The Blooming Wine is a work of love, like I told him last time he was here or anytime anyone asks about it. It started with me selling some of my parents’ wine, and it has grown into what it is today: a place to celebrate slowing down.
Yes, people can stop by, buy a book, some flowers, and leave, but what I hoped to accomplish is what ended up happening. People come to browse books, sip on coffee, and to talk to friends. Not fancy coffee, either. I’m not a full barista, but I played with what I could do to make sure I was offering something cozy and unique.
And the flowers? Well, after spending years making bouquets with whatever I could find, I knew I wanted to do that here. Again, nothing fancy, but unique enough that people keep coming back. Wine, flowers, books, coffee, and conversation. All things I love.
The coffee maker beeps, right on time for me to fix a mug for both of us.
“Any requests today?” I ask, starting my Sunday vibes playlist and smiling at him.
If theweight of the worldwas in the dictionary, the picture under it would be this guy. I don’t know anything about his life, but damn, it hurts my heart to see him like that.
“Or I can surprise you again. You certainly liked the sprinkles last time.” I grab mugs and proceed to add a few pumps of salted caramel and brownie, both flavors I love, especially together.
“You remember?” He slides the menu off the counter, his life altering gaze on me.
“The order from last time? Yes, but I was going to make you something else.”
He shakes his head. “No, you rememberme?”
I let a smile wash over my face, softening my features. “I do. I’ve been thinking about you, actually.”
I pour oat milk over the coffees, a dollop of cold foam and cinnamon on top. My favorite. My mom always made coffee with a dash of cinnamon and warm milk. It was a childhood staple; just like letting me take a sip before school was too. I don’t let my kids drink coffee, but I do treat them to a Submarino every now and then, warm milk and a piece of chocolate that melts slowly. It gives me that feeling of being with my parents. They aren’t the warmest people, but it’s the little things that remind me I was loved.
“Oh?”
I place the coffee in front of him and take a sip of mine. “Yeah, I wondered if whatever was bothering you that day is long gone.”
I walk up to the door, flip the sign to open, and turn on the lights. Quietly tidying where I can, picking things up from the floor in the kids’ area, and making the place look somewhat put together. By the time I return to my coffee, it’s at the perfect temperature, and I sigh in comfort.
“It hasn’t gone away.” He’s sitting in what my mind has catalogued as his chair.
“Huh?”
“The thing that had me sad that day.” He sips on his coffee, closing his eyes and not only taking the drink, but also savoring it. He’s not wearing glasses today, and his jaw is cleanly shaved, just the mustache disappearing behind the mug. His hair is a little tousled, and if I could take a picture of this moment, I would.
Peak marketing material.
“I didn’t mean to pry, I just wanted to let you know I noticed. And whatever it was, I know you can figure out a way past it.”
He holds my gaze, and for a second, we’re both suspended in time, both trying to figure something out. Me if I can help him, him if he should tell me. I don’t know why I feel so drawn to him and what’s bothering him, but I do. Somehow, it feels like if I can solve his problems, whatever they are, I would feel accomplished. Listening, offering comfort, maybe it’ll help him and me realize not everyone is out there walking around with pain the size of a crater in their chest.
“You said last time, you would be willing to give advice. Does that still stand?”
“Why yes, the offer still stands.” I take a seat on my green and gold swivel chair and sip on my perfect coffee. “I’m all ears.”
“I—well, I’m a stranger, and this might be a little much, so I, I don’t know. I want to make sure it’s fine with you, I guess.”
“I mean…if you killed someone, I would have to report it.”
He shakes his head. “What?”
“If you’re sad because you have remorse over murdering someone, I mean. I would have to, without a doubt, report it. So, if that’s the case, then I don’t want to know,” I tease, but does it come out as a joke?
He shakes his head again in surprise.
He did not take it as a joke, so I give him a sassy smile, which makes him chuckle.
“I did not kill anyone.”
