Chapter 24
Winnie
As a kindergarten teacher, there’s not a lot for me to do at the end of a school day.
I don’t have papers to grade and other than cleaning up my room, my late afternoons are usually mine to do with what I will.
Since becoming a part-time influencer, that usually means recording and editing content for posting.
But today is different.
The sun’s out, the air’s warm enough for light layers, and I’m armed with a cup of iced coffee and a stubborn determination to tackle the mess that is my backyard flower beds.
The last few days of March are dwindling and the winter kill zone out here is something to behold.
Dried-out hostas look like ancient scrolls, a birdbath sits clogged with decaying leaves, and a few flower markers point to withered stems I don’t remember planting.
I’m wearing my oldest leggings, a hoodie I stole from Caleb’s high school wrestling days, and socks that have absolutely given up. Somewhere under the baggie layers, I am a woman of culture.
Right now, I look like a yard troll.
Which is exactly why I decide to film a TikTok.
Propping my phone on a rickety plastic chair, I hit record.
“Hey there, garden gang. It’s your girl Winnie, and today we’re embracing our inner disaster as we attempt to bring life to the botanical graveyard that is my backyard.
Spoiler alert… I just tried to weed a tulip.
And I still don’t know what perennials are. But let’s goooo.”
I end the video by accidentally tripping over Buttermilk’s outdoor playpen, shrieking and cussing like I just stepped on a LEGO. Five seconds later, I’m laughing at myself and posting it with the hashtags #gardeningfail, #suburbaninsanity and #spidersfreakmeout.
It feels good to laugh at myself. To show something normal again. Something not linked to Lucky or romance or average-girl-goes-hockey-glam.
Just dirt, coffee and determination to clear out the mess for spring planting. I work steadily for about an hour, my face streaked with dirt because I keep wiping sweat off it with filthy hands.
“Time for a break, Buttermilk,” I announce, but he ignores me. He loves being outside in his little pen, feeling the stiff blades of dead grass under his thumpers and the breeze through his fur.
I sit on the porch, watching my rabbit hop through a pile of old leaves like it’s his personal mosh pit. I take a sip of coffee and open the app, ready to check early reactions.
The first few comments are exactly what I hoped for.
@pottypatchplantlady: I pulled a daffodil once and cried for twenty minutes. You’re doing amazing, sweetie.
@theweedinghour: This is why I have fake plants. 100% support from my couch.
@cheesequeen87: I don’t know what perennials are either and I’m married to a landscaper.
Then the vibe shifts.
@puckprincess92: You’re still posting like anyone cares? Girl, the only reason people watched was Lucky.
@averageAFfan: Literally no one would follow you if it wasn’t for your hockey boyfriend.
@wagsdontweedit: Imagine being this thirsty for attention. The relationship isn’t even real.
I blink at the screen.
My post didn’t mention Lucky.
At all.
It was just me, being goofy and real, sharing a bit of entropic gardening energy.
But that doesn’t matter now. These aren’t my people—not the loyal followers who joined me back when I was ranting about lunch box hacks and bathroom passes.
These are people who found me through Lucky.
People who don’t get me and don’t want to.
And suddenly, it feels like I don’t have a place anymore. Not here. Not with them. Maybe not even in my own corner of the internet.
My stomach sinks. My fingers hover over the delete button.
I don’t press it. But I want to.
I want to so freaking bad.
Instead, I decide to work out my angst and dive back into the flower bed that circles a large oak tree.
Another hour under my belt and I have accomplished my goals. Once Pennsylvania decides not to have any more frost, I’m ready to do my spring plantings.
I pick up Buttermilk, holding his squirming, kicking body, clearly displeased we’re going inside. “Chill out, little dude. The weather’s turning nicer and there will be more romps for you.” He grabs hold of the zipper on my jacket and yanks hard. “But not if you continue to be an asshole.”
Inside, I kick off my mud-caked shoes and gently deposit the hell beast on the floor. I walk into my living room and slump onto the couch. Buttermilk follows and hops up onto my lap, our argument of ten seconds ago forgotten.
He curls up down near my knees like a therapy pet with commitment issues. I stroke his ears absently and open my text thread with Lucky.
His last message is still sitting at the top. Twenty-four hours, woman. And then I’m back to steal more of your bagels and all of your time.
Oh boy, does my heart flip every time I read that. Calling me woman like it’s a warning that I only belong to him.
Below it are more messages from the last couple of days, snippets that tighten my chest in the best way.
Okay… I’ve never admitted this before to anyone but… I think I miss you.
Still thinking about your mouth and the way it… never mind… too dirty.
You’re my favorite notification. Don’t tell the Titans’ PR team—they’re already jealous.
I scroll through them, one by one, like little breadcrumbs back to a place where I feel grounded.
Lucky may not have had a serious relationship before, but lord almighty, does he know how to woo a girl.
I’ve never had a man be so attentive to my emotional grounding while continuing to make me laugh and smile.
He’s been dedicated to keeping a connection. Lucky and I are navigating a long-distance relationship and I think it’s crucial for partners to nurture the commitment by any means necessary. And he is doing the work.
For Lucky, he’s become a master of the text message and he’s not shy about letting me know his thoughts. I’m a little more awkward, but I’m sure I’ll improve. I want to be as good at this as he is so he can feel the way I do.
My fingers move slowly over the keyboard, and I type, Today was dumb. I miss you.
Then, after a second, an embarrassing admission. Also I may have killed a tulip by accident and now I need an emotional support horticulturist.
I hit send before I can overthink it. The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
It blinks and blinks and blinks. I attempt to wait patiently as Buttermilk shifts on my lap, rolling closer to my stomach.
I glance down at him. “I don’t know what he sees in me, Butters.
He’s… Lucky Freakin’ Branson. And I’m out here wrestling with root rot and impostor syndrome. ”
My rabbit thumps once. Probably because I stopped petting him, but I’ll take it as encouragement.
I sigh, resting my head against the back of the couch.
“I mean, I like him. A lot. It’s kind of terrifying how much.
It makes me have so many insecurities. Like…
does he still want me when the cameras are off?
When I’m not TikTok-ing about our progress and tagging him in every update?
And why am I perpetually worrying about this when I know deep down, Lucky isn’t just here for the follows? ”
My phone chimes and I pick it up. You are the hottest tulip murderer I’ve ever seen. Also, hang tight. I’m bringing you a shovel and a shamrock plant when I get back. Miss you like mad.
Tears prick my eyes and I swipe at them before they can fall. Not because I’m sad. Because I feel seen. Loved. Or at least… very nearly.
I kiss the top of Buttermilk’s head and whisper, “He’s totally the real deal so just enjoy it, Win.”