ari koontz

Bloom

content warning: implied transphobia/abuse

Marnie sells her flowers for five dollars even, on a stand she built herself.

It’s a little more than waist high, a basic frame with a double-layered countertop that has holes just the right size to fit twelve soda-can vases. There’s a hand-painted sign, too—BOUQUETS $5 EACH—and a small wooden box with a slit for cash. Like everything in her life, it’s all been done from scratch, nail by nail and brushstroke by brushstroke.

Marnie’s lost track of how many summers she’s been doing this now, but her body knows the rhythm by heart. Each morning: rise with the sun peeking through the curtains, pour a mug of licorice tea, take the dog out to the yard and spend an hour or two picking and arranging. It’s her favorite sight in the world, her flower garden sprawling out in front of her, so generous and eager to meet her weathered hands. Marigolds, nasturtiums, lavender, black-eyed susans, echinacea, big fat sunflowers—all ready to give and give and give, as long as she doesn’t take too much.

(She was told she must have a magic touch once, by a man who bought two bouquets to juggle with two iced coffees—a golden touch, he said, fingering a calendula blossom—but she thinks it’s more about the nature of soil and how, if you’re kind to it, you’ll get that same kindness back. It’s about the abundance the earth offers when you know how to nurture it, and it’s about passing that abundance on to where it’s most needed.)

For a third of her life now, Marnie has saved seeds and watered with vigilance, adding raised beds here and hanging pots there, gathering bright blossoms into bundles and charging only as much as she needs to keep them growing. And so she has become known as the flower woman at the house on the hill just south of the observatory. Or at least, so she imagines— nobody’s ever actually told her this, and she doesn’t strike up many chats with the patrons of her roadside establishment. That’s the whole point of the honor-system money box and the milk crate tucked under the stand for anyone inclined to bring back the soda vases. She’s not antisocial, and she isn’t afraid of the world anymore; she’s just always preferred to keep to herself.

Sometimes a neighbor will catch her as she’s wheeling her stand out to the sidewalk, or sometimes she’ll eat a cucumber sandwich on the porch and pass out a few waves as the lunch crowd comes and goes. Often when she does this, she’ll get a trickle of compliments from those who stop to buy a bouquet. And that’s just the thing. She’s glad that they think the flowers are just gorgeous or perfect for my dinner party or exactly what I needed today—but she doesn’t do this for praise. It makes her feel a bit awkward, like receiving a dessert meant for someone at the next table. It isn’t anything to do with her, how beautiful the flowers are, and she doesn’t need or want a thank you. The work is thanks enough.

Marnie hums to herself as she picks cornflowers this morning, as she divides them into vases and picks off the withered leaves. The cool air is fuzzy with dew that hangs low, and it’s a simple pleasure to move through her work as though wading through water. Once she’s done with all the bouquets, she heads back to the porch to sip the rest of her tea, scratching Elton’s ears absently beneath her chair. The terrier whines happily, toenails scraping against the wood, and she’s so caught up in the feeling of his wiry fur—another small pleasure—that she almost doesn’t notice when the girl stops in front of her flower stand.

She looks like she could be around sixteen or seventeen. Maybe younger. Her long hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, and she’s bony and sharp around the edges, something birdlike and tiny-fierce. She’s wearing simple clothes, just some khakis and a black t-shirt with the logo of a punk band Marnie hasn’t heard in years, and she looks at once like she’s got somewhere and nowhere to be. But it’s the way she stares at the flowers that snags Marnie’s attention: a kind of hunger that seems impossible to fill.

The girl’s eyes roam slowly over each bouquet. Sometimes people dawdle like this, trying to find the biggest or brightest to take home. Marnie always feels a little insulted at that— the point of her flowers is that they’re all unique, none better than its neighbor. This girl doesn’t seem to be deciding, though. Her gaze darts to the wooden sign and then back to the blooms.

Marnie understands that look. She thinks she knows what it means.

“Do you have a favorite?” she says aloud.

The girl jumps and looks up.

“Oh,” she says. She must not have known she was being watched. The peony vines across the porch sides are thick, but Marnie can see the girl’s feet skitter backwards, her fingers tightening around the straps of her backpack. “Sorry, no, I—I was just looking.”

She takes another step back, and it makes Marnie’s chest tighten.

“It’s quite all right,” she says to calm this wild creature. “Which is your favorite flower? Mine’s always been the lilacs—they come and go so fast.”

“Oh. Um…” The girl still looks nervous, but she loosens her grip a little. “I guess I like… these ones?”

She points to one of the front row bouquets, to a light purple blossom in the middle.

“Ah. The echinacea.” Marnie nods her approval. “Some people call them coneflowers. Did you know it’s one of the most powerful natural remedies for colds and flu?”

The girl shakes her head.

“I’ve got an echinacea tincture that really comes in handy in the winter. And they’re great in teas as well.” Marnie smiles, leaning down to scratch the dog again. “And, you know, they’re just pretty to look at.”

The girl ducks her head politely. “Yeah, um, they’re really nice.”

Marnie watches as she takes another step back, casts another furtive glance at the bouquets. She can feel the girl’s self-consciousness radiating off her small frame.

“Take one,” Marnie says on instinct. “Whichever one you like the most. That one on the end’s got some lovely marigolds, too.”

“Oh, I—that’s okay,” she says nervously. “I don’t have…”

Five dollars. That’s always been the rule. Marnie trusts people enough to believe they will pay. And she trusts herself to know when someone really needs it anyway.

So she shakes her head and repeats, “Take one. For free. My gift to you.”

She sees the girl’s face light up and then, just as quickly, the defenses go back up. “Thank you, but I couldn’t—”

“The first bouquet of the day is always free,” Marnie says. It’s a lie and she’s pretty sure the girl knows it, too, but she hopes she also understands it as an excuse, a permission, a tiny and earnest mercy. “Just make it a good one.”

The girl bites a bottom lip that’s already ragged and hesitates. Finally, she gives in, stepping forward and picking up the front-center vase.

“Thank you,” she says, and hugs the Barq’s Root Beer can to her chest with trembling fingers. “It’s beautiful… thank you.”

And Marnie doesn’t mind the gratitude this time, or the way the girl’s feet skitter back onto the sidewalk, across the deserted street while the crosswalk sign is still solid red. She’s just glad she could convince her to take something bright and lovely that might soften whatever else she is carrying.

🌻

Marnie can’t stop thinking about it for the rest of that day. The girl, her wide eyes, the purple petals in her shaking hands. She pours herself a mug of echinacea tea after supper and goes to bed remembering things, moments of sharpness and hunger that still echo in her bones. When she wakes to the sun and arranges fresh cut sunflowers, she wonders where that girl went and whether the water in the soda can was enough to keep everything from drying out.

She keeps thinking and remembering and wondering so hard that when the skinny silhouette appears at her corner again, Marnie’s not completely certain she didn’t just conjure a ghost out of her mind. But no, the girl is just as real as yesterday, just as hesitant in the late-morning haze.

She doesn’t look alarmed to see Marnie on the porch this time, in fact seems to be looking for her amid the vines and blossoms. When Marnie raises a hand in greeting, she gives a tiny nod and her shoulders seem to tighten with resolve.

“Hi,” she says, voice barely louder than the honeybees.

“Morning, sugar,” Marnie says, noticing that the girl is wearing the same clothes as yesterday and the vase of flowers is tucked in the mesh side pocket of her backpack—sagging, wilted, but still bright.

The girl blushes at the endearment and scuffs her foot on the sidewalk. “Hi,” she says again. “I just wanted to come and pay you back for the flowers yesterday, since that was really nice of you.”

“Oh, honey.” Marnie’s already shaking her head. “You don’t need to pay me anything. I don’t do it for the money.” Those flowers saved so carefully, that’s what she does this for.

But the girl’s already got it in her mind to do the opposite. “I don’t have money,” she says, blushing harder. “But I wanted to give you something…” She slides the bag off her shoulders and unzips it, stepping away from the curb as a city bus wheezes by. “I thought you could, maybe, plant these in your garden, too. I don’t know much about them, but I think they have pretty flowers.”

She puts something down on the stand—a small paper packet of something Marnie’s aging eyes can’t make out.

“Well, that’s awfully sweet of you,” Marnie says. “I’ll be sure to put them to good use.”

The girl nods and scuffs the pavement again. And then—she bolts, scurrying away around the corner before Marnie can hardly blink. Disappearing as quickly as she came.

It’s almost noon and the sun is hot now. Marnie should be inside with her glasses and a book, but instead she’s picking her way down the porch steps and across the lawn to see what this child has left for her.

She stoops and picks up a pouch of seeds. Sweet peas, the picture and label tell her. A generic brand that she recognizes from the hardware store in town, the one with a manager who frequently falls asleep at his counter stool and no security cameras by the back door.

Marnie has planted so many peas in her life that she’s gotten sick and tired of them, and their sprouting season is far gone by this point in the year. But she cradles these shriveled seeds in her palm like they’re precious gems and tucks them into a wide pot of the richest compost-filled soil she has. Sets them on the porch next to the doormat and vows to water them every single day, to keep them dutifully shaded from the ravenous sun.

🌻

She doesn’t think she will see the girl for a third time, but when she does, she knows it means something.

As a rule, Marnie isn’t a believer in signs or omens or anything one could define as mystical. She was religious once, but only because she had to be, and once she broke free from that version of herself she vowed never to go back. Astrology is a nice parlor trick, sure, and she knows with certainty that the ground beneath her feet is blessed, but she doesn’t engage with superstition or the notion of divine messages.

She does, however, believe in cycles. Birth and death, growth and withering, spring into summer into autumn. So when things begin to take on a pattern, she tries to pay attention.

It’s early in the morning again—just a couple hours after dawn—and Marnie is still working on today’s bouquets at the plastic folding table in the middle of the garden. There are neat piles of dahlias and calendula and lavender, and she’s sorting through them methodically when a figure crossing the street catches her eye. Marnie puts down the garden shears as the girl’s gaze drifts over the flowerbeds, then startles when she realizes Marnie is there again.

Marnie isn’t surprised that she’s surprised by that; this hour is one when most sensible folks still have their heads on the pillow. She’s also not surprised that the girl isn’t safe in a soft bed, but she is saddened by it, and the familiar outfit, and the wilted flowers, now four days old, still cupped stubbornly by her side.

Marnie has to do something, she decides. So she brushes the dirt off her fingers and smiles.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she calls over the fence. “Would you mind giving me a hand for just a moment here?”

The girl’s eyes go wide, like an animal on the wrong side of the road. “Um. Sure?” she says, making it a question.

“Wonderful,” Marnie says. “You can come right on through that gate there—” She gestures to the latch.  “––and don’t mind the dog. He’s a real sweetie.”

The girl hesitates but does as she’s told. Sure enough, the minute she steps through the gate, Elton rushes at her and jumps to lick her elbows, and she looks both startled and delighted.

“Oh! Hi, boy,” she says, a shy grin softening her mouth. “Good boy. Hi.”

“His name is Elton,” Marnie tells her. “Yes, like John. And mine is Marnie.”

She puts her hand out, leaving the question implied but unspoken, just in case. The girl looks at it for a moment before cautiously shaking. “Ashlin,” she says, her grip light and fleeting.

“Ashlin. That’s a beautiful name.”

A light flickers on in the girl’s eyes.

“Now…” Marnie walks back over to her table and picks up the shears. “I’ve got some errands to run today and I’m running a bit behind here, so I’m wondering if you would be so kind as to help me put together these last few bouquets before the morning rush hits.”

Ashlin blinks. “Me?”

“I can just tell you’ve got the eye for it.”

“I’ve never… I mean, I don’t think I’d know how…” But Marnie sees her fingers flutter above the nearest stems, something inside her itching to touch.

“Oh, it’s easy as pie.” Marnie picks up a soda can and a couple of dahlias, showing her how she cuts the stems diagonally to help the flowers soak up more water. “Just take a few of each kind and arrange them in a way you think looks nice. Follow your instincts and you can’t go wrong.”

Ashlin holds out for one more valiant moment before she gives in, reaching for a vase and a poppy. “Okay,” she says, and it comes out like Thanks.

Marnie doesn’t try to make the girl talk too much. She focuses first on finishing the bouquet she’s been working on, telling Ashlin about each type of flower as she adds it to the can. Explaining that she likes to put the tallest blossoms in the middle and work her way out, but that sometimes she’ll do it side to side or totally at random. There’s a word for this in Japanese, she says, but she’s always thought using fancy words makes things like this sound far more sophisticated than they actually are.

While she talks, she watches Ashlin out of the corner of her eye as the girl carefully gathers flowers together and stands them up tall. She notices her fingers become more steady and the tension lifts from her shoulders. It’s only once Marnie is convinced she’s no longer likely to bolt for the gate that she finally, casually, asks a question.

“So, Ashlin,” she says as she cuts another stem, “have you lived around here a long time?”

The girl’s hands freeze. “Um, sort of,” she says. “I, yeah, my family’s lived here for a while.”

“Mmm. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” Marnie adjusts a sprig of yarrow. “Then again, I’m a bit of a homebody. Bought this house twelve years ago and haven’t gone far past that gate ever since.”

“Oh. Yeah. I don’t really walk around much. But I lost my bus pass this week, so.”

Marnie’s old enough to know a lie when she hears one. “That explains it,” she says. “Buses make me claustrophobic, I’m afraid. And are you off to someplace in particular most mornings?”

“Just… job interviews.” Ashlin looks down at the table, at the flowers, everywhere but Marnie. “You know, for a summer job. Until I go back to school.”

“Of course. Found anything good yet?”

The girl’s shoulders sag. “Not really.”

With the state of her, Marnie isn’t surprised at this, either. Up close, she can see all the wrinkles in her clothing, the dark circles under her eyes, the bone-deep exhaustion like she’s barely holding herself upright. This, too, makes Marnie ache with a sadness she knows the girl doesn’t want to see.

So Marnie keeps her voice neutral as she says, “Sometimes the best you can do is keep at it. It took me years to land a good accounting job, then twice as many till they let me do it from home. What kind of job would you take, if you could have anything?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Ashlin shrugs. “Right now, it’s just kind of anything… but I guess I’ve always thought it would be cool to be an archaeologist. Like, go around the world finding old artifacts and stuff.” Her eyes brighten for a moment, then she shakes her head. “But, you know, there’s not really a huge market for that.”

“Mmm. I hear you there.” Marnie snips a stem. “But you never know unless you try, huh? Anyway, it’s not all about making money—capitalism’s overrated, in my humble opinion.”

Ashlin laughs—a sharp, unexpected laugh that fills the yard like sunlight. “God, ain’t that the truth,” she says, sounding decades older. Then, “Okay. I think that’s the last one?”

Marnie blinks. She’s right. All the vases are full already, ready to be nested into the stand and carried home by a dozen neighbors’ arms. Ashlin’s made quick work of it—and beautiful work, too.

“I was right,” Marnie says with her hands on her hips, looking over the flowers appraisingly. “You sure do have a good eye.”

Ashlin’s cheeks turn pink. “It wasn’t as hard as I expected.”

Marnie smiles. “That’s what I love about flowers,” she says. “They’re one of the few things in life where that isn’t the other way around. Now, you’d better take one of these with you; those ones are looking rather pitiful.”

And before the girl can protest, she scoops up the brightest bunch—okay, so maybe sometimes there is a best one—and presses it into Ashlin’s hands, giving her a look that says she better not even think about giving it back.

“Thank you,” she says quietly. And Marnie is pretty sure it’s not just the flowers that are adding color to her face, softening her into something just as beautiful.

Then something in Ashlin’s backpack vibrates, and her smile slides off. “Oh, shit,” she says, then course-corrects. “Sorry. I mean, I have to go. But thanks for letting me help.”

“No, thank you, sugar,” Marnie says. Then she has an idea, and it bubbles up before she can think it all the way through. “You know, if you’re looking for a job…. I couldn’t pay much, but I’d love to have your help here in the mornings—you’ve got such a knack for this, it’d be a shame to waste it.”

But before she even finishes the sentence, she sees that she’s made a mistake. Ashlin’s face has gone pale with dismay, and by Marnie’s last word she’s shaking her head rapidly.

“Oh, no,” she says, backing toward the garden gate, “I couldn’t—sorry, I just—thank you, but no. I’ll, uh, I’ll find something soon.”

Elton yips at her heels as she retreats, but she only gives him one distracted pat before stepping through the gate and latching it hastily behind her. The loud click echoes Marnie’s sinking heart.

“Sorry,” the girl says for the third time. “I can’t.”

“That’s all right,” Marnie calls after her, swallowing her disappointment as best she can. “But Ashlin,” and the girl pauses in her retreat, “don’t be a stranger now. I hope I’ll see you again.”

Ashlin just ducks her head and mumbles, so quiet Marnie only sees her lips form the words, “Yeah. Maybe.”

And then she’s gone. Again. And Marnie sighs to herself, stroking Elton as he bounds back to her side. “That damn independence,” she says out loud. “We know what that’s like, don’t we, boy?”

Flowers are one thing, and kindness and conversation, but money is too far. Anything that feels like pity, she remembers, is too much to stomach.

Do better next time, she tells herself sternly. Stick to the small things, and don’t make them seem remarkable.

So that’s what she does when Ashlin does come back a few days later. (Thank goodness she comes back.) No more job offers or too-nosy questions, nothing that gives Marnie’s guesses away. It’s only friendly waves and smiles at first, then cups of iced tea because Marnie brewed too much, then a couple of shirts she wonders might fit Ashlin because Marnie’s out of closet space. And always, of course, there are flowers. At least this is something that the girl stops pretending not to want; her eyes light up at every blossom Marnie hands over, whether it’s her brightest sunflower or a cluster of tiny chamomile flowers as fragrant as a fairytale, and Marnie likes to think each one breathes a little more life into Ashlin as she inhales their scent.

And like this, day by day and flower by flower, they nourish a kind of quiet trust. It’s cautious and green on the girl’s side, so that Marnie is always aware a wrong word could send her running, but it’s enough for her that Ashlin is no longer nervous each time she approaches the garden. Her smile lasts longer and she teases Elton with dog treats Marnie throws her and, though she must have some idea what Marnie is doing, she rarely refuses her small things as long as Marnie’s sure to mention how it’s really Ashlin who is doing her a favor. And then gradually, carefully, Marnie begins to give her more.

When she sees a wide crack spidering out across the surface of Ashlin’s phone, Marnie digs out an old model from her nightstand and tells her it’s unlocked so she should be able to switch the SIM card in, no problem.

When Ashlin shows up with bruises on her shins from what she insists was just a bad fall, Marnie gets the first-aid kit and helps her clean up the scrapes, wrapping them with bandages as the girl tries to hide her grimaces.

When Marnie comes out one morning with chocolate oatmeal cookies that she couldn’t possibly eat all by herself and notices the faint scratchiness on Ashlin’s chin, she tells her to wait for a moment and returns with a small ziploc bag of pills.

“I’m renewing my prescription next week,” she says, and Ashlin takes them with wide-eyed gratitude. Not just because of the act of giving, Marnie thinks, but maybe because she hadn’t been certain before. At this point in Marnie’s life, not many people are able to tell; she doesn’t feel it as a compliment, just a fact. This body of hers is worn and lived-in now, the rough in-betweens left far behind. And also, she remembers what it was like to be young and scared and wanting to see herself in others so hard that she couldn’t trust her eyes to see the truth rather than just a projected dream.

But she’s real for Ashlin, and she tells her so—one of the first true things they share. For the first time, Ashlin asks questions, short and stumbling ones that Marnie answers with ease. She tells the girl about the time she first knew, the way things were back in the ‘80s with hormones and paperwork, the many towns she moved through until she found one that wanted her to stay. She doesn’t linger on the difficult parts, but she doesn’t shy away from them, either—and when Ashlin asks another question, Marnie knows she’s right to keep it honest.

“What about your parents? Were they pretty okay with it?”

“Well, they weren’t exactly thrilled.” Marnie leans back in her lawn chair. “I had to leave a lot of things behind so I could find my way, and they were one of ‘em. I don’t hold it against them anymore, but it was a pretty rough thing for a while.”

The shudder that ripples through Ashlin’s body tells her everything she needs to know.

“Did they… did you…”

“Get kicked out?” Marnie says. “No, but only because I left before that could happen. It took me a long time to find someplace to belong.”

Ashlin’s lips tremble, and she looks like she’s fighting against something inside of her. Whatever it is doesn’t surface; she turns back toward the flowers, her fingers clutching the pills like a lifeline.

That day, as Ashlin leaves to go wherever she goes when she’s not in this garden, Marnie almost says it. Her lips press together hard to keep the words in, the ones she desperately wants to give this girl and knows with certainty she will never take. Wait. Stay. She has so much room in this old house of hers, so many eggs in the fridge, so much to offer that Ashlin must want, must need. But it won’t work—not yet—so she settles for tucking away a stray hair that’s escaped Ashlin’s ponytail and giving her a firm smile that means don’t be a stranger now.

She knows it’s the wrong thing. But she doesn’t realize how wrong until later.

When Ashlin doesn’t show up the next day. Or the day after that. Or the one after.

Maybe she’s busy, Marnie tells herself after the fourth day. Maybe she found a job after all. Maybe she’s just late. Marnie begins staying out longer, all morning, then all afternoon, squinting against the sun in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her small sparrow girl crossing the intersection or rounding the corner. But all she gets are stay-at-home dads and soccer moms, joggers and businessmen, teenagers chattering on the other side of the street. Every time it’s not Ashlin, Marnie’s heart squeezes tighter, the blood rushing further from her head.

Maybe she went home. Maybe she got kidnapped or injured or…

There’s too many things that could happen to girls who carry fresh flowers on their back.

It’s so hot, the days so long, and she can’t stop everything from wilting. The main beds are fine, but the vines on the porch are starting to shrivel in protest of the humidity and the herbs out back are losing their will to live. But the worst is that wide pot with the pea shoots, delicate green things that aren’t strong enough for this time of year, aren’t meant to be born into such extremes. Marnie worries over them like a scarecrow, trying everything she can think of to keep the sun at bay.

An umbrella. A sprinkler. The shade of her porch, then her kitchen, then her basement.

It’s no use. They’re barely growing.

On the seventh day with no sign of Ashlin, Marnie’s pretty sure she’s one straw away from breaking. She needs to do something, anything. She drags her laptop out onto the porch and lets her fingers hover over the keyboard.

Missing persons near me

She scrolls and scrolls until she finds too much. A painfully angled school photo with the wrong name. An address two streets from here. She closes the window, puts her head between her knees.

Where the hell could she have gone?

On the tenth evening, she’s ready to give up, except that she doesn’t know how to do that. All she knows as she stares into her untouched mug of sleepytime tea, watching the steam disappear and the water grow tepid, is that she can’t keep letting her hopes collapse every time the sun disappears behind her rooftop. She can’t be tied to someone who never even told her the full story, who carries the same unspoken pain Marnie’s worked hard to let go of for decades. She can’t keep making too many cookies and letting them go stale on her counter.

And she can’t keep believing that the figure at the end of the street could be her, could be real this time, could be a sharp girl with a soft voice and tangles in her hair—

Marnie sits up straight.

The figure draws closer, moving so slowly, so carefully.

When her squinting eyes make out the soda can with a handful of shriveled twigs inside, Marnie’s teacup goes clattering to the floor.

“Ashlin!” She’s got no time to be gentle, no patience to pretend—she’s on her feet and down the steps in an instant, rushing through the garden, fumbling with the gate. “Oh God, sugar, what happened?”

Ashlin’s trembling from head to toe when Marnie wraps her arms around her, and she’s not sure if it’s because of the hug or if she was already shaking. Her hair is messier than ever, there are bruises down her arms, and she’s thinner than the first day she came. Marnie draws back and presses a hand to her mouth, in part to stop herself from touching the girl again. In the dying evening light she looks so fragile and scared, Marnie feels the old fear that she’ll slip away in an instant.

“Come—for God’s sake—please come in,” she says, gesturing toward the house. “Tell me everything—or you don’t have to tell me anything—” Her hands flap wildly.

“Okay.” Ashlin makes the word tinier than a seed. But she doesn’t run away. “I’m okay.”

She follows Marnie through the gate, and then onto the porch, and then into her living room for the first time. Marnie doesn’t say anything about it for fear she’ll skitter away; instead she busies herself with opening a wooden chest and digging out every blanket she owns, and by the time she stands up again and finds Ashlin balanced on the very edge of the sofa, she’s gathered herself enough to think straight.

“Here,” she says, putting the blankets in a soft pile next to Ashlin and settling down in the easy chair across from her. “Don’t be afraid to make yourself at home.”

Ashlin smiles weakly and takes the top blanket. It’s a hand-me-down from someone Marnie used to know, hand-embroidered with tiny roses. Ashlin wraps it carefully around her shoulders, maybe more out of politeness than need, but either way she lets herself sink deeper into the cushions.

“That’s better.” Marnie takes a deep breath. “Right. Now, we can talk about things if you’d like, or I can make you a nice cup of tea and we can watch the sunset.” She nods at the front window, which faces east but catches a few remnants of gold and pink. “Either way is just fine with me.”

Ashlin bites her ragged lip, fiddles with the blanket. “The tea would be nice.”

“Absolutely.” Marnie rises swiftly and goes straight to the kitchen. The kettle’s still half full, so she tops it off and turns on the burner, taking two fresh mugs from the cabinet along with a container of loose-leaf chamomile. She wants with every fiber of her being to peek into the living room and see how Ashlin is doing, but she makes herself focus on the tea instead, giving the girl her privacy, her time to collect herself. And sure enough, by the time she brings the mugs in, Ashlin’s looking a little calmer, though still a heart-wrenching mess.

She accepts the tea with a thank you and a slightly stronger smile, and they both turn their attention to the window, to the slow-crawling fade of twilight. Marnie’s much more of a morning person, but she has to say there’s something calming about this time of day, too, the way the world quiets inch by inch as if on a dimmer dial, the faint buzz of insects and the fleeting silhouettes of bats across the darkening sky. She doesn’t say any of this aloud, letting Ashlin take it in for herself.

“They found me.” The color is almost gone when she cracks the silence. Mug between blanketed hands, still looking out the window. Marnie waits for the rest.

Some kids from school. They saw me at the mall and called the cops or something.” Ashlin exhales. “I had to… get out of town for a few days. So my parents wouldn’t find out.”

Marnie takes a sip of tea before replying. “You find that bus pass?” she asks lightly.

“No. Just walked. For a long time.”

Marnie’s heart pinches, but she only nods, not sure what she can say to hold this girl and all she’s been through. How to give her comfort without pity, help without fear.

“I’m sorry,” Ashlin says, and finally looks up from her cup. Meets Marnie’s gaze. Tilts her chin up in a way Marnie thinks means she’s trying hard not to cry. “For… I don’t know. If you worried or something. Or if you didn’t. Or, sorry, I probably should have told you more—and not kept coming here so much—and—”

The words are rushing out of her all messy and fragmented, and Marnie can see the fear coming back in Ashlin’s eyes as she puts a hand up, cuts her off.

“Shh, shhh, shhhh. No. Don’t you even think such things.” Marnie shakes her head vehemently. “I was worried sick about you, honey. I’ll tell you that. But you have nothing to apologize for. I know what it’s like to have hard choices and not know how to trust. I know you haven’t done anything that you didn’t absolutely have to.”

Ashlin’s eyes spill over. She blinks hard, desperate, exhaustion etched on her face.

“You don’t need to tell me anything you aren’t ready to,” Marnie continues, her voice softening. “And whatever’s happened doesn’t change things here for me. But I will ask you this one question. Do you have somewhere safe to go right now?”

She sees Ashlin swallow hard.

“No,” the girl whispers.

Marnie nods.

“Then you’re not leaving tonight. All right? I have a spare bed down the hall, and I’m going to make us eggs in the morning, and we’ll figure things out from there.”

Their eyes meet again, and it’s like that first day out in the garden. The wild creature trying to flee, the stubborn gardener who refuses to hear it. Marnie knows that Ashlin knows that she can’t turn away. That she needs this. So Marnie is going to make her keep it.

“Okay,” she finally breathes, curling a hand around the corner of the blanket. “I… I’d like that. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Marnie stands, takes their two empty mugs toward the kitchen sink. “I believe in giving what you can and taking what you need. That’s something the flowers will teach you.”

🌻

In the morning, Marnie makes the biggest omelette she’s ever cooked, studded with red peppers and mushrooms and basil from the garden.

Ashlin lets Elton out into the front yard and helps Marnie make thirteen bouquets. Twelve for the flower stand, one to fill the empty soda can that she moves from her backpack to the dining room table. After they’re done, they sit in the shade of the porch awhile and nod to a couple neighbors who stop by—or rather, Marnie nods and pretends to believe that Ashlin isn’t hiding each time someone appears, just stooping down to give Elton a good pat on the head until they leave. Marnie smiles and says good boy as the dog rolls over to his back, and asks Ashlin if she’d like some lemonade.

They don’t end up figuring things out, not that day. Nor the next one. Marnie keeps her promise and doesn’t ask any more questions. She just goes about her routine and leaves spaces for Ashlin to slip into, giving her laundry to fold and books to sort through, handing her a half-filled grocery list, showing her the recipes she’s dog-eared for this week’s dinners. Sometimes the girl slips away to the guest room for hours at a time, and sometimes she trails Marnie through her mundane chores and asks her about the art on the walls. It’s an ebb and flow that Marnie understands, so she follows Ashlin’s lead and lets the days pass, then the weeks.

Soon enough, they feel the end of summer closing in on them, the number of new blossoms dropping away with each sunrise. Soon there will only be chrysanthemums and cyclamens and forget-me-nots for the stand, then it will be time to close up for the cold months, put the garden beds to sleep with dreams of springtime. Marnie begins to show Ashlin how she saves seeds: leave the tallest plants to wither and carefully peel away their husks, plucking out tiny kernels to dry in the sun and tuck away in a dark place.

“Do you use all your own seeds?” Ashlin asks.

“Most of them. I’ve been saving for years now, still have some left over from last fall. Sometimes I’ll order them if I see a new variety I’m itching to try.”

Ashlin’s fingers are steady as she picks out the seeds from a dried-out sunflower. Marnie can imagine her pressing them into rich soil, coaxing green shoots up toward the sky. That season will take its time, and she doesn’t say it aloud in case it might not come true.

But deep in her bones, she knows this: things will grow. They always do. So when Ashlin finds the wide pot tucked away in a corner of the basement under a fluorescent glow lamp, Marnie doesn’t tell her what it is, just tells her to bring it back up to the porch and water it every morning. See what happens. If she’s careful and pays attention, Marnie’s sure that it will bloom.