Chapter 10 Chryssy
Chapter 10
CHRYSSY
Y ou two looked like you were fresh out of the rain scene of The Notebook ,” Auntie Violet observes. She pinches my phone screen and zooms in. “Still cute even when drenched. What a fun day.”
I can’t tell if she’s referencing me or Vin in the photo. By the time we rowed the boat back to shore, we were soaked through. Vin in pink was admittedly cute. Vin in see-through pink was… an image I shouldn’t be thinking about.
“The event went well,” I reflect. “Maybe too well.”
It didn’t take long for Vin’s Flavor of the Week–type articles to make their way around the internet. Having only been an observer of famous people and their love lives, it’s surreal being written about.
Between the Soar for Strings event and Poppy’s livestream blowing up on social media, In Full Bloom has been getting hundreds of website hits, along with a surprise jump in preorders. It’s not a slow trickle. The orders are pouring in. It was the last scenario I could’ve anticipated.
If orders continue at this rate, our entire inventory will be wiped out, and there won’t be enough for customers to buy on Day One.
Auntie Violet and I are visiting flower farms in a quest to source another partner for our teas so we can build up our inventory as soon as possible. Because we can only grow so much in our own garden, we rely on other small farms for the bulk of our flowers.
The other two farms we’ve visited have already committed this year’s flowers to florists and wedding planners but were open to discussions for future partnerships.
We have more roses and chamomile than chrysanthemums, which has quickly become the most popular flower of the three. And because chrysanthemums usually bloom at the end of summer or in early fall, even if we could find another partner, this year’s batch won’t be dried and packaged in time for June’s launch. We’ll only have what we’ve grown at the inn and from the other flower farms we currently work with.
Beth, the owner of Salty Stems, a small, family-owned farm in Bellingham, Washington, ends her call and redirects her attention to us. “Sorry, wedding season. It gets busy. What were you saying about the process, Violet?” she asks.
“When the flowers bloom, they need to be handpicked and washed and dried,” Auntie Violet repeats.
So far, Beth and her farm sound promising. Sitting on just over twenty-five acres of land, Salty Stems broke ground several years ago. Rows of hundreds of nearly bloomed flowers surround us, their purple, orange, pink, and yellow buds resembling nature’s kaleidoscope.
While Auntie Violet continues explaining our packaging process to Beth, I allow myself to get swept up in the sea of peachy orange and pink anemones, ranunculus, sunflowers, and peonies.
These flowers are breathtaking, but better yet, they’re consistent. While each flower is uniquely its own, the growth is harmonious with one another in their color, sizing, and quantity. All things that we’re looking for so we can live up to having the word “trustworthy” in our mission statement.
I imagine what the polytunnel will look like when the temperatures drop and the chrysanthemums bloom in the fall, their vibrant petals exploding in color. Ever since moving to the inn, I’ve been astounded by how something so visually stunning can also hold so much goodness. People have been drinking chrysanthemum tea for thousands of years, and its medicinal properties have been documented as early as the Han Dynasty. With their cooling properties, chrysanthemums clear heat, restore balance, reduce inflammation and blood pressure, and are a powerful antioxidant. And then some. It never ceases to amaze me how healing nature can be.
I turn back to Auntie Violet and Beth when I hear my name—and not the flower we’ve been talking about all afternoon—intentionally called.
“Beth’s grabbing her notebook to take down information,” Auntie Violet says, filling me in. “I like the look of these. You know what else I liked the look of?”
“The way Beth designed the greenhouse entrance? Because that was elega—”
“You and Vin. If I didn’t know either of you, I’d think you were really dating,” she says. “Very natural. Especially with that kiss.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks at the memory of it. “He’s definitely unexpected,” I say.
“Unexpected? What’s that mean?” Auntie Violet asks, leaning in. “I need details!”
“You know I don’t kiss and tell,” I reply jokingly, “but he’s a lot more complex than the media gives him credit for. And more than I ever thought.”
“Details!” Auntie Violet cries.
“Okay, geez. I’ll say that the man has excellent oral hygiene. I’ll leave it at that.”
Auntie Violet looks impressed by this. “He does have a wonderful smile,” she says. “That was some excellent acting from you two. I was very convinced.”
I turn away from her. “Good. That was the point.”
The day after the Dragon Boat Festival, I learned that my aunties—including Auntie Rose, who insisted she had to be involved to advocate for me—had decided to fully immerse themselves in our fake-dating plan.
The potting shed has been temporarily renamed the Plotting Shed, a makeshift headquarters for my aunties to document our dates. They even repurposed their treasured corkboard used for meticulously tracking flower- and herb-growing timelines.
A printed-out photo of our kiss in Vegas has been pinned up, complete with hand-drawn arrows and commentary for what we could improve to strengthen the believability.
Arrow one led to my hand on Vin’s chest with the words, “Hand placement should be closer to the heart to look less strangle-y.”
Arrow two pointed directly at Vin’s scrunched forehead and read, “Should not look like he’s mad about kissing Chryssy.”
Arrow three pointed to our feet.
“Look at the way their toes are pointed toward each other,” Auntie Violet had said. “Body language experts say that this means the two people are interested in each other. Good attention to detail.”
I’d been surprised to see the second pinned-up photo from Vegas that lacked annotations. We’re standing with the group watching other musicians make their descents, standing close together and trading grins. Still riding that adrenaline high, most likely. I hadn’t realized we were being photographed, but we look genuinely happy and just the right amount of intimate. We sold that fake date more than I thought we would’ve.
It’s officially a family affair but ultimately a useless endeavor. Our deal is done.
“So now what?” Auntie Violet asks.
“For me and Vin? Nothing,” I tell her as we stroll down a new row. “Well, one more thing. He needs to break up with me.”
“Right when things started taking off,” Auntie Violet says. “Too bad.”
“We hardly have enough flowers for the preorders we’ve received, let alone for the few store orders that have come in. I don’t think we need more exposure.”
As I say this, I’m looking at an orange tulip that’s held on long past its bloom, and because my brain recalls the most random information at the most random times, I think of tulip mania. Not because we’re going to cause an economic collapse with our product, or that we’ll even charge high amounts for it, but because now there’s a spike in demand for our product, which is the entire point of our dating plan, and there’s not enough for customers. Worry expands in me like a dried flower bud in hot water.
“Do you think this was a mistake?” I ask Auntie Violet, who looks totally at ease among the flowers.
“Is this because of the kiss? I’ll admit I was worried at first,” she says.
“What? No, I’m asking if it was a mistake trying to get exposure when we clearly weren’t ready for it.”
“No one could’ve predicted how powerful your impact would be,” Auntie Violet says, patting my hand.
“We need to talk about adding a fourth flower,” I say.
“We are not launching with four teas,” Auntie Violet says firmly. “Four is unlucky. We’ll need to launch with five flowers if we do increase it.”
“So now we need to find chrysanthemums and two more flowers? How are we going to do that?” I ask as my auntie’s previous words catch up to me. “Wait, what were you worried about? The kiss?”
Auntie Violet pulls the quarter of her heart necklace between her fingers. “It just seems that it would be hard to kiss a man like that and not develop some sort of feelings. I don’t want to see you hurt. For real, that is.”
“Don’t worry about me. It’s over now,” I reassure her. “It was just a kiss.”
Somehow, this doesn’t feel true when I say it.
I reach forward to twist the stem of a peony, the swirling pink petals creating an optical illusion. But there’s a bigger illusion at play here. Any unknowing viewer would focus on the peonies’ pretty pastel colors and their puffy, delicate, multilayered ring of petals. What they may not know, though, is that it’s belowground where the magic happens for this flowering plant. They’re known more widely as common peonies, but Chinese peony roots contain powerful healing properties: liver detoxification, anti-inflammation, improved mental and emotional clarity.
Maybe, in this case, I’m the unknowing viewer looking at this moment without the full knowledge of what it means. Is there something deeper here with a root system that will do me some good? Could the hype around Vin and me “dating” each other lead to a broader conversation about TCM and our work holistically? Or will I just find more dirt?
My phone buzzes in my bag with a text from Rita.
Rita (2:36 p.m.): I couldn’t be your ambassador, but I could still help in my small way. xoxo RS
I have zero guesses as to what this could mean, so I don’t attempt to entertain any. I tap into the attached link that takes me to a Vanity Fair article featuring Rita’s son’s Prodigy Party. The first image is a compilation of the four different seasons that all took place in her backyard.
I scroll past quotes from the party planner and vendors who went to extra lengths to make sure the seasons were never to be forgotten.
Tucked between classical music playlist recommendations and photos of reconstructed flower fields and custom snow sculptures are quotes from Rita revealing the effort that went into organizing a party on this scale.
She’s also talking about me.
This was so much more than a party. It was a celebration of natural musical talent, forming community, and strengthening existing bonds, both platonically and romantically. Chrysanthemum and Vin met here! In fact, I was the one to formally introduce them.
Rita reveals that she came to the Wildflower Inn to heal heartbreak, an admission guests are technically allowed to make on their own. It’s a lovely shout-out.
And then I keep reading.
Chrysanthemum healed my heartbreak. She’s my Heartbreak Herbalist. That’s what she and her aunties do there. Soon they’ll be releasing a flower tea line, In Full Bloom, so if you’re looking for a little heart-soothing tonic in your life, look no further. And who knows? Maybe Chrysanthemum will heal Vin’s heartbreaking ways once and for all.
Before I can marvel at the free advertising handed to us on a silver platter from our A-list former client, I need to have a mild freak-out. Preferably with someone.
I fast-walk over to Auntie Violet, who’s wandered out of the greenhouse. I apologize to a daffodil I nearly trample trying to catch up to her, and thrust my phone into Auntie Violet’s hands. She squints at my phone screen, reading the highlighted section I point out.
As I wait impatiently for her to finish, my stomach flips at the feeling of people reading these articles and forming opinions about me. About what we do. Already I can hear comments people might make. It’s been a week, and I’m not sure I like the feeling of being perceived. Is this how Vin has felt his entire life?
Auntie Violet looks pleased. “Can you print that out? I’d like to put that up on the board. The Heartbreak Herbalist. That’s good!”
“We don’t fix heartbreakers. We help heal the symptoms of heartbreak,” I say to an audience of one who is the last person who needs to hear this. “It’s an oversimplification.”
Auntie Violet flaps a hand at me. “It’s a sound bite.”
“In Vanity Fair !” I reread the article. We don’t actively capitalize on heartbreak. We only address it when heartbreak symptoms present themselves. And we don’t focus on one part of the body exclusively.
Also! This isn’t about me. But I can’t believe our brand is being talked about by Rita Sharpe. This placement is huge.
“This will help Vin and Leo, too,” I say, my mind whirring. They officially sold out of Colosseum tickets as of this morning, but there are still a few stadiums to fill.
“It should. And the good news is that the Chaobreakers care about you two,” Auntie Violet shares. “Though the majority are curious what the breakup album will sound like.”
Strangely, I feel sad hearing this. They’ve already assumed the worst of Vin. Yes, it’s his reputation, but there’s so much they don’t know about him.
“It’s too soon to know how this will all turn out,” Auntie Violet says. “But we’ve never had this much awareness before. Who knows? This might help us expand faster.”
“Especially if we can secure these flower farms and make back the money we put in,” I reason. “But what happened to keeping the business manageable?”
The aunties and I have all felt the scales of balance tip toward burnout. No one’s trying to work eighty-hour weeks again.
“I know we never planned for this level of exposure, but this is new territory,” Auntie Violet says. “Wildflowers are adaptable. We can be, too. Let’s spread as much beauty as we can, while we can.”
There’s something to what Auntie Violet’s saying. Chances for explosive growth like this don’t come around every day. Normally, we’re bound to nature’s timing.
And people like Vin don’t come around every day.
Auntie Violet rests her hand on my shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. “Chryssy, we have a lead for chrysanthemums, a shout-out in Vanity Fair from Rita Sharpe, of all people, you just got a catchy nickname, and your arm candy is Vin Chao.”
“Temporary arm candy,” I correct.
She nods slowly. “Still. I’m failing to see any reason why you should have that look on your face right now.”
I relax my expression. “I didn’t expect so many things to go right all at once. Even good problems are problems.”
Auntie Violet raises her eyebrows at me as she pulls her long hair back into a low ponytail. “If you have to deal with it either way, it might as well be good. Sometimes, when it rains, it really does pour. That doesn’t only apply to bad things.”
A thought tickles the edge of my brain: Is this the peak bloom before all our petals start to wilt and fall off? I can’t worry about the pending droop. If this is the moment, I need to maximize it.
“Daisy told me we have two thousand new followers on Instagram, and the wait list has grown every day. We’re booked out through the rest of the year,” Auntie Violet shares. “You’re not going to hear me complaining.”
Out of curiosity, I pull up the listening stats on my podcast. There’s triple the number of subscribers, which isn’t saying much considering what it’s been, but it’s something.
“We’ll take it day by day,” Auntie Violet says. “The press is hot right now, but that won’t always be the case. Tomorrow, we’ll be wishing we had more of it once something new takes over. If anything, enjoy being the Heartbreak Herbalist for the day.”
“You’re right. We could use this moment,” I say, twisting my earring. “Oh! I sold the engagement ring Chris gave me. We can use that money for more packaging.”
Auntie Violet hums in response. “The diamond, huh?”
“One of the few times heartbreak has helped me,” I say half-heartedly.
Auntie Violet delicately runs her fingertips over the thin, long petals of a bright yellow sunflower. “After the week you’ve had, you and Vin deserve a break. Invite him to come clamming tomorrow,” she suggests. “Leo’s going. We want to get him out on the water, feel the sand between his toes. A little nature could be good for Vin, too.”
I can’t disagree with this. Vin could use a break.
I text Vin a clamming invite and toss my phone into my bag, then follow Auntie Violet across the field to a waving Beth.
“Sorry that took so long. Got another phone call about an order,” Beth says. “We run a small operation here. A few florists expressed interest in showcasing mums for their fall weddings, but historically they haven’t been too popular, so you might be in luck. Let me follow up. If they don’t want ’em, they’re yours.”
We thank Beth for her time, and she sends us off with a bouquet of freshly cut marigolds that we’ll wash, dry, and taste-test at the inn. Perhaps one day—maybe sooner than we planned—they’ll join the In Full Bloom lineup.
I rub my thumb over the marigold’s ruffled, golden petals. I don’t know what’s coming. All I know is that when a fake-dating plan works and a famous actress wants to call me a Heartbreak Herbalist, well, maybe I should take the wins where I can.