Chapter Nine #2
Since this is our first bakery, I’m intent on buying a loaf of sourdough bread, the rustic kind with ‘ancient grains.’ The kind that you can just pull out a slice and savor it straight from the loaf. That, and the smell of the ovens, is the best combination of senses.
Martin is debating about what to order and narrates his thoughts as we wait. I’m entranced by the stirrings of the bakers in the back moving large sheets of formed loaves into and out of the oven with their agile contraptions that work quickly.
Before we know it, we’re waiting at the chairs and tables for them to call our names, and we’ve all made our welcome to Martin officially as a group.
Once we’re all in possession of our first round of pastries and breads, we’re heading down the sidewalk, settling into natural pairs, Brad and Jeannie leading the way, splitting a cinnamon roll between them.
“This is so good,” we hear her declaring to the world through a mouthful. “Thanks for crawling with me today!” she yells back at us as we stroll down the street toward the next bakery.
Martin and I settle into a comfortable pace, me tearing off bits of my sourdough slice with my teeth as Martin breaks a giant cookie into mouthful-sized bites.
He waves a chunk of cookie in my direction, motions to my bread with his eyes, curls his face into a crooked smile and declares: “Ancient grains, huh?”
I examine the crunchy crust of the slice I’m eating. It’s perfect and real. “It’s good for you. Nothing processed. Just timeless real food.”
“Wanna try some of my ‘modern grains?’” he asks, thrusting the same chunk of cookie in my face with a smirk. The cookies they sell are nearly loaf-size themselves, so the chunk he’s holding is substantial and glistens with sugar and whatever spice gives it a rich, dark color.
I smile back at him, huffing through my nose. “No, I prefer ancient. Thanks.”
“I think you’d eat a pine cone if someone deemed it healthy.” He chucks the bite of cookie into his mouth, still smirking with his eyes.
I laugh because I know he’s not wrong on so many levels. “Nah,” I smile, “Too sappy. Never comes off your fingers.”
Martin smiles through his mouthful and we both start laughing.
The sidewalk passes in comfortable silence. The smell of coffee and maybe pastries color the air as we pass several downtown cafes. The breeze rustles the shade of the trees on the sidewalk around us.
“What do you think your secret person would order, Liam?” I hear Jeannie’s voice from ahead.
“What?”
She turns awkwardly without breaking her stride. “If your secret person were here, what do you think she would order?”
Martin looks at me with an expression I can’t decipher. I instinctively look at the bit of cookie in his hand as it makes its way to his mouth, which further disrupts his unreadable expression.
“I don’t know,” I say bluntly. It feels dismissive, but it’s the actual truest thing I know.
Brad laughs and Jeannie persists: “Well, take a guess based on what you already know about her.”
My mind is stumbling over the ‘her’ in Jeannie’s assumption and it dislocates my senses for a moment.
I’m still stumbling when Brad repeats the question: “Yeah, what kind of bakery person is she, do you think?” The two of them are lost in the intrigue over baked goods and I can’t get past the assumption. My stomach twists around sourdough.
“They…” I start and then stop, “I mean, my secret person would probably order…” My mouth is answering their question, but my mind is spiraling around the words, “…they would probably order something sweet.”
I’m saved by Jeannie’s cooing and ahh-ing as she pulls Brad close in an embrace, “Your secret person would want something sweet. Of course! Something sweet for someone sweet.”
I look over at Martin who is looking my way with a half-smile as he mindlessly breaks off another chunk of cookie. I feel heat blooming in my cheeks and wonder if he notices.
And then Jeannie oohs and ahhs herself through scenarios of what my secret person might be like based on my vague bakery item conjecture.
But, I do notice that she naturally disassociates her earlier assumption and only refers to my secret person in a way that avoids pronouns altogether.
I wonder about this shift as much as I’m at peace with it.
Martin says little, eating bits of cookie like he’s deep in thought.
In order to get to Oven & Bloem, the only other actual bakery in town, we must traverse the main downtown strip with all the shops and cafes.
We’re halfway down this street when I realize we are standing in front of The Corner Bouquet, which is a local florist. The display of flowers is flowing down the sidewalk in beautiful bundles of color and petals.
I find myself staring at a particular collection of purple, blue and neon pink flowers, tiny ones on loose threadlike stems.
“Are you a wildflower man?” Jeannie is saying.
I look up from the flowers to see her arm-in-arm with Brad, past the shop and stopping to gaze at me.
Her question makes me realize I’ve been lost in thought.
I glance over to Martin, who has also stopped and is staring at the flowers with me. He smiles at me and I smile back.
Wildflowers.
These are wildflowers. It takes me a moment to realize that these bouquets of mismatched flowers have a wildness to them that the other surrounding displays don’t have.
The roses and gerbera daisies and chrysanthemums are all sorted by type, curated by size and color, and are all perfectly uniform.
And then these bouquets can’t be described as anything besides wild.
And beautiful.
These wispy blooms are breathtaking in their natural way without pretense and form, their lanky stems, dripping leaves, variation of petal color and size.
Instead of a flower collection, it feels like a cool breeze captured and wrapped in paper.
I don’t respond to the question, I just find myself mesmerized by a stirring in my chest and the urge to hold them.
I think everyone stops and is just staring at me, but I don’t know for sure because I’m trapped by the drift of blossoms as I grab a single bouquet, the crinkling of the paper barely audible over the beating of my heart as I seize the largest one, holding it up.
I’m frozen in time as each individual bloom invites its own moment of admiration, searing itself into my life one unique blossom at a time.
I feel the proximity of Jeannie and Brad as they make their way closer, staring also.
I sense their eyes on me for a moment before they move away and begin to look at the other selection of bouquets with their deep reds and sunny yellows.
Just wildflowers, please.
The words roll through my mind and wrap themselves around each bloom, dripping down each stem.
In this bouquet, I see so many things about my secret person, um, I mean my secret guy.
Each petal is wild and unique. No two flowers or leaves are the same, and each contributes its own melody into this beautiful flutter of petals.
I feel a cool warmness puddling in my core and I feel like I’ve finally met my secret man.
He is here somewhere in this crash of wildness and beauty. I’m struck.
“Is that for your secret person?” Jeannie asks, returning a lavish bouquet of red roses to its display.
I look to her, but words don’t form. I look over at Martin and he’s frozen in place, chunk of cookie in one hand, not moving. He looks from my face to the bouquet and back again, his mouth gaping, his eyes wide.
“Wouldn’t roses be better?” Brad erupts, “I mean aren’t wildflowers just expensive weeds? How about these yellow ones? Don’t the colors of roses have some kind of meaning too?” He fumbles through several bouquets.
Martin is still unmoving when Jeannie interrupts, slapping Brad on the shoulder in mock anger. “Wildflowers are beautiful, they are not weeds.” And then she stops and gazes at me. “And by the look on his face, those flowers are something special.”
An awkward silence consumes us as I study each stem, which apparently bothers Brad because he’s desperately seeking to disrupt the silence with words. “What do you think, Martin?” he’s blurting, “Roses or wildflowers? What kind of bouquet person are you?”
Martin is suddenly flummoxed. His hand flies in and then out of the small bag containing what’s left of his cookie, and his mouth is flickering to achieve words. None come, but the grunts and heavy breaths he attempts draw my attention away from the bouquet.
His cheeks are pink, and his free hand slides up and down the back of his neck. His eyes return to the pastry bag and remain there.
Jeannie can’t contain herself. “Are you alright?” she’s asking, approaching Martin, concern on her face. “Is everything okay?”
I look over to Brad and he’s looking concerned too.
Something washes over Martin’s face and he’s suddenly himself again and smiles, forcing a shallow breath. “I’m fine,” he says. “I must say I think I would prefer wildflowers.” He coughs into his hand and clears his throat. “The other flowers are just too perfect.”
Brad suddenly looks dejected like we’re attending a flower debate and his team lost. I can’t stop looking at Martin, who is smiling at me with quick glances to the bouquet in my hand.
“I’m going to get this bouquet,” I find myself saying to Martin without looking away. I’m not sure why I’m telling him directly. Maybe I want him to stop me, help me see what a foolish idea this is. With a growing smile, he keeps glancing at the flowers. “For my secret person,” I say.
Jeannie coos and grabs Brad by the arm for a squeeze. Martin doesn’t move, except for his eyes, darting to the flowers and back.