Chapter 8 Endearing and Ridiculous #2
“I don’t see the flowers apologizing for blooming.” His praise wraps around me like a blanket, but I try not to read too much into it.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
He hums and gets to work on his laptop.
We spend the next few hours like this, each of us with a coffee in hand, quietly doing what we are supposed to be doing.
“I saw him,” he mentions, breaking the silence.
“Who?”
“The hypothetical man we talked about the other day.”
What is he talking—oh. This is one of my favorite things about this job: connecting with people beyond selling them some goods. It’s the little chit-chats in between coffees. or the fact that he kept his promise and came back. He knew I’d want to know, even if he barely knows me.
“Can I ask how it went?”
“Do you really want to know?”
I nod.
He sighs, closing his laptop and setting it aside. “It was a shit show.”
My eyes snap open wide.
“Sorry,” he murmurs.
“It’s fine; it just took me by surprise.” I clear my throat, turning to him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Are you offering to listen?”
I nod. “Here, let’s go to the couch.”
This sage green, worn with rips and tears, carefully sewn back together to keep it from falling apart, couch was the first thing that sparked the idea of The Blooming Wine for me. I saw the couch, and the what-ifs inundated me almost immediately.
What if I host a book club, and we all sit around this couch and talk?
What if I have a bookstore where you can stay and hang?
Sad? How about coffee and the couch?
Oh, a flower arrangement next to the couch.
So many ideas, all which ended in what this space is today.
I can’t get rid of it. At this point, this couch is part of me, and it makes me feel a certain way that people dispose of precious things when they’re not in perfect condition.
Am I disposable because I’m not whole anymore?
I sure hope not.
"When are you sharing whatever secret it is that makes all your coffees this good?” Holden asks, settling into the couch, his body relaxing into the corner.
“You’d have to earn it before I can tell you.”
“Mm, and what would make me earn it?” There’s teasing and amusement in his tone, such a contrast from the sad man I met not too long ago.
“I need to know I can trust you first.”
“And what does one have to do to earn your trust?”
“Well, for starters…” I pause for good measure. “Never, and I mean never, tell anyone about my little dance sesh.”
He mimics zipping his lips.
“And maybe share something embarrassing about yourself.”
“Well…I did dance for you, and that was embarrassing."
I giggle like a schoolgirl, and it’s been so damn long since anything made me giggle like this that it catches me by surprise.
“I guess only time will tell, huh?”
“What?” I ask.
“When I gain your trust.”
“Sure, sure. Now, give me the tea.”
The scent of cardamom and pumpkin fills the air as he speaks, his voice low, barely carrying through the room. “He’s my sperm donor.”
I figured it was someone important to him, that even if he’s not anymore, he was at some point. You don’t fight the internal battles Holden was showing unless they laid the foundation for who you are today.
“He called a few months ago to tell me he wanted to make amends.” He sighs. “I’ll spare you the details, but he mentioned he was dying.”
I gasp.
“He’s not. Sorta.” Holden raises his hand to help me stay calm. “He has some health complications as a result of years of alcoholism.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Honestly? I don’t know if I am. Karma is a bitch, and he basically found out what happens when shit comes back around.”
I nod, taking it all in. He sounds almost mad, maybe disappointed. No, this is more like regret, but not at what he’s feeling—at what he’s saying.
“I understand,” I mention, reassuring him I’m not judging. Life’s complicated; why would I judge with only two percent of the information? “So how did it go?”
His hand roams over his handsome face, over his stubbled chin, as he lets out a sigh that pulls from deep within him. “Worse than it could have been. He ended up getting transported to the hospital.”
I reach over to hold his hand. “I’m sorry.”
He holds my gaze, taking in my features, which I soften so he can see the sincerity behind my words. “That must’ve been hard.” I take my hand back to not make this situation awkward; no matter how much I may feel for him right now, he’s still a stranger and a customer.
“It was for reasons I’ll tell my therapist later this week, but now, I’m at a crossroads.”
Okay, I love the fact that this man talks openly about going to therapy. It’s such a taboo topic sometimes, especially in small towns—mental health in general, but especially men’s.
“Alright, tell me. I happen to be excellent at helping people cross streets.”
He chuckles.
“Too corny?” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Just enough.” He winks. My heart does this fluttery thing, and I don’t know how to handle it.
“So he’s doing dialysis.”
“Okay…”
“He needs the treatment to live, but he’s been skipping it, and he asked me to go meet him there.”
“So now you’re wondering if you say you’ll go, if he’ll commit.”
He hums. “That’s actually why I’m over in Baker today.” Baker Oaks is famous for its nephrology unit. It’s one of those random things that, even though we are a small town, people still come here from all over the place.
“Wait, you don’t live here?”
He shakes his head. “But not too far, I’m right off the highway in Magnolia Springs.”
Agh, I love that place. It’s a beautiful town with a giant spring-fed lake in the middle. It honestly looks like it was pulled from a movie.
“He’s in the senior center here, though.”
I nod, allowing his space to keep talking. “It’s deeper than him supposedly dying once and then showing up randomly almost twenty years later. He raised me—or better, tried to, but he had some issues, and well, he was not the greatest.”
It hurts my heart to hear anyone say their parents were awful, for one reason or another. We’re truly all doing the best, but if someone has these many negative feelings toward someone they should love with all their heart, it means they didn’t heal, parent, or child.
It breaks me, actually. And maybe it’s because Nick was the absolute best. He was the best husband, but that man was born to be a dad.
It didn’t come naturally to him at first. He fought hard to break some of the patterns he thought were natural, like spending little time with the kids or doing house tasks, but he did it.
He put in the work, and he wasn’t a dad his kids will have to heal from. Or, at least, not from his life.
“We thought he died when I was twelve, and I grieved him.” He stands, shaking his hand and holding his hips. “I’m so sorry. You didn’t ask for any of this.”
I didn’t think what he wanted to share was about a father who hurt his son so badly that even now, when trying to make amends, the wound is deeper than the depths of the ocean. I think he wanted me to be listening ears, so that’s what I’m doing.
“I did ask, and actually…I understand,” I mutter, nodding but staying in place. Sometimes, what we need the most is space and understanding, not advice, not forced proximity, not a hug—space and soft smiles are enough sometimes, so I give him that.
“What do you understand?”
“The complexity of grief.”
A flash of understanding sweeps over him. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
The sincerity behind his words is palpable. “Yeah, me too.”
We wait in silence, the music softly playing in the background, our combined sorrow in between us, just like the heavy rain hitting the sidewalk outside.
It’s funny how sometimes, it feels like it’s raining inside, and the world shows it too, like Mother Nature knows that some days, you have to let it all out to cleanse, to heal, to move on.
Like right now: the tears fall down my face against my will, and Holden’s face softens, still standing.
“I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
I bite my lip, wiping the tear that fell away, and sniffle, holding the ring dangling from my neck in the palm of my hand. “I live in a constant state of sadness and tears. Not your fault.”
He studies me, but he doesn’t pry. “I guess it’s right, what people say.”
“What?” Confusion surely engulfs me.
“That sometimes, the brightest stars are full of fire inside.”
“People say that?”
His deep, rumbly laugh invades the space. “No, but I didn’t know what else to say, and you truly seem so happy.”
“Because I am. I’ve learned to smile and laugh when I can, to cry when I feel like it. Bottling up emotions just ends in anger, and I can’t afford to be angry all the time.”
“I should give that a try.”
“It’s cathartic.”
“You should be a therapist.”
If I had a penny for every time someone told me that, I’d have a lot of money. And the truth is, I’m not doing anything out of the ordinary. But in this day and age, when everyone’s always rushing toward something or thinking about the next thing, nobody stops to listen anymore.
But I do, even if I would be the worst therapist. “Ha, no, thank you. I’m an empath, and I fear I would be sobbing all the time, which is not conducive to business.”
“I feel that.”
I motion with my hands. “You can continue if you want. The tears were more from my own hurt triggered by yours. It happens; it’s not your fault.”
“Who was yours?”
I know immediately what he means. Who did I lose? “My husband.”
In slow motion, his light brown eyes darken to the deepest amber as he searches mine, for a bluff perhaps. His eyes track my hands holding Nick’s ring around my neck, and even the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard lets me know he’s in too deep.
Not knowing what to say mixes with complete shock, which I’m used to. People assume someone as young as me wouldn’t know what it’s like to lose a spouse, that the words widow and widower are reserved for the third quarter of life, not the first. Well, life doesn’t work that way.
“It sucks, I know. No need to say anything, I promise.” I’ve found taking away the expectation others must say something to help is actually helpful.
I know people are sorry. I know they feel bad.
I know they don’t know what to say, and I would rather give them the words than hear one more ‘he’s in a better place now. ’”
“Was that little girl the other day his?” he asks.
Well, that’s not what I was expecting.
“Uh, um. Yes. And mine. Ours?” I’ve never been taken aback by a question about Nick before, and that’s saying a lot. People’s audacity sometimes knows no bounds, but this one, this one took me by surprise.
“She’s beautiful,” he says, and I’m really glad he didn’t say he was sorry. I’m really glad he didn’t ask more questions.
“She is.”
“She looks like you.” I bite my lower lip, avoiding his gaze. She does look like me, but nobody has ever mentioned how beautiful she is in the same breath.
“It does suck,” he finally adds after the silence got almost too thick to let lie.
“Mm-hmm, but today, we’re not here to talk about him.”
Holden lets out a breath, sinking into his spot on the couch. “Well, we thought he was dead for so long, and turns out, he’s not. He did a lot of really hurtful things, and now he wants to make amends.”
I nod, not knowing what else to do. How it’s so easy to have this conversation with this stranger is beyond me, but that’s something for another time.
“And you don’t know whether you want to give him a second chance or not.”
He nods.
Interesting. “Do you want me to give you my two cents?”
He nods again.
Okay, straight to the point. I’ve learned to ask questions before giving my opinion after so many people gave me their unsolicited advice. “Have you lost someone who has not magically come back from the dead?”
His answer comes quickly, in the blink of an eye, as he dips his head.
It’s truly the only question I have. Have you ever lost something or someone you could never have again? If their answer is yes, most of the time, they know how hard it is to live with regret, to be consumed by it.
It’s almost paralyzing knowing you can never get answers to questions, know an opinion on a topic, or even hear a laugh again. It either makes you say yes to everything or never open your heart again. What a sad life that would be.
“Do you wish you could talk to them again?”
He pauses and looks around, as if to see if the answers are written in the stars, but eventually, he bobs his head again. He’s one in the first group, which tells me, clearly, he has done work. He’s trying to heal, just like I am, and he knows better.
Regret is painful.
“Then there’s your answer.”
He smiles sadly. “Very practical.”
“Honesty. It’s just honesty.”
He looks down at his watch and lets out a sigh.
“Go, Holden,” I urge. “Give it a try. If you hate it, come back. I’ll save you a seat.”
I head back to the desk, quietly working and allowing him to wrestle with his demons in peace. Eventually, he gets up, grabs two bottles of wine, and brings them to me.
“That one is a best seller.” I point to the peach wine all my friends and the Baker girlies love before sliding it into a bag.
"Thanks,” he mutters after paying.
“Not a problem.”
Please come back. Fill me in. Give me deets.
I wish I could say all these things, but I don’t, because that would be weird.
I love my friends. I love talking to them.
But they’re all in marriage or relationship bliss, and I, well, I have my girls and all the customers who come and go.
I could use a friendship with someone who is talking about more than their spouse and their babies.
Nothing wrong with that, but sometimes, I don’t want to think about how that’s not me anymore.
“No, really.” He holds my gaze, utter sincerity in his eyes. “Thank you for your honesty and kindness.”
“Any time.”
“You truly mean it, don’t you?”
I let a smile be the answer, because I do, in fact, truly mean it. “Bye, Natalie.”
“See you around, Holden.”
What an intense day. The shop is still quiet and desolate, so instead of staying here, I make the executive decision to close early.
I feel the urge to go hug my girls and never let them go.
To read them stories until they fall asleep.
To let them have that extra dessert and stay up five more minutes.
I get the urge to call my parents and talk for hours.
To walk barefoot on grass. To laugh and cry.
Because I still can, and I don’t want to take that for granted.