Page 14 of Late Bloomer
Winters are seasons of rest. But this past one was my first without Grandma Lou. My first time living without her.
Rest was never an option.
I took on any and every task, keeping my hands moving and my brain ferociously focused on anything to avoid beingalone with my thoughts, and my grief, for even a minute. I supplemented the farm’s revenue by spending the winter digging in the frozen ground, harvesting (way too late, as any YouTube video will scold you) bulbs and tubers of our flowers and selling them online. It didn’t rake in much money, but it did leave me cold and exhausted enough each day that it was well worth it.
But with the spring sun digging its warm fingers into the soil, the season of searching for ways to be busy is done, and harvesting is here. It’s early mornings and sore knees and cramped muscles as I move through row after row of flowers, cutting the stems deep so they’ll bloom again. And I love it. I love the ache in my neck after a long day bent over the blossoms, the crescents of dirt perpetually under my fingernails despite wearing gloves.
Diksha sighs through pursed lips. “Well, Tal and I are here to help you. However you need,” she says, pulling away.
“I know,” I respond, meaning it. Diksha and her partner, Tal, are probably the only two people left on the planet that I can rely on. But just because Icandoesn’t mean Iwill. Trusting others—hell, even trusting myself—feels as unnatural as driving in reverse on a highway. It can only lead to disaster.
I grew up around people so disturbingly toxic, there’s no way I’m not equally as damaging. If I allow myself to get too close to someone, I’ll hurt them. It’s in my DNA.
“I’ll figure it out,” I add, giving Diksha a tense smile.
Diksha rolls her eyes and pats my cheek. “What a stunningly convincing performance of bravado.”
“Don’t make me kick you off my property,” I say, snapping my tea towel at Diksha, a more genuine smile tugging at my lips.
“Tsk, tsk. So much grumpiness from someone that looks like they stepped out of a cottagecore Pinterest board. Pick a lane, Pepper.” Diksha grabs the sprig of chamomile from the front pocket of my dungarees and twirls it between her fingers.
“I don’t know what any of that means,” I say, snatching the small flowers from her and gingerly placing them back in my pocket. I shoo her toward the door.
Diksha cackles. “You’re getting way too out of touch with lesbian subtypes. You need to brush up.”
“I’ll make sure to prioritize that right between brushing my teeth and saving the farm from bankruptcy.”
“Atta babe,” Diksha says, bouncing down the porch steps and getting into her truck. “There’s hope for you yet.”
I wave as Diksha peels out of the long dirt driveway, disappearing into the wall of pines that protects the property from the road.
And then there’s nothing but perfect spring silence curling around me. The crisp scent of cold air and warm earth soothes my clouded brain, letting peacefulness weave its way in.
Wrapping my arms around myself, I move down the porch steps and into a row of ranunculi, the swollen pink and yellow and orange buds flirting with the potential to bloom any day now. A sharp gust of wind nips at my cheeks, and I nestle my chin into the warmth of my thin, loose turtleneck. I love this time of day, the mottled lilac of dusk dancing over the hopefulgreen growth of the flowers, the way nature seems to settle in, ready to face the night ahead.
I spent most of my childhood whisked from one place to the next. Motel rooms and beat-up cars and countless couches of my mom’s revolving-door boyfriends all condensed into a blurry streak of unpredictability and confusion.
But none of that disastrous uncertainty ever touched the Thistle and Bloom. Spring, summer, autumn, or winter, it was the first place I ever found comfort. As a teenager, I’d walk for hours across the fields, sometimes untangling a thorny thought or losing myself to the beauty of this place and thinking of nothing at all. And, even now, the perfect hush that falls among the rows of baby sprouts and full-grown flowers always recharges me.
How long will it take before I stop expecting a tight hug from Grandma Lou after one of these walks?
I scrub away a silly stray tear. I’m fine. I don’t need one of those hugs to survive. I don’t need anything from anyone.
The sudden grinding of an engine breaks through the peaceful silence… probably Diksha returning for some forgotten item. With a sigh, I walk back toward the cabin, the grass—in desperate need of mowing—whispering against my shoes with each step.
But it isn’t Diksha’s truck parked in front of the cabin.
It’s a dinged-up silver car.
With a short, pink-haired woman standing beside it, her arms full of… shoes?
I squint at her.
Those are definitely shoes… Like, an absolutely ridiculousamount of white shoes in a giant mesh bag clutched to her chest?
The woman sighs wistfully as she looks at my home, something like longing falling across her features as she smiles.
I don’t like that look one bit.
