her connections, her heart held in cardboard and packing paper.
She made one final circuit of the shop, checking that everything was in order. The flowers in the cooler were fresh, nothing that would wilt before she returned. The register was closed, the day’s float locked in the small safe beneath the counter. The windows were clean, the displays arranged to catch the eye of passersby. Even with the CLOSED sign in the window, the shop would continue to speak to the town, to be a presence in her absence.
At the door, she paused, looking back at the space she had rebuilt after the pipe burst, after the storm, after her mother’s passing. It looked different now—stronger, refreshed, bearing the marks of her own vision rather than just her mother’s. The sage green trim that she and Emerson had chosen together. Thelavender mural they had painted side by side. The bench they had restored, the shelves he had built, the counter they had refinished.
It was still Bloom & Vine, still her mother’s legacy, but it had become something else too. Something that belonged to her, and to her choices, her future. Whether that future kept her here or led her elsewhere remained to be seen, but the shop itself was transformed. Just like her mother’s dried flowers, it was a different kind of beauty, but still beautiful.
She locked the door behind her, the key turning with a solid click that echoed in the quiet. The metal was cool against her palm. The street was beginning to wake—a few cars passing, early workers heading to jobs, the café down the block already sending the scent of fresh bread and coffee into the air. Millfield stirring to life around her as it did every day, reliable as sunrise.
Ava placed her suitcase and box in the trunk of her car. She’d decided to drive herself to the airport and leave her car in long-term parking. It felt better somehow, more like a round trip than a one-way journey. Less final.
After cancelling her cab, she slid into the driver’s seat, her eyes caught on something tucked into the visor—a small sprig of lavender, dried now but still fragrant. She didn’t remember putting it there, but the sight of it made her chest tighten. Had Emerson left it when he’d helped move flowers during the storm? Or had she absentmindedly tucked it there herself, a small talisman carried from the shop to her car?
She touched it gently, the dried buds crumbling slightly beneath her fingers, releasing their familiar scent. The scent of home, of her mother’s garden, of the mural she and Emerson had painted together, of the small bundle he’d given her that first day at the shop. It clung to her fingers as she started the car, a ghost of fragrance that followed her as she pulled away from the curb.
The “Closed” sign swung gently in the breeze as she drove away, the gold letters catching the morning light. In her rearview mirror, Bloom & Vine grew smaller, the blue awning and freshly painted trim receding until they disappeared around a corner. She kept her eyes on the road ahead, on the path that led out of town, toward the airport, toward Seattle and all it represented.
But the scent of lavender lingered in the car, and the unfinished list pressed against her hip, a quiet reminder of questions still unanswered, of decisions still unmade. Of a heart still uncertain which way to turn.
Seattle glittered with its glass towers catching sunlight and reflecting it back in dazzling fragments. Ava gazed out the wall of windows in the Seattle Floral Design Studio's reception area, the city spread before her like an offering. From this height—the twenty-third floor of a sleek downtown building—the streets looked like arteries, cars flowing through them in orderly patterns. Everything designed, everything purposeful.
Unlike Millfield, where roads curved along old creek beds and buildings clustered according to decades of small decisions rather than a master plan.
"Ms. Bennett?" A voice pulled her attention from the view. "They're ready for you now."
The receptionist named Mara, according to her sleek acrylic name tag, stood beside a set of frosted glass doors. Her black clothing was impeccably tailored, her hair pulled back in asevere knot that looked almost painful. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes, which remained coolly assessing.
"Thank you," Ava said, smoothing her hands down her dress. The fabric felt foreign against her skin, too structured, too formal. Not like the soft cotton aprons and casual clothes she wore at Bloom & Vine, where comfort mattered more than impression. But she'd chosen it carefully for this meeting, with its deep green that complemented her coloring. It was professional without being stuffy.
Mara led her through the doors into a large, open workspace. White walls, white floors, white lighting. The only color came from the flowers, all the arrangements displayed on pedestals like museum pieces, each one more architectural than organic. Stems bent at precise angles, blooms positioned with mathematical precision. No loose petals scattered the floor, no earthy scent hung in the air. The space smelled faintly antiseptic, with subtle notes of the city pollution that even twenty-three floors couldn't fully filter out.
"Our design floor," Mara explained, gesturing to the space. "Where concepts become reality."
Designers worked at white tables, heads bent over their creations. No one looked up as they passed, each absorbed in their task with single-minded focus. The room was eerily quiet. No music played, no casual conversation flowed between workstations. Just the occasional snip of scissors or rustle of paper.
At Bloom & Vine, there was always sound—the bell above the door, customers discussing occasions and meanings, the radio playing softly in the background. Sometimes Ava hummed while she worked, a habit inherited from her mother.
"We maintain a focused environment," Mara said, noting Ava's expression. "Creativity flourishes in the absence of distraction."
