Page 84 of Late Bloomer
With a sigh, I close my eyes and cover them with my hand. I hear her stifled squeal.
“Come with me,” she says, looping her fingers through mine, tugging me out of the house. She guides me down the porch steps—I don’t think she catches my tiny peek to make sure I don’t fall. I’m not about to risk a broken ankle in my attempts to humor her.
Hand firmly back over my eyes, I let her guide me across the grass, the earth still soggy as it bounces back from the storm.
“I’m kind of scared you’re going to hate it,” she says. “And I probably should have asked you first and I’ve second-guessed this decision for the past few hours but I went through all the trouble of getting Diksha to take you out all day so I could get them set up and—”
“Wait, what?” My hand pulls away, eyes flashing open,fixed firmly on her. “Diksha told me she had errands and wanted some company.”
Opal yips, diving forward and covering my eyes again.
With a growl, I push her back, using my own hand to do as she wants.
“I’m sorry, but I needed you gone for the surprise to work. I bribed her by promising to design a brand-new logo for her accounting firm and another for Tal’s flower shop, along with matching leather totes to get you out of the house by brute force if need be.”
That dirty traitor. “Why did you want me gone so badly?”
I don’t like being messed with. I still follow where her hand guides me, palm warm against my lower back.
“The surprise,” she says like this should be obvious and my questions are ridiculous. “Okay. We’re here.”
We stop walking. From muscle memory, I can tell we’ve walked beyond the barn, an area that’s generally cleared out, the sun often too harsh and direct to cater to a lot of the flowers I grow. Opal must step in front of the sun, the red glow behind my eyelids replaced with an inky blue. I feel her heat as she leans toward me, angling my body a bit.
She steps away, and I have to check the impulse to pull her back to me.
“Open your eyes.”
With a sigh, I slide my palm away from my face, blinking at the sharp sunshine. A bright and glowing reflection makes my eyes water, and I squint at the two large structures standingbefore me. My eyes skim over and over them, but my brain can’t process what I’m actually seeing.
“W-what’s this?” I say, turning to Opal. She’s staring straight at me.
“For someone that spends ninety percent of her working hours growing things, I really thought you’d be able to identify a greenhouse.” She shifts her weight, leg bouncing again.
“No. I mean, what’s it doing here?” I spin around to the buildings, then back to her again, blinking rapidly.
“It’s a gift.” The last word is soft. Breathy. Nervous.
“A gift for who?”
She lets out a rough laugh, takes a step closer, one hand rubbing across the back of her neck. “For you,” she says with a shrug. “Or, I guess, us. To grow more flowers. Together.”
I’m silent, trying to understand her. This. What it all means.
“Only if you want to, I mean,” Opal babbles, moving away. “It turns out Bruce the Contractor’s business does greenhouses and hoop houses too. And we got to talking about it and I thought… hell, I don’t know. I thought it might help.”
My jaw dangles open as I continue to stare at her. Slowly, I turn to the large, gorgeous greenhouses placed behind my barn, their pointed roofs reaching toward the sky. “How can you afford this?” I whisper, taking a step toward them.
“Well… while I did tie up most of my money in this place, winning the lottery gave me a little bit of disposable income. Plus, Bruce saw some of my shoes and I told him I’d make hiswife three pairs, each with their dogs on them, if he’d give me a little discount. Can’t pass up an opportunity to put some dogs on some salty dogs.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I say, my throat squeezing tight at the rush of gratitude and longing that floods my system, something like hope ebbing through my veins, creating a subtle ache, soft and shimmering and somehow sweet in the pain.
“There’s a bit more,” Opal says, cracking her fingers. “Come inside.”
She leads the way into the closest greenhouse, and it takes me a few moments to process that it’s already filled with blooming flowers. I swallow a gasp, moving in a trance to the center of the space.
Six rows of pallet benches line the building, stretching down about ten feet. They’re covered in plants—dahlias and poppies and aster—the joyful blossoms tilting their faces to the light shining in through the glass roof.
“Opal,” I whisper, whipping around, needing to see her face in the midst of so much beauty. So many words fight at the tip of my tongue. Beautiful words. Happy words. Thankful words. But all that comes out is “How?”
