Page 73 of Late Bloomer
“Your shock does amazing things for my ego.”
She ignores my sarcasm, eyes glazed over as she looks across the field, deep in thought.
“That could work,” she says after a few minutes, slipping back into reality. There’s an energy humming off her skin, a fresh batch of faith I’ve never seen on her before.
“Itwillwork,” I say, reaching out and booping her nose with my dirt-coated finger. It pulls a giggle from her.
“What will we make?” she asks, going back to her pruning.
“The theme is Love in Bloom, right? That’s fairly vague and cliché.”
We both harvest flowers in quiet contemplation for a few minutes.
“We could make a flower from the flowers?” Pepper throws out.
“That seems a bit… on the nose.”
Pepper shakes her head. “Ugh. I know. I have trouble not taking things literally.”
“What about a couple embracing? Bodies intertwined as they kiss? We could even create a bed of roses or something.”
She giggles like a little girl hearing the wordpenison the playground. “Too daring for the folks atSomething Blue,I imagine. We could do… uh… a big heart?” Pepper traces the shape in the air with her fingers.
“Okay. Well. We can keep thinking.”
She rips up a few blades of grass and tosses them at me.
“We could re-create various iconic Taylor Swift outfits. Nothing says love like Taylor Swift.”
“Aren’t a lot of her songs about heartbreak?”
“Absolutely do not get me started, Pepper,” I warn, leaning close with a menacing look. Her eyes widen. After a moment, I shoot her a wink.
I move to position myself farther down the row, but I stub my toe on a hidden rock in the process, letting out a tinyyipof pain.
“Are you okay?” Pepper says, darting to my side. Her eyes widen as she notices my bare feet. “Where are your shoes?” she scolds, fixing me with a stern look.
“Sorry, Mom,” I say, rubbing the joint.
Her scowl deepens. “You should always wear closed-toe shoes while gardening,” she says, eyes scouring over me like she’s trying to sniff out any other injuries I’ve suffered picking flowers.
“I’ll survive,” I tell her, laughing at her over-the-top concern.
After another moment of analysis, she pushes to stand. “Wait here.”
Before I can respond, she’s marching toward the house, hips swaying. I’ll admit it, I admire (ogle) the view.
The organ in my chest that shall not be named squeezes at the pure joy of spending time in the morning sun with Pepper.
Which is ridiculous.
And dangerous.
And not athing.
But as I look at the happy faces of the flowers next me, a silly, Pollyanna impulse has me picking one of the blooms and holding it close to my chest.
I pluck off a petal.
