Page 73 of Stuck with Doctor Grump

By the time the competition hall emptied out for the night, my fingers were stained green and my jeans had acquired a second life as a walking mulch mat. The official schedule said setupended at eight. It was now creeping past ten, but I wasn’t done. Not even close.

“The Bloom After the Storm.” That was the name I scrawled in looping script on the little white card by my display. I stared at it for a second, then ripped it off and rewrote it in big, messy block letters instead. It fit better.

I stood back and took in what I had made.

It wasn’t a bouquet. It wasn’t even a traditional centerpiece. It was an experience—an immersive floral storm, wild and uncontained. Sunflowers bent sideways like they were caught in a gale. Delicate baby’s breath swirled in chaotic clusters, framed by branches that jutted in angles as if wind-stripped. Thistle, poppies, and lavender clashed in unexpected harmony. A cracked terracotta pot sat in the center, tilted and spilling a cascade of blooms onto a bed of moss like it had just weathered something mighty and was still standing.

Unpredictable. Vibrant. A little unhinged.

Just like me.

I adjusted one of the poppies, then stepped on a twist of ivy and almost faceplanted into my own display. Definitely like me.

As I steadied myself, I caught the sound of low voices on the far end of the room—two judges doing a walkthrough. I ducked behind a hanging vine curtain, pretending to be organizing supplies.

“That one,” a voice murmured, pausing a few feet away. “Booth seventeen. It’s… chaotic.”

A different voice replied, curious. “It’s risky. But compelling. Like it’s telling a story.”

My heart squeezed.

Risky. But compelling.

I’d take that. That was practically a standing ovation in this crowd.

I let the vine fall gently back into place and returned to my table, trying not to smile too hard. A few petals had fallen to the floor. I knelt to gather them, pressing each into my palm like they were lucky coins.

Compelling.

The word echoed in my head like an anthem.

That’s when my phone buzzed in my apron pocket. I pulled it out and saw Hazel’s name glowing on the screen.

I wiped my hands on my pants before answering. “Hey.”

“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” she said, practically vibrating through the speaker. “I saw the sneak peek you posted on your story. Ruby. You made an art installation that looks like the sky opened up and cried joy.”

I laughed, flopping down onto a crate. “It might also look like a floral tornado got drunk.”

“Well then, it’s your kind of tornado. The one that plants things instead of wrecking them.”

I looked over at my piece, and yeah. That was about right.

Hazel’s voice softened. “Listen… I know this isn’t just about impressing those judges.”

I swallowed hard, throat thick. “It’s about proving something to myself.”

“That you belong here?”

I nodded, even though she couldn’t see me. “Yeah.”

Hazel paused. “Ruby… you’ve always belonged. You don’t need their clipboard checkmarks to tell you that. But I know how it feels to want it anyway. So go get it. For you.”

I blinked up at the ceiling, eyes stinging. “Thanks, Haze.”

She huffed. “Don’t make me cry before bed, Shea. I have mascara on.”

I smiled, letting the silence stretch, the way it only can between best friends who’ve seen your weirdest and still cheer you on anyway.

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