11. Celeste #5
Josiah did not pounce on it. Did not grin too hard. Did not make me regret speaking from a place I had not meant to reveal. He picked up a small clay pot and turned it in his hands, giving me a second to breathe.
Then he looked at me with that steady, grown-man tenderness that kept getting past my defenses.
“No. I’m trying to give us something to water slowly.”
I couldn’t move.
I touched the rim of the pot. “What are we planting?”
He nodded toward the trays. “Your choice.”
I studied the options like I had not nearly dissolved thirty seconds earlier. Basil. Mint. Lavender. Rosemary. Tiny rose cuttings. A small hibiscus starter with two glossy leaves and one shy bud.
My fingers went to the hibiscus.
“Of course,” he said.
“Why of course?”
“Fire recognizes fire.”
I rolled my eyes, but I took the plant.
He chose rosemary.
I looked at the small green sprigs, then back at him. “Rosemary?”
He said, “For remembrance.” My hand stilled near the soil. He looked at the plant, then at me. “And because what came before me still deserves water.”
My eyes burned again.
“Josiah.”
“I’m not trying to make you cry.”
“You’re doing a terrible job.”
He stepped closer but not too close. “I can choose something else.”
I covered his hand with mine before he could move the plant away. “No. Keep it.”
We planted side by side, our shoulders brushing, our hands dipping into soil, our laughter returning in small pieces.
I teased him about being too precise with the dirt level.
He told me my hibiscus looked crooked. I told him my plant had personality.
He said personality was not a substitute for structural support.
I told him that sounded like something a man who alphabetized his tools would say.
He brushed dirt from the back of my hand with his thumb, then lifted my fingers and kissed my knuckles before letting go. No speech. No announcement. Just a small act of tenderness in the middle of potting soil and string lights.
It nearly ruined me.
When we finished, the staff wrapped our pots in brown paper and tied them with twine. He carried both because of course he did, and we made our way back through The Red Garden toward the exit. I looked back once, trying to memorize it.
Josiah noticed. “You okay?”
“I’m trying to memorize it.”
His expression changed, warmth gathering in his eyes. “We can come back.”
The ease of that almost hurt.
We can come back.
Four words. No demand. No assumption. Just room for a future that did not need to be dragged into existence.
Outside, the night air wrapped around us, warm and damp. The ivy on the brick walls shifted in a light breeze, leaves whispering against mortar. Josiah walked me to the truck and opened the door, but before he helped me in, I turned to face him.
I placed my hand against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath my palm. “Thank you.”
Josiah looked down at me. “For what?”
“For making room for all of me tonight. The woman laughing under flowers and the woman still scared to need anything.”
His eyes moved over my face, slow and sure, like he had already decided both women were worth the patience.
“I don’t want half of you, Celeste. If your joy comes holding grief’s hand, I’ll open the door for both and still be grateful you showed up.”
Something inside me softened. “I want to do this again.”
His smile came slow enough to be a problem. “Good.”
“You knew I would?”
He leaned down until his mouth hovered near my forehead. “No. I hoped.”
Before he could step away, I lifted my face toward his. He paused, his mouth close enough to make breathing feel optional. “May I?”
I didn’t make him ask twice.
“Yes,” I whispered.
His mouth met mine under the ivy, and I kissed him back without fear landing first. My fingers gripped his shirt, and his arm tightened just enough at my waist to steady me without pulling me out of myself.
I could hear cars passing beyond the side street, the distant music from somewhere around the corner, the small rustle of leaves above us.
The world kept moving, but for a few breaths, all I knew was the feel of his mouth, the restraint in his hands, and the terrifying relief of wanting something without running from it.
When he pulled back, I touched my fingers to my lips.
He saw it and smiled.
“Still scared?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Still want to get in the truck?”
I looked up at him. “Yes.”
“Then we doing all right.”
He helped me into the seat and tucked the hibiscus pot safely at my feet. As he closed the door, I looked through the windshield at The Blooming Room glowing behind its curtain of ivy.
Perhaps love didn’t always arrive like lighting. Maybe sometimes it arrived as a man who remembered my favorite flower and gave me something living to carry home.
When Josiah climbed into the driver’s seat, he looked over at me. “You dancing again?”
I hadn’t realized I was moving in my seat until he said it.
I laughed and covered my face. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No.” I lowered my hands and smiled at him, too full to pretend otherwise. “I really don’t.”
He pulled away from the curb with my hand in his, and for once, I let the night carry me without asking it to prove it would not end.