Chapter 18 Vin
Chapter 18
VIN
W hen it comes to artichoke hearts, Chryssy’s anything but delicate.
She scoops one out a little too aggressively, and it flies across the counter and lands at Goji’s feet. He sniffs the heart and hops away.
“Why are you throwing food at Goji?” I ask, stepping fully into the kitchen. I immediately notice that she’s eating her comfort food.
“Oh, hey,” Chryssy says, turning her phone over. “Done practicing? You’ve been at it all day.”
I push my hand through my hair. “Did I wake you this morning?”
“I caught the last bit,” she says, the corner of her lips turning up. “Way better than my phone alarm.”
“I had some energy to get out,” I explain, pointing toward the teapot on the counter. “I was hoping I could get some… tea.”
“Is that a new type of coffee?” she asks.
I grunt. “Ha ha. I don’t want to be jittery for the rest of the day.”
Chryssy pours hot water into a cup for me while I select rosebuds from the wood apothecary cabinet. I drop the flowers into the water.
From behind the rim of the cup, I eye the carnage of artichoke petals and fuzz in front of Chryssy. “I know why you’re avoiding me,” I say before realizing it could be about the curse and about what I said. “You want to talk about it?”
Chryssy pierces the center of the artichoke heart with a fork. “I’m trying to avoid having to talk about it,” she admits. “This comforts me, though. Want some?”
I join her, dipping the tender meat of the artichoke petal into a lemon-and-rosemary-infused olive oil. I pull the base of the petal between my teeth. “Artichokes don’t make it easy, do they?” I comment, remembering the last time she prepared them. There’s so much prep, trimming, and peeling. “And they’re an intimidating-looking vegetable.”
Chryssy pokes the now-flat petal tip. “I don’t always want to work so hard for my food, but these are worth the effort. It’s funny, though. The parts of artichokes we eat are actually flower buds. We harvest them before they bloom. They start out tough-skinned, but the steaming softens them,” she explains. “The thick layers of petals protect its tender heart.”
She’s knowingly made an apt metaphor for me—for both of us, really.
“We are artichokes,” I say, resigned.
I drop an artichoke petal onto the side of the plate with the rest of the discarded bits.
Chryssy reaches for my arm, touching my tricep for half a second before pulling back like she thinks she’s touched something she shouldn’t.
“How do you do it?” she asks, flipping her phone back over. A row of headlines in a Google search stripe the screen.
New Heartbreak for His Collection?
How Long Will This Flavor of the Week Last?
Has Vin Met His Heartbreaking Match?
Can the Heartbreak Herbalist Fix This Heartbreaker?
Chryssy: Cute or Cursed?
“The articles, the speculation,” she says, glancing down at a pile of artichoke fuzz.
“Screw them,” I say. “I know that’s easier said than done, but they’re looking for crumbs.”
She peers up at me, her next bite halfway to her mouth. “I hate the way they’re talking about you, about our relationship, about me. It’s not right.”
“No, it’s not,” I agree. “When Leo and I started making headlines, I read every article, watched every snippet. The good and the bad. Then I learned that no matter how great Leo and I played, and no matter how much we cared, people were going to say what they wanted. There was nothing we could do about it.”
“The curse has caused so much pain for people in my family, and now it’s just… clickbait,” she says, her lips quivering. “You know what my dad called the curse the other day?”
“Did he say it was briny?” I guess.
A little laugh escapes Chryssy. “An intergenerational game of telephone,” she says. This time her laugh is humorless. “And somehow, I don’t think he’s wrong. He told me his side of things, and I don’t know, it’s not what I expected. I went my entire life thinking he and my mom both blamed the curse for their relationship’s demise. In a way it kind of was, but he never believed in it. It makes me so sad for them.” She presses a hand over her heart.
I think for a moment. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just come with me,” I repeat. “And don’t worry, we can still avoid talking.”
I guide Chryssy through the backyard to the Plotting Shed. Rose’s garden sits behind the small structure.
“What are we doing back here? This is Auntie Rose’s sacred space,” she says, glancing around nervously.
I grab a pair of shears and snip the air a few times. “She’s only a little intimidating,” I say. “Fine, she’s a lot intimidating, so let’s make this quick.”
She gives me a look. “Hilarious.”
“You’ll also need these,” I say, tossing Chryssy a pair of gloves from the workbench.
“Vin, what is this?”
“It’s my garden now,” I say, putting on a sun hat and gloves. “Not Rose’s.”
“Is this some kind of power play, or are you being serious?” Chryssy leans closer to get a better look at my gloves. “Are those embroidered with your name? Where’d you even get them?”
“These aren’t the kinds of questions we need right now,” I say. “But in return for cello lessons, Rose gave me a little plot to create a garden of my own.”
Chryssy gasps. “Lessons? When? I always thought you were just practicing. This is where you’ve been coming instead?”
I rub my gloved hands together. “More recently, yes.”
“Is Auntie Rose… a Chaobreaker?” she whispers.
“She’ll be tough to crack, but I’m working on it,” I say. “I wanted to plant herbs for you, but I figured this was a more productive use of the land. We’re going to plant chrysanthemums. They can be your next batch for In Full Bloom. I know it won’t make a big dent, but it’s something.”
Her eyes soften. “I can’t believe you got Auntie Rose to give up her garden,” she says. “But then again, I also can’t believe she got lessons out of you.”
“It was worth it.” I take a step closer. “Chryssy, you’re selfless. You hold everybody’s shit and don’t ever complain about it. You have the biggest heart, and you fill it up with everyone else’s heartbreak and pain. But you don’t need to keep all those feelings inside. You can take what you can handle. Don’t overwater yourself.” I wrap my arms around her. “You may be named after the chrysanthemum, but you don’t have to let yourself always bloom last.”
Chryssy gives me a funny look, circling her arms around my waist. “I appreciate you saying that. My parents—my whole family, really—went through so much in their relationships. And when people come to the inn, they’re already fraught with emotions. My aunties feel stress, too. I guess I just… feel it all.”
“I wonder what it might look like for you to set some sort of guardrails,” I suggest. “Kind of like these garden beds.”
“You think I should put myself in a box?” she asks.
“It’s more like a boundary,” I say. “Because yeah, these garden beds keep the flowers in. They also keep other things out.”
Her eyebrows lift in surprise.
“When hard things happen, I know you can handle it. And when you deadhead chrysanthemums, they come back stronger,” I add.
Chryssy leans into me, and I plant a gentle kiss on her forehead.
She eyes me suspiciously. “When did you learn so much about flowers?”
“Rose had some wisdom to impart before she relinquished total control of her garden,” I say, shrugging. “So, I’m just a guy standing here in a sun hat and lovely embroidered gloves asking you a question: Will you garden with me?”
She slides the gloves on, smiling. “I haven’t touched dirt in weeks. I’ve become so imbalanced. My last Yin Night was in Vegas.” Her grin falters. “I’ve been down this path before. It doesn’t lead anywhere good.”
“You’ve been busy,” I say. “Maybe this can be a Yin Day. Get those fingers ready.”
We venture into one of the rows, and I kneel in front of a garden bed with a few vases in hand. She takes a spot at a garden bed opposite me.
“Pretend I’m not here,” I say. “I mean, I will be because there’s a good amount of work to do, but this is your time.”
For the next hour, we cut the flowers in Rose’s former garden in silence, collecting them to donate to senior living communities. Once the beds have been cut and cleared, we propagate chrysanthemums from the existing small patch in the main garden.
Chryssy sets her shears on the grass beside her. “What you said the other night at the show… did you mean that?” she asks, finally breaking the stretched-out, afternoon-long silence.
I pat a mound of dirt before turning to face her, my forearm draped over my thigh. “Every word of it. You wiggling your nose is your tell.”
Chryssy smiles as she plucks off the petal of a daisy.
I love her.
“You mentioned that a breakup wasn’t going to happen on your end,” she says. “But you were just saying that, right? To help cover for me?”
She plucks another daisy petal from its head.
I love her not.
I’ll never forget Chryssy’s face when the question about the curse came through. I wish I could’ve turned back time. In the moment, I reacted. I only had a few seconds to come up with something, but what I said wasn’t just for show.
A ladybug lands on one of the clipped flower stems, standing very still before flying off. As it leaves, a feeling solidifies in me.
“Chryssy, I don’t want to break up with you,” I say. “I want to stay in this.”
It’s a big statement that should scare me. These aren’t words I’ve ever said to anyone before, but for some reason, when I say them to Chryssy, the aggressive beating of my heart doesn’t feel like fear. It feels like excitement.
Her mouth parts a little, her eyes widening in parallel. “You mean…”
“The plan’s off. For me, at least,” I reveal. “I’m not breaking up with you. I won’t do it.”
Chryssy shakes her head. “You want to be with me? Don’t you want perfect? Because I’m anything but—”
“I want you.”
“But what about your record label?” she asks. “The tour. The tickets.”
It’s a fair question. The day after Sweet Dreams, Seattle , Jim and Greg wouldn’t stop calling to discuss my “outburst” and how this might misconstrue what Heartbreak on Tour really means. The phone calls stopped when ticket sales soared.
I run my fingers over a dandelion weed. “At some point, when you’re always misunderstood, you start to think people are right about you. I deserved my reputation. I know what I’ve done to earn it. And I’m not saying I’m the best boyfriend, either, because that would be a lie. I’m away a lot, I’m stressed often. I don’t think I’m very fun to be around when I’m busy. I care deeply about my work. I have so much to live up to and goals I want to accomplish,” I say. “I may not know exactly who I am, but ever since meeting you, I know it’s not a heartbreaker.”
“That’s a lie,” Chryssy says, my heart sinking as she maintains a neutral face. “You’re a lot of fun to be around.” She shoots me a sly smile. “And for what it’s worth, I stopped thinking of you as a heartbreaker weeks ago.” She pulls one more petal off the daisy before setting it down.
I love her.
A smile stretches across my face.
“You’re like a bonsai tree, in a way,” she adds. “You were restricted and manicured to look perfect, your branches directed to be grown in a specific, heartbreaker way. If we can transplant you, break you free from your small pot, you’ll grow wild. Your roots will spread. It’ll take time, but I think it’s possible.”
“Maybe,” I say. Maybe there’s still potential there. Or maybe my growth has been limited for good.
“I guess by not breaking up, that kind of helps your reputation, too, don’t you think?” Chryssy asks. “It is a long game, though.”
“With you that’s what I want,” I tell her. “And it has nothing to do with my reputation.”
She shakily exhales, but her features soften. “I want you, too,” she responds. “I-I just don’t know that it’s possible.”
I frown. “Because of the intergenerational game of telephone?”
“That, yes,” she says, her nose wrinkling. “And I was engaged once. Even that didn’t work out. We both stayed together longer than we should’ve.”
“He wasn’t your love song,” I say, realizing Chryssy and I might be more similar than we thought. Where she would stay in relationships despite them not working out, I’d run from them at the first sign of trouble. Both of us have been looking for something we’d never had.
Chryssy shakes her head. “The curse will always be there, like background music. It’s not loud or obvious, but even if I try to ignore it, I know it’s still playing.”
I think for a moment. “Then let’s face the music. Together,” I finally say.
She dips her chin, considering this. “Who knows what we’re up against?” Chryssy says. “Literally everyone has been negatively impacted by the curse. I’ve never seen a long-lasting, perfect—no, not even perfect… healthy—relationship like you’ve seen with your parents. How can I be the exception?” She pokes at the dirt. “I’ve been told stories and heard rumors my entire life, but what if there’s been static on the line? Rust from over the years. How can I know for sure that what everyone’s been saying is even true? I feel like I don’t understand what the curse is or what it means anymore.”
“What if we tried to understand?” I suggest. “Let’s turn up the knob on this music and hear what the sounds really are. Listen to what kind of tune is playing. Let’s see what we can be.”
“And how are we supposed to do that…” she says, trailing off as she looks toward the moon garden.
I follow her line of sight, understanding right away.
“Some people say I’m good at breaking things,” I say.
She lets out a half-note laugh and then grins. “I’ll get the shovel.”