Page 112 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

I glanced up at Damien. “Let’s try it this way. Just for now.”

His jaw clenched, but then he saw something in my face—maybe the same thing I saw in his on the porch that first night back. The effort. The exhaustion. The hope.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Fine. Let’s give the tribute garden a shot.”

Mr. Bennett made a note. “We’ll pause approval on the current blueprint pending the revised submission.”

The meeting wrapped soon after, Hazel practically skipping out the door like she’d just passed a final exam.

Damien and I walked in silence down the stone steps of town hall, the early autumn air crisp and scented with turning leaves.

“I know you want to fight every battle,” I said finally. “But sometimes, patience builds more than bulldozers ever could.”

He stopped walking, looked down at me.

“You were right,” he said quietly. “I got scared.”

“Of what?”

“That we’d lose this before it ever started.”

I stepped closer. “We’re not building a business, Damien. We’re building a life. There’s no rush to finish if we’re going to live in it.”

His hand found mine again, softer this time.

“Let’s revise the layout together,” he said.

“And add a plaque for the Hartwell homestead,” I added.

His lips twitched into a smile. “And maybe a footpath that spells out ‘Ruby was right.’”

I laughed. “Careful. I might take you up on that.”

As we walked back toward the construction site, past flower stands and neighbors waving from porches, the tension between us melted—not gone, but reshaped. Like the garden itself.

Not broken.

Just reimagined.

By the time we got back to the site, Damien was already halfway to the clinic. No goodbye. No see-you-tonight. Just a faint nod before he walked away, shoulders stiff like they carried more than just the weight of blueprints.

I stood there a moment, arms crossed against the late afternoon breeze, trying not to let my heart unravel. I knew him. I knew this part—the part that shut down, clamped tight like a storm shelter. When he felt too much, he folded into logic. Strategy. Solitude.

But this time, it stung more than I expected.

I turned toward the new layout, Eleanor’s sketch fluttering slightly in the wind where we’d pinned it to the bulletin board. Fifteen feet. That’s all we’d lost. But standing here, watching the sun dip over the field, it felt like I’d lost something more intangible. Control, maybe. Or the illusion of perfect harmony.

Hazel appeared beside me with two cups of cider and the expression of someone who’d seen enough emotional tailspins to recognize one forming in real time.

"You want the sweet version or the straight-up truth?" she asked.

"Just tell me what I did wrong," I murmured, wrapping both hands around the cider.

She took a slow sip. "You didn't do anything wrong, Ruby. You just expected love to be tidy. And Damien Cole doesn't come with neat corners."

I exhaled sharply. "I thought we were past this. That we knew how to fight without falling apart."

Hazel tilted her head. "Love isn’t always ease. It’s who shows up when the garden floods. When the permits fall through. When fifteen feet feels like fifteen miles."

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