Tahira in Bloom

by Heron, Farah

  “I find it hilarious that now you’re so into plants,” Rowan said, grinning. “I still remember the look on your face the day we met, when I told you people come out to Wynter’s to take pictures of flowers. Now look at you . . .”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m young. I’m allowed to change my mind. Honestly, before this summer, I had no idea . . .” I sat back down next to him. “Surrounded by so much life. It’s such a cliché, but the colors, the shapes . . . I admit it. I get why you’re such a Plant-Boy. I get why you want to make a career out of this stuff.”

  He gazed out into the field. “I know it’s weird.” He chuckled. “I feel at peace when I’m surrounded by . . .”

  “Nature?”

  “Yeah, but like . . . natural beauty that I can cultivate, you know? I feel like I have some superpower to know how to make this happen. To understand how to make flowers grow. To know their secrets. I mean, flowers are everywhere—in art, in design—”

  “In fashion.”

  “Exactly. Green spaces, too . . . they inspire people. People feel at peace . . . they feel a connection to the natural world. I want to be the one who creates the places that make people so happy.” He paused. “What about you? Why fashion?”

  I thought for a moment before answering. “People express themselves in what they choose to wear,” I finally said. “But clothes, mass-produced clothes especially, are created for mass tastes. Different kinds of people designing means more choices, and hopefully more people who aren’t like everyone else will find stuff that speaks to their true selves. That’s what I want—to make the things that people use to express themselves.”

  He lightly fingered the hem of the shirt he was wearing. “This shirt . . . I wouldn’t have picked for myself . . . ,” he said.

  “Because there’s no plant pun on it?”

  He laughed. “Let me finish. I wouldn’t have picked this for myself, but I like it. It makes me feel . . .”

  “Normal? Grown up? Mature?”

  “Hey,” he said, laughing. “I thought you liked my shirts.”

  “I do. I totally do. Sorry . . . it makes you feel . . .”

  He smiled. “Different, but still me. I feel like the me I am, the person I don’t normally express . . . sorry, that sounds cheesy.”

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t sound cheesy at all.” I grinned. “I like you in something I made.”

  “I like me in something you made, too.”

  “I’m not sure you would have said that about me a few weeks ago.”

  “I know. I was wrong.” His gaze was fixed on me. “I apologized before, and I’ll say it again. I was such a dick when we met. I was in a terrible mood that day, and you touched a nerve, but that’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

  I tilted my head. “You’re forgiven. Totally. I wasn’t exactly my best self that day, either. I didn’t want to move to Bakewell, and I judged you and everything here too quickly. I should’ve given this place, and the people in it, a chance.”

  We’d come a long way since then. When we’d met, we had made snap judgments about each other, hadn’t looked beyond the surface. We were both so sure we had nothing in common. But both our first impressions were wrong.

  He took a breath. “Look, Tahira. I’m going to be straight with you. I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I know I was an ass, and I know you’re only here for the summer, and we’re both very busy, and you just broke up with someone, and we’re doing the Bloom together so it’s probably not smart, and . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “And what?” I whispered, leaning closer to him.

  “And . . .” That little smile again. “I like spending time with you. I really like talking to you. I like . . . looking at you. And . . . I don’t think I could forgive myself if I let this summer go by without asking you one question.”

  “Ask,” I said, leaning even closer.

  “Can I kiss you?” he whispered. His lips were already so close.

  I could barely think with my heart beating in my ears. I had goose bumps even though it was so warm. All the objections I had to getting involved with him faded away as I gave him the only answer I could. “Yes, please.”

  We were both smiling when our lips finally touched. It was a small kiss. A soft kiss. A sweet kiss that tasted of raspberries and almonds from the Bakewell tart. He lifted his face from mine, and we looked at each other. I could never get enough of staring at that face.

  But I also really liked kissing it. I put my hand on Rowan’s waist, on the soft pima cotton of the shirt I’d sewn, and pulled him close again. He leaned in and took my cheek in his hand. And we were kissing again. Harder. Hotter. His calloused hand on my face, and his soft mouth on mine. In the wide-open air, in the middle of a field of sunflowers, Rowan Johnston’s body pressed against mine.

  This, right here, was all I needed.

  20

  THE SUMMER FLING

  Two months ago, if someone had told me the happiest moment of my summer would be lying on a blanket in the middle of a field of flowers on the chest of a guy who spent all his spare time in his garden, I would have laughed my face off. But here we were, and I’d honestly never been so content. His strong body under mine, his heartbeat in my ear. When he spoke, it reverberated through my whole body, like we were one person.

  We were both kind of quiet at the beginning of the drive home. I knew we should talk about what had happened in that sunflower field. After Matteo, I wasn’t about to make assumptions or just play it by ear again. I was in way too deep with Rowan to risk that.

  I didn’t know how to start the conversation, though. Bringing up relationship talk even before our second (or third?) kiss?

  It seemed that Rowan read my mind. “U-um . . . ,” he stuttered. “So, are we, I mean, do you want to do that again?”

  I turned to him, smiling. “Do what again? Make out with earthworms under us?”

  He huffed a chuckle. “I don’t have an issue with earthworms. But I was thinking more the, you know, date.”

  “So that is what that was, then.”

  He smiled.

  “Can we be honest with each other?” I asked.

  He took a breath. “Okay. Honestly, Tahira, I like you. I think I liked you from the moment I saw you, even though you made me a little nutty. I know the timing is bad, and I’m only here for a month before uni. No pressure, but . . . I want to go out with you again. A lot.”

  “Are you proposing a fling for the rest of the summer?” I asked. I couldn’t promise more than the summer. I wasn’t sure Rowan would fit in my life in Toronto.

  He chuckled. “A fling is a good name for it.”

  A fling was casual. Manageable. But there was one issue with casual. “Will we be exclusive? Or will you be seeing—”

  He reached over and squeezed my knee. “Totally exclusive. There is no one else I want right now.”

  A part of me wondered if this was a good idea, even for just the summer. The Plan, my portfolio, my online platform—all that mattered too much. I didn’t need distractions. True, I’d dated Matteo without losing focus, but this was different. Matteo wasn’t much of a distraction because he lived farther away from me. Rowan was literally next door. Plus, Matteo was trying to get into the fashion industry, too, albeit in a different way, so our goals overlapped. He always encouraged me, and often helped me do the things I needed to do to reach my goals.

  But Rowan would support my goals and my hustle, too, wouldn’t he? Was I still judging him? Assuming he didn’t value the things that were important to me?

  I needed to give Rowan a chance. This was just a summer fling. There was no reason to worry—I’d always been able to prioritize my Plan; this would be no different.

  “Everyone is going to talk about us,” I said. That was another problem. Trying to hide anything in Bakewell was futile.

  “Welcome to a small town,” Rowan said. “People are in our shit whether we want them to be or not.”

  “I don’t know how
you deal with that.”

  “Says the person who blasts their boyfriend to their 20K followers.”

  “That’s different,” I said. “It was on my own terms, you know? And now you’re going to be on my page, too. Anyway, say what you will about influencers—at least we have tough skin.”

  He ran his hand over my bare arm while looking at the road. “Tough, but very, very soft, too.”

  His touch gave me goose bumps. This summer fling was a great idea. What could go wrong? “Okay. Let’s do this. You and me are officially dating.”

  I was busy with a capital B for the next week. I was at the store almost every day, and I was writing a piece for the town newspaper on Lilybuds’ new “younger” line. I posted pictures of the photo shoot with Rowan on my own Instagram page and was delighted with the fan reaction to my stunning new model.

  I barely saw Gia. She’d even missed our Bloom meeting on Wednesday because she had plans with Cameron. It was fine, though, because we spent the whole time trying to figure out how we’d make the frame for the sculpture, and that wasn’t really Gia’s area of expertise. And I understood. I spent all my spare time with my boyfriend, too.

  True to my expectation, everyone knew Rowan and I were dating practically before we even got home from our photo shoot at the nursery. Juniper squealed with utter delight and hugged me like I was marrying her brother instead of dating him. Gia smiled knowingly because, of course, she knew.

  Shar was mostly happy—I mean she loved Rowan probably more than me, but she was still a Muslim Indian Aunty, so she was required to be overprotective and a little bit judgmental. And she unfortunately told my parents about this fling before I had the chance to figure out how to avoid a replay of the safe sex and “remember your focus” talk again. So I did have to hear the lecture over FaceTime (thankfully no pantomime this time), but at least Shar was able to reassure them that Rowan was honestly everything any parent could want for their daughter. Smart. Polite. Driven. Eventually, after I reassured Mom and Dad that I would keep my priorities straight and my career goals would always come first, they said they were looking forward to meeting Rowan. They sounded sincere.

  On Saturday evening, June, Rowan, Gia, and I were in the backyard with a big stack of copper tubing Rowan had found, some new rolls of chicken wire, and a large pizza. We’d already been working for an hour on the frame for the Bloom. It was progressing. Sort of.

  Basically, we were using lengths of copper tubing to make the outline of the narrow lily petals, which we would then fill in with chicken wire. Then we’d attached several of the petals together to make the lily shape, and we’d use floral wire later to attach the flowers and moss to the chicken wire.

  But it wasn’t going as well as we’d hoped. The biggest issue was how to get the lengths of copper tubing attached at the tips of the petals. When we wired the ends together, it all looked clumsy instead of clean and sleek like I’d imagined.

  “What if we used copper wire?” June asked. She’d changed into loose jeans and a teal T-shirt after work, and her hair was pulled into a high bun. She was standing behind Rowan and me at the workbench, eating a slice of pizza.

  “The frame won’t show in the finished sculpture,” I said. “I’m more concerned with the bulk added by the wire, not the color of the wire.”

  “Have y’all tried gluing it?” Gia asked. She had pulled one of the lounge chairs closer to the workbench to sit on. I didn’t mind that she was more moral support and brainstorming at this meeting. Only so many hands would fit on the actual sculpture frame, anyway. Especially now, when we were working on the fiddly bits.

  I looked at Rowan. Today’s shirt had two little plant pots waving to each other. One said, ALOE, HOW ARE YOU? The other responded with, LONG THYME, NO SEE! It was adorable.

  “I think we have some Gorilla Glue somewhere; should we try that?” he asked.

  “It’s worth a shot,” I said. After digging out the heavy-duty glue from his garage, we glued the tips of the tubes together and then taped them so they’d hold until the glue dried.

  “It’s fast dry,” Rowan said, reading the back of the tube. “We have half an hour.”

  We sat on the patio drinking iced tea while we waited. Rowan and I were on one couch, Juniper on the one across from us, and Gia had turned her lounge chair to face us.

  “You know those pictures Cameron took of me downtown a few days ago?” Gia asked. “You have to see how many likes they got. And the comments!” She started listing some of the names of style influencers we’d connected with in the past. “My followers have been loving my flower content.”

  I smiled, reclining a bit onto Rowan. His arm wrapped around my shoulder. Week one of my and Rowan’s summer fling had been very good. We’d lain out in the garden stargazing a few nights, but we’d also had some quality time alone in the tiny house up on my loft bed. Kissing until our mouths were numb or snuggling close, watching movies on my iPad.

  I couldn’t get enough of him. I loved talking to him. I loved kissing him. I loved that I’d agreed to this summer fling.

  “That’s awesome, Gia,” I said. “I’m so happy for you.” And I was. Maybe it was thanks to my shiny new relationship, but I was almost euphorically happy about just about everything this week.

  “I saw those pictures,” June said. “They were amazing. Ooh, you know what would be cool? To do, like, outfit shots that match book covers! There’s this new release with flowers on the cover that looked a lot like that dress you were wearing. Tahira, are there fashion and book Instagram accounts?”

  “I mean, probably? You could start one.”

  “I don’t think I have enough clothes. I have the books, though.”

  “Tahira,” Gia said, “seriously, though. You’re doing yourself a big disservice by not posting flowers on your page. My engagement has tripled.”

  “I had flowers on my page last week.” I’d posted the shots of Rowan and me in the greenhouse that same day we took them. They’d been well received, of course. Who wouldn’t heart a picture of Rowan’s face? “I’m trying to keep my brand consistent. I want to stick to the urban, industrial influence in my designs.”

  “Yeah,” Gia said. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t photograph your urban clothes with flowers around them.”

  “Did you post the pictures of the sunflowers?” Rowan asked.

  I tilted my head. “No . . . I thought those were . . . just for us.” I loved the pictures from the sunflower field so much—I looked at them all the time. There was one in particular, where Rowan wasn’t looking at the camera, but the sun was hitting his face just right. In my red shirt, surrounded by all those bright-yellow flowers. It was so stunning.

  Keeping my brand consistent wasn’t the only reason I hadn’t posted them on my feed. Every time I thought of that perfect day—the warm sun, the picnic, and, of course, our first kiss—it was a memory I wanted to keep special. Not share with the world.

  One side of Rowan’s mouth upturned. “You’re not ashamed of me, are you? I agree I would have looked better in one of my own shirts, but yours wasn’t that bad . . .” I knew he was joking, so I poked him in the ticklish spot on his side.

  He yelped, then leaned over to start tickling me back.

  “Hey, now,” June said. “Can y’all save that for when there are no family members around?”

  Rowan laughed and sat up straight. “Seriously, though, Tahira. I don’t mind if you post them. Whatever happened to artists selling themselves as much as their art? Your followers may want to see a less . . . curated side of your life.”

  Maybe? I had to admit that, unexpectedly, flowers—and Rowan, of course—had become a big part of my life. And he was right: I was the one who said the artist represented the brand as much as the art did. I pulled up that picture on my phone. It did kind of work for my brand, anyway. The flowers were monochromatic. And the shirt was very visible, and very me.

  Why not? I quickly wrote up an Instagram post while Rowan watched
. I added that picture, with a few more from the sunflower field. Honestly, I kind of liked the idea of showing him off a bit more. I grinned as I hit “Share.” “Done. All my 20K followers will see how hot you looked in that field that day.”

  He tightened his arm around me and looked at me like he wished we were alone.

  Gia groaned, looking at June. “Oh God, they’re at it again, June. C’mon, guys, it’s been half an hour. Let’s get back to work. Because I—”

  I stood. “I know, G. You have a date later.” I held out my hand to Rowan. “Shall we finish our work?”

  A week later, on Sunday night, Rowan, Juniper, and I were having tea and oatmeal cookies on the patio couches in the garden. We’d been dating for two weeks now, and things were going so well that I’d just had dinner with the Johnstons, which was awkward but fine. The weather was beautiful, and I was conscious of the fact that the Bloom was a week away. After the Bloom, Gia and I had a week and a half in Bakewell before we needed to go back to Toronto to get ready for school to start in September. I wanted as much time as possible in this garden before I couldn’t be here anymore.

  “Was anyone able to help you figure out how we can hold the lily petals together?” I asked Rowan. After gluing the frame, we’d tried adding some moss and flowers a few days later, but the glued petal tips snapped open. Rowan had said he would ask around at work to see if anyone had any ideas.

  “Yeah, Leanne’s dad said he could show us how to weld them. I don’t know why I didn’t think to ask him first. He’s a contractor—he welds plumbing pipes all the time.”

  Oh. That was a simple solution. “Perfect.”

  “Yeah, he’s free Tuesday night, so we can have our Bloom meeting at Leanne’s place, and use his supplies to weld. Then we can test it again. Leanne will bring the plants we need from the nursery to practice.”

  “Oh.” I turned to Juniper. I was pretty sure June had barely seen Leanne since the Lily photo shoot a few weeks ago, and that was intentional. I’d seen Leanne, of course. I mean, I was dating her best friend. But June was still trying to avoid her.