CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
NICHOLAS
After possibly the busiest week in the history of Blossom, I get up Friday morning exhausted, but determined.
It’s time to show Clay exactly how I feel.
He hasn’t texted or called. He just disappeared. It’s frustrating, but I know I share some of the blame. I’ve held back my feelings because of ideas about who Clay and I both are and what we each want, but I owe us both the truth.
And the truth is, I love him. And I love who we are together. Easily, I can see us building a life, Clay right here in Allentown where he belongs. Leading a carpentry crew and accomplishing all of his other dreams, but here.
My soul aches—I want that so bad.
I need to tell him how I feel, but anything flashy or public is out. Clay needs to know that I want him exactly the way he is, and that he doesn’t need to put on a sunflower costume to make me happy. I want our quiet nights together, our happy oasis in the middle of the bustle of the gayborhood.
I want the life that only we can build together.
And I’ve decided to show him I care the best way I know. With flowers.
After filling my coffee, I head out, driving south down the lake. It’s been long enough that the shooting stars have sent out their second bloom, and I’ve got the homeowner’s permission to gather a second mini-harvest. Back at the woods where I first met Clay, I climb over the ditch and get back to harvesting.
There’s a busy day ahead at Blossom. Kavya and Zooey are taking the lead on the flower booth, getting supplies together and planning bouquets, which leaves the rest of the business logistics to me. And I decided to take Clay’s advice, so we have the marketing company coming in this afternoon to take photos and launch a social media campaign around the event.
But no matter how busy I am, I’ll never be too busy for love. Clay deserves to be treated like a priority, shown that he matters to me, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
With a basket full of purple flowers, I deftly climb back over the ditch. When I remember our first encounter here, I can’t help but laugh to myself.
I’ll fall in a million ditches if it means I get my man.
Cruising back to the gayborhood, I rehearse what I need to say. Clay doesn’t want the kind of public attention and overwhelming sentiment that I’d typically envision for a grand gesture like this, so I’ll make sure to do this all behind closed doors. I’ll put on my best suit, fill my apartment with bouquets of shooting stars, and bare my soul, offering him the truth that I’ve owed him for weeks now.
I don’t need an elaborate wedding. I don’t need swoony declarations or endless nights dancing together at the gay bar. I just need him.
When I get back to the neighborhood, my mind is racing. I find a parking spot a couple of blocks away and scurry toward Blossom, the basket of flowers on my arm, and dressed in my dirty, ill-fitting work clothes.
After I round the corner, though, everything freezes.
It’s Clay.
He stands about fifty feet away from me, dressed in jeans and his button-up white shirt. My heart leaps with joy, and tears fill my eyes. I’m so relieved to see him.
“Nicky,” he says, his deep, gravelly voice soothing.
“Clay,” I answer as I close the distance between us. “You’re back!”
My thoughts spin. He didn’t tell me he was returning. Is everything okay?
His eyes turn to the basket of flowers on my arm. “Those are the shooting stars,” he says.
“You remember.”
We stand for a moment on the street, looking at each other. The neighborhood is coming alive around us, people passing by, but I only see him, and I can tell he only sees me, too.
“I’m really glad to see you,” I tell him. “I went to harvest these flowers because I need to talk to you, Clay. I need to tell you something.”
“Yeah. I’ve got something to say, too.”
He reaches out and takes my cheek, his hand on my face, and my spirits soar.
