Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
HAPPILY EVER DURING
Arden
We're surrounded by boxes in our new apartment, which is how it happens. Moving toward the kitchen windowsill, I nearly trip over the small box on the ground and in slow motion, my hands are suddenly empty. The small pot tumbling through air but my hands don’t move fast enough to save him. The hollow crack against hardwood can be heard throughout our box-filled apartment, dirt exploding in a tragic halo around my feet. The sharp, fresh scent of crushed basil leaves rises up like a final goodbye.
For a moment, I just stare at my betraying hands, still curved around the ghost of the pot that had become part of my morning routine, coffee brewing, basil check, emails.
"BARRY!" I hear myself yell. I drop to my knees, in part due to the dramatics, but also to begin to address the crime scene of potting soil and shattered dreams.
Will comes running in, his hands full of a box of his own which he sets down on the counter as he rushes to my side.
"I've done so well, he’s survived all this time." Almost a year of careful watering, of searching 'why are basil leaves turning yellow' at midnight, of feeling stupidly proud every time a new leaf unfurled, of waking up to him bigger than the day before, all ended by one clumsy moment between refrigerator and counter.
While all the other additions to the ‘Plant-City-Rollers’, the latest plant-band, eventually moved on, as they say. Barry has survived. He's been my constant through late-night cooking experiments, he survived our first fight, just like we did , witnessed countless morning coffees, countless bottles of champagne. Even got a counter-mate with an apothecary jug of collected corks that Will has been collecting since that very first. It feels so much more symbolic than just a little plant because he's been our unofficial timekeeper. Measuring our relationship in new leaves and growth spurts.
And a lot has changed in that time. It’s like all the pieces have fallen into place, or they’ve ended in the spots on the board where we’ve moved them. I took the promotion, Will finalized his transition to Sterling-in-name-only, giving himself the freedom from family pressure. And since then, we've been talking about expanding our family, a dog, obviously . It was one of the things we discussed when moving in together. Getting a friend for Barry.
My hands hover over the wreckage, not quite ready to start cleaning up, as if leaving it might somehow undo it. The soil is still dark and moist from this morning's watering, Barry’s last, as it turns out.
“I failed.” But his hand is splayed across my back rubbing soothingly the ache that I feel at the loss.
"Darling," Will says in a deeply gentle voice. He’s kneeling beside me, as I lay my head on our touching shoulders. "That's not the same basil plant."
The words take a moment to process and suddenly my head is off his shoulder and whipped around to his face.
"What?!"
"That plant died about a month after we brought it home.” He drags his fingers across his mouth containing the rest of it until I say something more.
“Well…” as my hands scoop up not-Barry’s soggy roots “who is this then?”
He starts gathering the larger pieces of pot, his movements careful and methodical.
“ That would be Barry the…” he looks up to the ceiling as his eyebrows knit together, fingers ticking through invisible numbers. I watch his face cycle through concentration, calculation, and finally, sheepish admission. "Barry the Seventh," he says finally.
“SEVENTH?! The betrayyyal… the basiltrayal !” I stare at him, this man who shows his love in such unexpected ways, and suddenly everything clicks, the plants mysterious resilience, how it never quite got too leggy despite my haphazard pruning, its ability to bounce back from my occasional neglect. Let’s not forget how I would constantly say things like ‘Barry, you look like a new plant today!’ Turns out. It was.
"You had just been so proud of keeping it alive, so I bought an identical one and replanted it in the same pot. I've been secretly replacing them whenever they start to look rough. The garden center knows me by name now."
"Will..."
"Actually," he continues, a flush creeping up his neck, "once I didn’t have time to re-pot it, and you didn’t even notice!"
"You've just been running an underground basil replacement operation," I gasp between fits of laughter that bubbles up unexpectedly and unstoppable, shaking my shoulders and rattling my heart as his joins in.
He shrugs, looking adorably embarrassed but equally proud.
I sit back on my heels, wiping tears, formed from laughter and something else, from my eyes.
Once we’ve cleaned it up together, he stands and dusts off his hands, reaching out for mine.
“Grab your shoes,”
“Where are we going?”
“Time for you to meet my supplier… let’s go pick out Barry the Eighth.” I take his hand and try not to think about how many times he must have made this trek alone, just to keep my illusion of gardening competence alive.
"And maybe get some rosemary too. Though I expect full disclosure on any future plant casualties."
"Deal," he says, squeezing my hand twice.