Page 11 of Late Bloomer
I get that—the raw frustration of giving as much of yourself to others as you can in the hopes they accept you. Want you. Death by one thousand naive cuts.
“But what makes it all worth living”—Trish continues, reaching her hand across the table to take mine, her touch warm and comforting—“is seeing good things happen to good people. You’re a giver, Opal. I can tell. One of those beautiful souls, like an angel walkin’ around down here, spreading kindness to others, reminding us of the good in the world. That’s why I’m so willing to hand over the Thistle and Bloom to you.You’re a good one, and that slice of heaven dressed up as a farm is a good place for a good person.”
I’m so moved by her speech, the crack in her voice, that a rogue tear rolls down my cheek.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t keep it for yourself?” I whisper. “You deserve something good too.” I’d hand over the fantasy I’ve built of that place to see someone as kind as Trish happy.
“Ah, sugar, my time with it has more than passed. And while I’m devastated to part with this place that means so much to me, I have no other choice but to let it go.”
My brows furrow, head tilting to the side in question.
Trish looks at me for a moment, then purses her lips, eyes flicking away, color creeping up her cheeks. “It ain’t easy to admit—like I said, I hate money talk and whatnot—but I’m low on funds.”
Trish pulls her hand away from me, leaning back in her chair. She scratches her nose, then tries to discreetly wipe it on her sleeve. “Running from a no-good boyfriend, you see. Find myself in a bind once again.”
She watches a white plastic grocery bag roll across the parking lot, face cracking in hurt. I’m full-on crying now.
“But it’ll be my fresh start,” she says at last, taking in a shaky breath before fixing me with a wobbly but genuine smile. “No one believes in me, but I do. You’re giving me my chance, Opal. A good person like you, buying this land, allowing me to pay off my debts, have enough to take care ofmefor once, is the greatest blessing I could have ever hoped for. I’m thankful for you, sugar.”
I’m so overwhelmed by the resilience in Trish’s voice, the determination etched on her features, that I’m tempted to hand over my winnings for nothing. Someone like her, someone who’s always struggled even while doing good, deserves a windfall more than anyone.
But I want to honor her, learn from her lessons, get my fresh start right alongside her. I reach into my purse, pulling out my checkbook.
“What’s your last name?” I ask, clicking my pen.
Trish’s smile is watery, and she lets out a tiny hiccup as she speaks. “Boden.”
I fill out the check (which I had to google how to do before I left home this morning). I hover over the amount box, gaze bouncing to Trish, who’s delicately blotting her eyes with a napkin.
I add an extra ten grand to the total, signing my name and ripping it out of the booklet with a flourish.
“To our fresh starts,” I say, sliding it across to her. She glances at the number, eyes bulging.
“Sugar, you sure about that?”
I wave away her question.
She gets up, rounding the table to wrap me in a bear hug, crying her thanks against my shoulder. As I hug her back, I see a small yellow balloon rapidly rising toward the clouds, my heart following a similar path. It’s a sign. A tiny, perfect sign from the universe that I am doing the exact right thing.
Chapter 4OPAL
“You didwhat?”
“I bought a farm!” I cheer, throwing my hands to the sky and jumping up and down in my parents’ living room. “A flower farm!”
“What the fuck is a flower farm?” Ophelia asks.
“That sounds completely made-up,” Olivia adds.
“Opal, angel, tell me this is a prank,” my mom, Linda, says, as my sisters and dad continue to gape at me.
“It’s not,” I say in a singsong, twirling over to boop my mom on the nose. “I saw it on Facebook Marketplace and I called the number and then we met up and I signed the contract and—”
“Facebook?”Olivia shrieks. “You bought land on Facebook?Is that even like, legally binding?”
“I, uh, I have the deed?” I say, a twinge of worry starting in my chest. I glance at my dad, but he’s still gaping at me, face ashen.
“Do you know literally anything about flower farming? Or any type of farming?” Ophelia asks, eyes wide like an owl.
