I Gave Him Ten Years, He Said I Didn’t Get Art Chapter 08

I Gave Him Ten Years, He Said I Didn’t Get Art Chapter 08

New York City.

I stood behind the register of my flower shop, trimming the stem of a white rose.

The scissors snapped shut, loose leaves landing atop an old newspaper spread across the counter.

I’d just signed the lease to take over this tiny flower shop. It wasn’t large, but sunlight flooded every corner. No cloying scent of wood shavings lingered here-only fresh, soft floral fragrance.

It had been half a month since I left our old city.

Jenna had called me several times.

The first call came late one evening as I refilled glass vases with water. She told me Thomas had gone half-mad searching for me, pulled all his artworks from the gallery exhibition, and paid a staggering sum in breach penalties.

Three days later, she called again to say he’d had a brutal falling out with Mabel; she’d slapped him publicly, and he hadn’t uttered a single word in response.

Her third call informed me he’d locked himself inside his workshop, bolted the door from within, and the only sound drifting out was the constant scrape of carving knives-no one knew what he

was carving.

I’d only hummed quietly each time she spoke.

“Excuse me, how much is this bunch of bellflowers?”

A bright young voice cut through my thoughts.

I lifted my head to see a girl with a high ponytail pointing at the bucket of purple bellflowers.

I smiled and quoted her the price; she paid.

I tore off a sheet of pale blue wrapping paper, gathered the bellflowers neatly, tied a simple twine bow, and handed the bouquet over.

The wind chime above the front door jingled.

A tall figure blocked the sunlight streaming through the shop’s glass entrance.

Thomas stood in the doorway, gaunt and hollow-eyed, his cheekbones sharp and pronounced, a

thick layer of dark stubble covering his jaw.

His linen shirt hung crumpled on his frame, fine wood dust dusting the cuffs. In one clenched fist, he clutched a deep navy velvet jewelry box.

The second his eyes landed on me, they welled up with tears.

“Holly…” His voice was raw, like sandpaper dragging across stone.

I set the white rose down into a water bucket, grabbed a paper napkin, and wiped floral sap off my

fingers.

“Looking to buy flowers?” My tone stayed flat and calm, identical to how I’d speak to any

customer.

I crumpled the used napkin and tossed it into the waste bin.

He froze, his Adam’s apple bobbing painfully, stung by the icy indifference in my gaze.

random

After standing motionless for several long seconds, he strode quickly to the counter, slid the velvet box across the surface with a dull thud as its base hit the wood.

Then he pulled a thick stack of legal documents from inside his coat, the edges crinkled and damp

from sweat.

“I repaired the hair clip. I used the special technique to mend the break.”

His fingers shook as he flipped open the velvet box. Inside rested the wooden hair clip.

Thin glowing gold lines traced every fracture across the wood, the golden cracks spreading outward like an illuminated map.

Carved fresh atop the clip was a fully bloomed rose, its petals layered paper-thin, translucent enough for light to filter through, a tiny carved dew drop curving at the base of its sepals.

This was the exact rose drawing I’d sketched on scrap paper and slipped into his sketchbook ten years prior.

“This is the rose you asked for. I carved it. From now on, I’ll only carve for you, no one else.”

He unfurled the stack of papers and flipped through them page by page.

Property deeds, bank account statements, workshop equity certificates, receipts for all the gallery breach penalties he’d paid.

Each page made his hands tremble harder.

“Every asset under my name is here. The Manhattan apartment, all my savings, forty percent ownership of the carving workshop, every cent I paid to the gallery for pulling the exhibit.”

He pushed the entire pile toward me across the countertop.

“I want all of this put in your name. Holly, I messed up. I truly realize how wrong I was.

He stared at me, the whites of his eyes flooded with broken bloodshot veins.

“Come home with me. Let’s start over, please.”

The shop fell silent, only the low hum of the floral cooler buzzing in the background.

The bellflower customer lingered by the door waiting for a ride, head bowed over her phone.

I glanced down at the wooden hair clip inside the velvet box.

The rose carving was breathtakingly intricate, every petal vein sharp and delicate.

The gold kintsugi repair had been done with immense care, its matte gold lines soft against the

timber.

“It’s beautifully repaired,” I said plainly.

Thomas’s face lit up instantly, leaning forward eagerly across the counter.

“Then you’ll-”

“I don’t want it anymore.”

I snapped the velvet box shut and slid it back toward him, pushing the stack of legal papers alongside it.

The documents slid across the wooden countertop and came to rest beside the cash register.

“Thomas. You’re ten years too late.”