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It says easy care on the side. That's the only reason she buys it.
She knows she's being suckered, but it's just too gorgeous; big white mesmerizing blooms. Dazzling. Showy.
It doesn't last. She puts it somewhere sunny, gives it the suggested ice cubes. But the bloom quickly wilts and the lovely green leaves droop and when she looks deeper the roots are ugly black tendrils, rotting, dissolving.
It fills her with guilt. She did exactly as it says, exactly as instructed and somehow it's not enough.
No. She's going to try again and she's going to do it right this time.
Be better.
Try harder.
"Why do you insist on buying those when you kill them every single time?" Rupert asks after she brings in the fourth orchid.
Maybe I need something to care for.
She doesn't say it; it will only upset him, only make him turn his eyes on her with scorn, with exasperation.
"They're pretty," she says, maybe a little childishly, a little wistfully. A little naively. "And this one's going to make it."
He doesn't answer. She doubts he even heard her.
The fourth one dies.
She's feeling spiteful. That's the only reason she buys it.
She hears the mockery in his voice echoing from her memory, from a fresh wound, still sharp and stinging. Another one? I'm certain you've realized by now you don't have the touch for it, darling.
She's got something to prove now. She's going to be the most attentive, nurturing plant caretaker possible. The fucking thing is going to live whether it likes it or not.
It does not, in fact, like it.
The blooms and leaves droop and brown and she feels a white hot, burning rage flow through her.
Un-fucking-believable. Fuck him. Fuck the plant.
When she looks up, there's a fucking mess on her pristine white floor, dirt sticking to the wall, shards of ceramic all over the tops of brown cardboard boxes and she's not acknowledging the searing tears on her face.
Fine. You know what? Fuck it.
She's good at ruining things. She's good at fucking things up, she's good at harming, good at destroying.
She can do that.
Should come as natural as breathing apparently.
And it does.
Until all of the sudden it doesn't.
Until all of the sudden she's finding a real, true breath of fresh air in the new space surrounding her. Until all of the sudden her heart is growing roots, finding the solid earth under her club and digging deep.
She's feeling reckless. That's the only reason she buys it.
She hasn't bought one since she moved, since the divorce. But she finds herself holding one, tall and graceful, as she goes to her car, having grabbed it on impulse, without any forethought. She misses them in her home, the bright cheeriness they bring.
Before she even gets it home she knows this one's not going to make it. It's completely different from any she's had before, the leaves and the blooms a shape that's totally unknown to her.
When she looks, there's no instruction card anywhere.
Of course it doesn't last.
She was stupid to even try.
She's not doing that anymore. That's the only reason she doesn't buy it.
The brilliant purple bloom reminds her of a tiny emoji heart but she's not doing that anymore.
No more hurting, no more destroying. She can't ruin anything else.
He was right, she thinks a little numbly, down in the depths of her steel clad heart. She tries and stumbles and fumbles every time, wrong choices at every turn.
She just doesn't have the touch.
It's tempting – she won't say it isn't. She brushes her finger over a soft petal, the bustle of the store around her muffling, fading away. It's very pretty, very soft. She can imagine it in the kitchen at home, washed in bright morning sunlight and it feels right.
But she doesn't have the touch. And this one's just too precious, too gorgeous to watch fade.
She can't lose it.
She leaves it be, hoping someone more capable will take it home, someone who will care for it enough to see its lovely amethyst bloom again and again, year after year.
She doesn't mean to come to a stop, really, but it catches her eye and grabs greedily at something in her chest.
Ted continues on, his story cutting off once he realizes she's no longer next to him. She only barely registers him though, the flower in front of her completely captivating her.
It's a soft pink – a shade that tugs at her heart, the color of a familiar, easy smile and butter and sugar and kindness on her tongue.
"You like orchids, boss?" he asks softly when he joins her.
She starts to nod and it turns into a shake of the head, "Used to get them a lot, at the shops, you know, like this, but…I couldn't ever keep them alive." She can hear the sadness in her own voice as she admits it, mourning the loss, her inability to keep them going, keep them happy, content.
She turns to him, pulling her eyes from the lovely bloom. He looks at her for a long moment, warm brown eyes pulling feelings to the surface she's better off forgetting.
"These grocery store ones?" He shakes his head. "It ain't easy to keep them goin'. Especially not if you're doing this." He taps the little sign that says Just add ice! with the back of his fingers.
He looks at the little orchid with a soft smile, though, before he turns back to her. "You should get it."
Her brows come down, shaking her head, "No, I…no, it's too pretty. I'll just…"
"Oh, c'mon I'll help ya," he smiles. "It'll be fun."
"Ted, really–" but he's already gone, headed into the store to buy it, the little pot gone from the display in front of her.
She takes it home at his insistence, though he's the one that bought it and he's the one that seems to know what it needs. She really doesn't want to see another one go, though. She forces Ted to come home with her, making him laugh when she insists the little plant is half his responsibility and he needs to do his part for it.
"First of all," he says. They stand at her island, staring down at the delicate flower. "Never give it ice. It's a tropical plant, it likes its water on the warm bath side, not the freezing side."
She nods, watching him lift the orchid from the purely decorative pot. Its roots tangle around the bottom of the clear plastic liner, looking dry and miserable. "Oh, see, now look at that," he says. "Orchids need air, space. Breathing room. She's all bound up in here."
She looks up from his hands at that, at his she, finding a little caring frown on his face. He turns the pot, shows her the healthy roots, the not so healthy ones, explains how the soil isn't the best for it but will do until it's done blooming.
He explains what it needs and it's practically the opposite of what she's always done for them, dubiously following the vague little instruction card. She starts to wonder, starts to think that maybe…maybe it wasn't her fault.
Maybe nothing would've ever been enough. Maybe those ones were hopeless from the start. She just had all the wrong information.
"She's gonna pull through," Ted says with conviction. He nods decisively before he turns to her with a grin. "You have any pots laying around here?"
She pours him a moscato, knowing he likes the sweeter ones, and herself a chardonnay. They sit at the island, the orchid tall and proud in its new little clay pot with proper drainage, plastic liner carefully removed by her own hands before being placed exactly as it was in the new container.
She's a little proud of herself. Which is silly – he told her what to do, as well as where it will probably fair best, what to check it for.
"You know you have to tell me how you know so much about orchids," she says, sliding his glass to him.
He smiles, "Little reading goes a long way."
Her brows come down, "And for what purpose are you researching tropical plants in your free time?"
He tilts his head at her, looking…fond. "Because you sure looked heartbroken at the thought of killing it."
Oh.
She looks away from him, down at her wine glass, then up at the pink flower.
For her to ruin this one? It would break her heart. Immensely.
"I knew a little bit already," he continues. "My mama worked at a greenhouse for a long time. Plus, you know, Beard."
"I appreciate it, Ted," she says quietly. Too soft, too affected – she knows when she turns back to him that he'll see exactly how much it means to her.
"They get a bad rap," he says, tapping the pot. "People say they're finicky, difficult. But these kind? They've been sabotaged from the start. Glued into foam, buried in soil when they need to breathe."
She looks at him, his eyes a little wistful on the bloom, that deep line forming between them before he turns them on her. "She's used to what she's used to, though. Gotta change things slowly, you know. Don't wanna shock her."
She sucks in a deeper, fortifying breath through her nose before she breaks away from his gaze, sipping her wine.
"I think this one's stronger," she says quietly, unable to leave it there, without giving him something.
"Still," he says after a moment. "She's well worth the patience."
It lasts longer than any other.
It sits in her kitchen window, looking as lovely as she always imagined one might. She makes it a new part of her morning routine to check it everyday, watering once it's dried out, scanning the leaves for any spots, droops, grooves. She makes Ted come and do the same at least once a week, buying him dinner each time in thanks.
It seems happy.
Ted sends her a new picture of a different weird species of orchid every week – crazy ones with blooms that look like birds, bugs, dancers, fairies, monkey faces, and a particularly terrifying one that looks like a skull. She unfailingly responds with a picture of her own soft pink flower with a simple I like this one.
Ted had warned her the blooms would fall eventually, but that doesn't stop her from calling him when she wakes on a Saturday morning and finds a barren stem with wilted flowers. She insists he make sure it wasn't something she did and he gives in easily. He comes to her aid, pastries and supplies in hand.
"We get to really repot it now!" he says around a vanilla scone.
"Okay," she concedes. "Here?"
He grunts around his mouthful of pastry before taking a long swig of his coffee. "Let's take it out back. Might get a little messy."
So they do, sitting on the small brick patio out back, the orchid between them, and it does get messy. She watches his hands pull soil and moss away from plump, green roots. He compliments her at the sight of them, confirming that it seems perfectly healthy. She helps him, holding the plant steady as they arrange the new chunks of bark around its roots.
She knows he's good at coaching, good at teaching, but she's never been his pupil so directly before – it amazes her, his ability to explain without patronizing. And he does – explain that is – everything they're doing and why and what she might need to change with the orchid bark replacing the soil.
She loves watching him talk. He's animated and passionate and she can see an almost boyish appetite for learning in him. He has an appreciation for everything, a wondrous awe at the world around him that's simply contagious. She can't help her smile as she watches him, eyes bright as he tells her about a 150-year-old orchid in Singapore.
"It's five meters wide. That's like," he stretches his arms out, looking between his hands, "I have no idea how many feet but it's pretty darn big for an orchid."
She smiles at him, chuckling, "One meter is just a little under a yard."
He points at her. "Okay, yards I know," he says. "Very familiar with yards. So fifteen feet! Longer than you and me both stretched end to end."
She laughs at that comparison, "Is that your newest unit of measurement? You and me stretched end to end?"
He laughs and shrugs, "Sure. Comes in handy when I still can't get any conversions down."
She just laughs again as they clean up before taking the orchid back into the kitchen. He points out where they'll prune it back in the hopes of getting another round of blooms and hands her the little pruning scissors.
She immediately tries to hand them back, alarmed, "No, Ted, you."
"Nah, c'mon, you got this," he says, pushing her hand back towards her. "One little snip. She doesn't need this part here sucking up her energy anymore. It's served its purpose and we're gonna get rid of it for her, yeah?"
He nods with a soft little encouraging smile, eyes warm and understanding. He holds the end of the empty flower spike and she cuts it carefully, right where he'd showed her. He lifts it away and gestures with it, "Easy peasy."
He smiles again as she puts the scissors down and he hands the pruned stem to her. She looks down at it, spinning it between her fingers.
The amount of research he's done, all the reading that she could've simply done herself, but had too much doubt to bother with, it all strikes her suddenly as just a tremendous act of caring on his part. For him to show an interest in something that mattered to her, even something as simple as this, just to help her with it, to be a part of it…
She shakes her head a little bit. He just loves her.
When she looks up at him his eyes are soft with it, chestnut eyes happy and content as he gazes at her, swirled with a gold that she feels like is meant just for her.
She leans across the space between them and kisses him. Just her lips, soft and relaxed, closing over his for a moment. Her lips tingle as she pulls away slowly, a little stricken by the feeling of rightness settling into her chest. Chestnut and gold are gone then, his eyes closed, brows lifted as a smile twitches at his lips.
"Was that okay?" she asks quietly, her heart pounding against the wall of her chest. His eyes come open again, looking just as happy and loving as they had before. More so, actually.
"Yes," he says simply.
The stem falls to the ground as her hands rise to his face, his cheeks petal-soft under the pads of her thumbs as she kisses him again. He kisses her back, with more pressure but just as gentle as the first, mustache tickling under her nose, his hands landing on her waist and holding her to the earth when it feels like she's about to float away.
It's going to bloom again. She can feel it.