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Other plants were hardier, built to withstand even the harshest conditions, and they thrived no matter how rough you treated them. These plants adapted to the world around them and forced their way through, bursting from even the darkest corners and neglected areas no matter how hard you tried to stomp them down.
Of course, those were the ones that were typically considered weeds; the plants that people tried to eradicate because they didn’t fit the preferred aesthetic. The plants that no one wanted, no matter how beautiful their flowers may turn out in the end.
All my life, I had tried to be the orchid, but it turned out I was nothing but a weed.
“It’s alright,” I said out loud, setting down the spray bottle and turning to survey the room. “Sometimes weeds just need to figure out their place. Then they grow so fast and so strong, no one can stop them.”
“I’ve never had a problem with weeds,” came a deep voice behind me, and I jumped as I spun to look at the door.
Asher stood there, his face shadowed where he was half in and half out of the room. I could see him studying me, trying to gauge which way my mood was going to swing, but at the moment, all I had to offer him was defeat.
“Weeds get a bad rap,” I said, reaching out to brush my fingers along the thick, spiny limb of an aloe vera plant. “Just because they’re strong, people think they don’t belong.”
Asher moved, taking a slow step into the room. He looked so good, standing there in those jeans that looked like they were broken in just right, hands laying loose by his side. It almost hurt to look at him, knowing I had probably screwed whatever this was between us up bad enough that he’d run.
They always ran.
“In my experience,” he said slowly. “Being strong isn’t a bad thing. Being strong means that when things get hard, you don’t quit.”
“Being strong also means that sometimes, when others bend, you break.”
“You don’t look broken to me, Ricki.”
“Sometimes I feel broken,” I whispered, hating that I even said it out loud. Turning around, I switched my focus to the pot on the shelf behind me, running my finger over the delicate red petals of the last of its season’s blooms.
Asher didn’t say anything in response, but I could feel his gaze on me like a physical thing, and a shiver ran up my spine that I tried my hardest to suppress. After a moment, he came to stand beside me, and I could feel the heat of his body even through his shirt. Asher had always been like that, though—warm and welcoming. He had no frosty barriers between him and the world, nothing stopping someone from getting close out of sheer terror at what they’d say when they finally saw him.
I, on the other hand, was stone cold. Frosty and standoffish, preventing anyone from even having a chance to really get to know me because I was used to people not liking what they found when they did.
“Tell me about this one,” Asher said, startling me out of my dire thoughts. I looked at what he was touching, smiling when I saw him gently cradling the shiny leaf in one big hand.
“Black Cardinal,” I responded automatically. “Member of the Philodendron family. It’s pretty small now, but it will get fairly large leaves if it’s given a chance.”
“Hmmm,” was all he said. “And this one?”
“Oh, that’s just an aloe vera.”
“The one that you use for cuts and stuff?”
“Yeah,” I said hesitantly. “I don’t like to cut them if I can help it, though.” Reaching out to touch the small, spiky plant between us, I pet it lovingly. “Even plants can carry scars.”
The words hung in the air between us, their meaning clear even if we were both content to ignore them for now.
Finally, Asher moved on to another plant in my room, this one a little more dramatic looking, with green leaves and bright red flowers. The same one I had been touching earlier.
“And this one? It’s got some serious weaponry on it,” he remarked curiously, fingers dancing along the large and wicked looking spikes that grew along the woody stems. “What’s it called?”
“That’s a Crown of Thorns. And it’s not a weapon,” I said indignantly. “The plant doesn’t attack. It is not out to actively hurt anyone. Its spikes are purely defensive.”
“You don’t have to be defensive with me, Ricki,” Asher whispered, placing his fingers under my chin and turning my head to look at him. “I won’t hurt you.”
“You can’t promise that,” I protested. “No one can promise that.”
“You’re right; I can’t. But I can promise that I will never actively set out to hurt you. That I will never give you a reason to doubt my intentions. And that I’ll always be honest with you, about everything.”
Looking at him, seeing the way his eyes shone with his promise, I wanted to believe him.
But history had proven to me that sometimes, even the most well-intentioned promises could lead to disaster.
