WEBVTT
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Caloroga Shark Media.
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Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This is Hot House,
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Episode four, Full Bloom.
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May Day, Dawn's perfect. I know this before I open
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my eyes. The garden tells me, a wave of satisfaction
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rolling through my awareness like a cat stretching in sunlight.
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Everything is ready, Everything is blooming. The property has been
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preparing for this day since before I arrived, and now
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it's finally time to show off. Matt is beside me
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when I wake up. This is still new enough to
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feel miraculous. His warmth, his weight, the way his arm
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tightens around my waist when I stir. We've spent the
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last six days learning each other, stealing moments between festival prep,
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discovering exactly how enthusiastic the garden gets when we're together morning,
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he murmurs into my hair. The garden is excited. The
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garden has been excited since four a m. I had
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to tell the roses to calm down or they were
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going to peek before the guests even arrived. You can
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tell the roses things. I've been here three years. We
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have an understanding. He presses a kiss to my shoulder,
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and somewhere outside a flower blooms. How are you feeling?
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I take inventory. The empathy is stronger than ever. I
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can feel every plant on the property, from the ancient
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oaks to the newest seedlings, all of them vibrating with anticipation.
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But it doesn't overwhelm me anymore. It feels like being
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part of something larger, like my heartbeat has sinked with
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the garden's pulse. Ready, I say, I think I'm actually ready.
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Then let's go make Vera proud. The festival is magic,
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not metaphorically actual magic, the kind that happens when a
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sentient garden decides to put on a show. Flowers open
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as visitors walk past, timing their blooms for maximum impact.
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The roses arrange themselves into gradients of color that shouldn't
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be possible. The vegetables in the kitchen gardens swell, visibly,
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ripening on the vine as children watch with wide eyes.
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I move through it all feeling like I'm glowing, and
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maybe I am. The empathy works both ways. Now the
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garden responds to my emotions, but I respond to the
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garden's tie. Two. When a little girl laughs with delight
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at a sunflower bending to greet her, I feel that
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joy in my chest. When an elderly couple holds hands
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under the wisteria arbor, I feel their quiet contentment like
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a warm blanket. This is what Via meant. This is
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what the gift actually is, not just feeling what plants feel,
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but being part of the connection between the garden and
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everyone who enters it. You're doing that thing again, Matt says,
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finding me by the maypole around noon. What thing the
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glowing thing the visitors are starting to notice? I look
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down at my hands. He's not wrong. There's a faint
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luminescence under my skin, the same bioluminescence that lit up
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the roses when we kissed. Apparently I've internalized it is
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that bad. It's definitely memorable. He's grinning, clearly delighted by
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my botanical side effects. Missus Patterson asked if you were
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wearing some kind of special makeup. I told her it
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was a family trait. That's not even a lie. I know,
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That's why I said it. He catches my hand and
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the glow intensifies slightly where our fingers intertwine. The garden
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is happier than I've ever felt it. Whatever you're doing,
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keep doing it. I'm just being here, being present. I know.
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He lifts our joined hands, presses a kiss to my knuckles.
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It suits you. A nearby rose bush bursts into bloom,
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and we both laugh. The afternoon is a blur of
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small triumphs. The Maypole dance goes perfectly, despite my terror
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that something would go wrong. The plant sale raises more
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money than the last three years combined, probably because the
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plants are showing off for the buyers. The home garden
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competition ends without bloodshe though missus Patterson has some pointed
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comments about the judge's criteria. By sunset, the last visitors
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are trailing toward the parking lot, clutching their purchases and
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their memories. I stand at the entrance to the greenhouse
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watching them go, feeling the garden's satisfaction wrap around me
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like a hug. You did it. I turn. Matt is
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behind me, still in his festival clothes, buttoned down shirt sleeves,
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rolled up, dirt on his knees from a last minute
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planting demonstration. He looks exhausted and triumphant and absolutely beautiful.
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We did it, I correct him. The garden did it.
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I just stood here and glowed. You did more than that.
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You made them feel welcome. You connected them to the
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garden in ways they didn't even understand. He steps closer,
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VERA would be so proud. Something swells in my chair, gratitude, grief, joy,
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all tangled together. The roses nearest to us respond immediately,
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petals opening in sympathy. I wish I'd known her better,
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I say, I wish we'd had more time. She left
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you everything she could, the garden, the gift, the chance
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to be part of this. He cuts my face in
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his hands, And she left you me, sort of in
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her extremely unsubtle matchmaking way, the garden's match making way.
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Same thing. In the end, he kisses me, softly, sweetly,
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a promise rather than a demand. Come with me. There's
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something I want to show you. He leads me through
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the guard, past the greenhouse, past the rose beds, into
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a section of the property I've never explored. The light
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is different here, golden and slanted, the last rays of
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sunset filtering through trees that seem older than the rest.
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The path is narrow, overgrown in a way that suggests
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it's rarely walked, and the plants press close on either
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side like they're guiding us somewhere specific. Where are we going?
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The garden prepared something for tonight. He glances back at me,
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and there's something in his expression anticipation maybe, or nervousness.
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It's been working on it since you arrived. I didn't
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know what it was building until this morning. We emerge
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into a clearing. I stop breathing. It's a bower. That's
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the only word for it. A living structure of flowering
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vines woven together to create walls and a ceiling and
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a space inside that's carpeted with soft moss and scattered petals.
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Bioluminescent flowers climb the walls, casting a gentle glow that
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shifts through colors I don't have names for. The air
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is thick with fragrance, not overwhelming, just perfect, exactly calibrated
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to intoxicate without overwhelming. The garden made this. I whisper,
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The garden made this for us. Matt's voice is rough.
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It's been waiting, hoping ever since you walk through the
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greenhouse door. It's been hoping you'd stay. I step into
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the bower. The moss is impossibly soft under my feet.
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The flowers lean toward me, welcoming celebrating the whole space
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pulses with the Garden's approval, its joy, its deep satisfaction
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that finally, finally, everything is blooming the way it should.
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Matt follows me in. The entrance closes behind us, not
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trapping us, just giving us privacy, and we're alone in
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a space that was grown specifically for this moment. We
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don't have to, he starts, I want to, you're sure.
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I turn to face him. The bioluminescence paints him in
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blues and golds, makes him look like something from a myth,
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a god of growing things. I spent eight years not
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wanting anything I say. I spent three weeks fighting what
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I felt. I'm done fighting. I'm done being careful. I
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reach for him, pull him closer. Show me what happens
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when I stop holding back. He kisses me. I won't
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describe everything that happens next. Some thing's a private even
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from a narration, and besides, words would cheapen it. What
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I will say is this, when I stop holding back,
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the garden responds. Every touch is amplified through the empathy.
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I feel what he feels, layered over what I feel,
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and the garden feels all of it. Feeding it back
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to us in waves of sensation and light. The bower
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blooms around us, new flowers opening, existing flowers deepening in color,
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the bioluminescence shifting and pulsing in rhythms that match our breathing.
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It's overwhelming in the best possible way, like being held
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by something vast and ancient and completely unconditionally loving, Like
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the garden is saying, yes, finally, this is what we've
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been waiting for. When Matt touches me, flowers open when
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I touch him, findes curl toward us like they want
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to join in. When we move together, the whole bower
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shivers with approval, petals falling around us like a benediction.
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And at the height of it, at the moment when
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everything peaks, when I'm nothing but sensation and connection and
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the overwhelming a liveness of being fully, completely present, the
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garden lights up, not just the bower, the whole property.
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I feel it happened through the empathy, every flower on
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five acres blooming at once, every plant releasing its fragrance,
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its pollen, its vitality into the night air, a cascade
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of growth spreading out from where we are. The garden
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celebrating in the only language it knows. Afterward, we lie
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in the moss and petals, breathing hard, wrapped around each other,
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while the bower glows soft and satisfied around us. That
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was Matt trails off. Yeah, the garden is very pleased
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with itself. The garden should be. I press my face
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into his shoulder, feeling giddy and exhausted and more alive
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than I've ever been. I think we just pollinated the
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entire property. He laughs, a real laugh, surprised out of him,
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and the flowers nearest to us bloom three shades brighter.
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Vera would be scandalized, he says. Vera left me a
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note that basically said, the garden wants you to get laid.
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I don't think she'd be that scandalized. Fair point. He
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pulls me closer, and I settle against him like I've
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been doing it for years. So what happens now I
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think about it? The festival is over, the garden is satisfied,
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The empathy has settled into something manageable, integrated part of
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who I am, rather than something I'm fighting. I could leave,
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go back to San Diego, pick up my old life,
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pretend the last month was a strange interlude. The garden
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would survive without me, Matt would survive without me. But
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I wouldn't survive without them, not really, not in any
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way that matters. I stay, I say, I learn how
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to run a botanical garden. I figure out what being
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a Laurel actually means. I tilt my head up to
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look at him. I wake up next to you and
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let the roses bloom. Just like that, Just like that,
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He kisses me, soft and sweet and full of promise.
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The bower responds with a gentle pulse of light, the
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garden's way of saying finally she gets it. Three months later,
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the summer has been the most productive in Laurel Garden's history,
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Or so Matt tells me based on Vera's meticulous records,
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Everything grows faster, blooms longer, produces more than it has.
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The visitors who come through say the place feels different,
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more alive, more welcoming. I know why the garden has
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what it wanted, a Laurel who's present, who's connected, who
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stopped fighting, what she is. In return, it gives everything
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it has. I've found a rhythm to the days. Morning
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walks with Matt checking on different sections of the property.
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Afternoons in the greenhouse, learning the individual personalities of each plant,
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Evenings in the cottage, surrounded by growing things, feeling the
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gardens settle into sleep around us. It's not the life
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I planned. It's better. My mother called last week for
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the first time since I left California. She'd heard through
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family channels that I'd inherited Vera's property and that I
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was staying. I always thought Vera was crazy, she said,
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talking to plants, acting like that garden was alive. It
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is alive, and so was she silence on the line.
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Then you sound different, Daphne, happier. I am happier because
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of the garden or because of that man, both neither.
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I looked out the window at the roses, which were
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showing off in the afternoon light, because I finally stopped
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trying to optimize my life and started actually living it.
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She didn't understand. I'm not sure she ever will, but
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that's okay. Some things can't be explained, only experienced. On
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the autumn equinox, I walk through the garden at sunset.
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The energy is different, now, slower, deeper, the plants preparing
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for the dormancy, ahead. The roses are putting out their
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last blooms of the season. Vegetables are finishing their harvest.
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Even the greenhouse has a contemplative quality, the tropical plants
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settling into the long wait for spring. Matt finds me
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in the orchid house where we first almost fell apart.
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The garden is getting sleepy, he says, I know, I
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can feel it. I lean back against him as his
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arms wrap around me. It feels like it's putting things away,
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getting ready for rest. That's exactly what it's doing. Winter
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is hard for an EmPATH. Vera always struggled with the
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dormant months. Will you help me through it. I'll be here,
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He presses a kiss to my temple. We'll figure it
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out together. That's what partners do. Partners. I like the
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sound of that. The orchids, ever attuned to romantic energy,
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manage one final bloom of the season, a single perfect flower,
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white with purple edges, opening just for us show offs.
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I murmur, they can't help it. They're romantics. Wonder where
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they got that from. Matt laughs, and the sound echoes
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through the greenhouse, and somewhere in the garden's fading awareness,
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I feel it. Smile. Spring will come again. I know
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this the way I know everything now, through the garden,
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through the gift, through the connection. I've stopped fighting and
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started embracing. The dormant months will pass, and the snow
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will melt, and the first crocuses will push through the
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cold soil, and everything will begin again, and I'll be
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here for it, present, awake, ready to bloom alongside everything else.
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The growing season is just beginning, and it's going to
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be magnificent. Thank you for listening to hot House. May
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you find the courage to stop optimizing and start living,
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and may you bloom exactly as wildly as you were
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meant to.