Page 28 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

My basket gets heavy quickly, not just with the basics I needed but with a few extra small luxuries I’ve decided to treat myself to. I deserve it after the recent events

As I continue to drift around, I'm drawn to a small central display table scattered with stones of different shapes, sizes, and colours. I should have known a place like this would have crystals given its whimsical energy.

I pause at a translucent brown-grey stone. The label says something about absorbing negative energy and converting it.

“Right,” I mutter. “I probably need about twelve of those.”

Naomi glances up. “That one's popular.”

“Does it actually work?”

She shrugs, “People like the idea of it working.”

Fair enough.

By the time I make my way to the counter, the basket holds a homemade vanilla perfume, dark chocolate-covered dried cherries, and the smoky quartz crystal I picked up in hopes that it delivers on its promise.

I bring everything over to Naomi, setting the basket in front of the vintage-looking till that looks like straight out of the Victorian era. She starts to total up the price of the items unhurriedly, glancing over each item with quiet curiosity as she goes

“Oh, this is a good choice,” she says, holding up the vanilla perfume before setting it aside.

I nod with a timid smile as she continues through the rest of the items. Small talk has never come naturally to me. Not with girls, anyway. It's a strange thing, I'll run my mouth in front of any man without thinking twice, but with women I don't know, something in me goes quiet. All my anxieties come crashing in at once, convinced they've already decided they don't like me before I've even opened my mouth.

Rationally, I know that's not the case. I've been had that conversation with a long list of counsellors and sat through more of Iris's pep talks than I can count. But even now I'm picking at the skin around my nails.

I need to talk to make friends here. This is a new place, somewhere I could build something different. Be different. Throw myself into the moments I'd have talked myself out of back in London. This girl seems lovely, and I can't just rely on the ranch for every human connection I have. I need someone outside of work. Because the life I am chasing isn’t centred around work, no matter how lovely the ranch lot has been to me.

“Fifty-six dollars and seventy-eight cents,” Naomi cuts through my thoughts.

I blink. “Wow. All of that for that price? I’d pay an arm and a leg for this back in London.”

“Oh, I thought that’s what your accent was,” she says. “You been here long?”

“About three weeks. I’m working at the ranch. Temporarily.”

I've always relied on that word to manage my expectations. I’m used to things not feeling right, so "temporarily” became a kind of armour. A way of leaving before I could be left behind.

But standing here now, it doesn't sit as comfortably as it used to. The idea of all this being temporary already feels wrong in a way I wasn't expecting.

I don't examine that feeling too closely. Not in front of a stranger. And not when I still have months left here to figure out what these new feelings mean.

She tilts her head. “Gonna need to be more specific on which ranch, chick. There's a few scattered around Wildbrook Hollow.”

A short laugh comes out of me, showing how awkward I am even more. “Yeah…Meadow Bell Ranch.”

“Ah.” Something shifts in her expression, just slightly. “That's where my mum works.”

“Mrs Mae?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “She did say someone new started there.” Her mouth curves slightly. “Didn't mention it was a woman though. She omitted an important detail; I’ll be having a word with her.”

We both laugh, it’s such a small but genuine moment that I begin to feel at ease. I study Naomi for a brief moment. Confusion must have been obvious on my face, because she adds, “I'm adopted. Hence the black daughter, white mother situation. People do a double-take sometimes.”

“Ah, yeah. Well, she’s an amazing woman, has been a godsend since I arrived.”

“She really must like you then, she’s got a good judgement of character,” she says, sliding two brown paper bags across the counter. The shop’s logo is stamped on the front—two twig-like leaves with small wildflowers woven through them.

Then, almost casually, she adds, “I’ve slipped my number in there. If you ever want to get away from the testosterone zest pit in that ranch, send me a text.”