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“Sounds great, man. Let me know.”
One backslapping bro hug later, we go our separate ways. I hop into my car, exit the lot, and speed down the road. My fingers twitch with the need to be in my studio. To bring the golden-haired beauty to life on paper or canvas.
Her image had faded in my mind’s eye. Not much, but enough. Tonight, though… I did all I could to memorize every angle of her supple skin and flushed cheeks. The way her locks escaped from the elastic and framed her face. How her cheeks rippled near the corners of her lips as she pushed them upward. The subtle arch of each brow as it highlighted her already ethereal appearance.
I park in the driveway, jump out, and stop myself from running inside. Not that I care what the neighbors think. Surely, they already find me peculiar. They wouldn’t be wrong, but I own my awkward nature. All artists are quirky in their own way.
I kick my shoes off at the door, weave through the house, and take the stairs two at a time. The closer I get to my studio, the stronger my pulse pounds. Scents of the earth filter through my nose—the fibrous sixty-pound sketch paper, the metallic tinge of graphite, the pungent, piney odor of turpentine. I inhale deeply as I step through the studio. Breathe in the smells so familiar and comforting.
Snatching a sketchbook from the long table along the wall, I go to the drafting table, sit down on the stool, and pick up my pencils on the side table. With ease, I sift through the sketchpad to the first blank page and run my palm down the endless possibilities.
Closing my eyes, I see her again. Beauty. Charm. Abundance. Sharp and soft angles. And a hint of melancholy.
That small dash of despair calls out to me. Begs me to bring it to life and set it free. Spill the hurt onto paper and release it from her soul.
I press the tip of the pencil to the paper and begin. In a matter of minutes, I already have the rough contours of her heart-shaped face and jaw definition. Hunching over the table, I shift the pad this way and that, over and over. I zone out. Let the art pull me in. Possess me and flow through my fingertips. With each line drawn, each stroke of a softer or harder lead, each brush of the pad of my finger to shade, I breathe easier.
It isn’t purely about bringing her to life with my fingers and a set of tools. It is about connection. A connection so foreign, yet so intimate. A connection I crave, yet don’t know how to manifest.
This woman wakes up the lost pieces of my soul. Stirs the biochemistry in my brain and paints it with color. Draws me into her orbit and locks me in with her gravity.
The scary part?
I want to stay there. In her bubble. In the one place I don’t have to imagine the twinkle in her dark, mysterious eyes. Or the subtle pout of her bottom lip. Or the sadness that emphasizes her stellar smile.
I want to stay in her bubble and never leave. Exist in her space and breathe her air. Stand at her side and lace my fingers with hers.
But I won’t. I can’t.
Being in anyone’s bubble isn’t in the stars.
Not for me. Not ever.
THREE
SHELLY
No placeI’d rather be than right here.
Petal and Vine wasn’t always my dream job, but I consider myself lucky to have this place. In a world full of craziness and uncertainty, standing in the middle of this florist shop gives me purpose and eases the stress in my life. Working here started off as an accident, but I don’t regret a day I walk through these doors.
Early junior year of high school, my aspirations lie in interior design. For homes and businesses alike. As far back as I recall, I had an eye for design and flow and symmetry. Oftentimes, I rearranged my bedroom when the air felt stagnant. Rearranged my clothes in the dresser and closet. Hung posters and photos in new places. In change, I discovered new life. Energy invisible to the naked eye, yet it made the hairs on my arm vibrate with intention.
On a Friday girls’ night, years ago at Cora’s house, her mom interrupted our hundredthLord of the Ringsmarathon. I didn’t mind, though. That girl and that movie—cue eye roll. Anyway… Elizabeth asked if we would help her at the shop the next day. She had a huge wedding order to fulfill and her employee called out sick. Like the good daughter and daughter’s friend, we obliged.
That was the day I learned to love all things floral related. It wasn’t only the natural perfume that woke me up, but also the way I could create something beautiful. How something so small and simple could bring a smile to someone’s face. Improve someone’s day with a gift. A single bloom or three dozen.
Working at Petal and Vine has been a long journey. I have worked here half my life. Literally. This career, this life, has gifted me so much over the years. Stress. Tears. Days when I wanted to throw in the towel. But also joy. Courage. Strength.
Most of all, opportunity.
In little more than a year, my name will appear as the owner of Petal and Vine. In a year, I will own a business. Elizabeth and I have gone over all the fine print little by little, so neither of us is overwhelmed by the transition. But this step is huge—for us both—and thrilling.
“Got another online order,” Elizabeth says as she steps up to the arrangement table.
I wiggle a dahlia between a fern stem and baby’s breath, then look at Elizabeth across the table. Without question, Cora is a younger, spitting image of her mother. Working with Elizabeth has been like working side by side with my best friend. With my family. Within the walls of Petal and Vine, it feels like home. Warm and comfortable and welcoming. Over the years, Elizabeth has transitioned from mother figure to boss to coworker to friend. But she instantly snaps back into mom mode when any of us needs that side of her. I count my lucky stars to have such a wonderful woman in my life.
No offense to my own mother. Nicole Reed is a lovely woman. Strong and brilliant and thoughtful. I wouldn’t be who I am today without her. She and Dad raised my brother and me in a loving environment. Taught us to go after our dreams and never give up.
