Late Bloom

The diner was nearly empty, save for the soft clatter of cutlery in the kitchen and the occasional hiss of something meeting a grill. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, tracing lazy, downward paths like half-formed regrets. A neon sign from the gas station across the street pulsed red and blue against the glass, washing their booth in flickering hues.

Claire wrapped both hands around her coffee mug, though her drink had long since cooled. The porcelain felt solid, grounded. She wasn’t cold—she just needed something to hold. Her fingers traced the ridge near the handle, the one small imperfection in an otherwise smooth surface.

Sam sat across from her, one arm resting loosely along the back of the booth, his other hand cradling his cup. His gaze drifted to the window now and then, like he was watching for something that had already passed him by. He looked tired, not in the way of someone who needed sleep, but like a man who’d been carrying the same question around too long.

Outside, a semi-truck rumbled past, its lights streaking across the rain-streaked glass. Neither of them looked. They lived in a town people passed through, not stopping.

"You ever think about buying a plant?" Claire asked.

Sam blinked, then offered a slight smile, one that never quite reached his eyes. "A plant?"

"Yeah. Something low maintenance. Like a pothos or a snake plant. Something you can forget about for a week and it still survives."

He considered. "I don’t forget things that easily."

"I didn’t say you did." Her fingers began to drum lightly on the mug’s rim, a quiet staccato. "Just… some things are nice to have around. Even if they don’t ask much of you."

Sam nodded slowly. "I’ve got a basil plant. On the windowsill."

"Yeah?" she asked, surprised.

"Yeah. Keeps trying to die, though."

"Maybe it’s not getting enough light."

"Maybe it’s just in the wrong window."

Claire glanced at him, then back to her coffee. "You could move it."

"I could." A beat passed. He looked down at his hands, turning the mug slightly between them. "You ever think we’re like that?"

Claire tilted her head. "Like plants?"

"Just… trying to grow in the wrong light."

She let that settle, her brow furrowing faintly. Then she shook her head. "No. I think we’re more stubborn than that. Basil gives up too fast."

"Depends who’s watering it," Sam said, his voice a little lower now.

Claire gave a small, hollow laugh. "Depends what it’s growing next to."

The quiet between them swelled—not cold or hostile, but full. Heavy with things they wouldn’t name. Outside, tires splashed through puddles on the street. Inside, the air hung with the scent of stale coffee and something sweet—like pie left too long in a case. A low hum from the fluorescent lights above added a faint buzz to the silence.

Claire shifted slightly, as if her skin didn’t quite fit right on her bones and she just now became aware of it. Her grip on the mug tightened until her knuckles paled.

"The job still taking you to Portland?" she asked, eyes fixed on a smudge in the glass.

Sam sipped, then nodded. "Could be. They offered. Still thinking about it."

"Good pay?"

"Enough."

"You’d like the rain," she murmured.

"I like it here too."

"You’d be closer to your sister."

"Yeah."

"And farther from—"

She stopped. Her throat clenched around the rest of the sentence, and the space between them grew dense. A freight train of feeling, braked just in time.

Sam didn’t push. His gaze held hers, unwavering, and a subtle tension crept into his jaw. His answer was soft. "Yeah."

Claire swallowed. The smell of scorched toast drifted faintly from the kitchen, sharp and oddly comforting. A plate clinked somewhere out of sight. Someone laughed, once, near the back. Then quiet again.

"I killed a cactus once," she said.

His brow lifted. "That doesn’t sound like you."

"It wasn’t on purpose. Forgot it was there. Sat on the shelf by the TV. When I did remember it existed, I would tell myself ‘Cactuses don’t need much water.’ One day I looked over and it was already gone—shrunk in on itself, all brittle and gray."

Sam tilted his head. "Some things you only learn by watching close. And by losing them."

"I watch," she said. "I notice."

"I know."

She looked at him for a moment, like she was trying to memorize something—maybe the slope of his shoulders, or the exact way he fit into this booth. The weight of the room changed. Something trembled, just shy of turning into something else.

Claire looked down at her hands, then back up. Her voice was quiet but steady. "I'm just tired of things withering, Sam."

The words hung there, bare and unguarded.

Sam blinked, once. Then, slowly, he reached across the table. Claire met him halfway. Their fingers brushed, then settled—hers over his, his palm turning upward in quiet reply. No squeezing. No declarations. Just contact. Just a choice made in unison.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

The simple act of holding hands like middle schoolers said more than a million words could.

Outside, the rain began to ease, softening to a drizzle that traced cleaner lines down the glass. A new song crackled through the old jukebox speaker—something with strings and a voice like weathered wood. Time stretched on and the kitchen sounds faded into the background. For a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

"Maybe," Claire said, after a while, "we’re not pothos or basil. Maybe we’re something harder. Something that blooms late."

Sam’s smile came slowly, but this time it reached his eyes. "Even late bloomers get their moment."

She smiled back, and for the first time all evening, it didn’t feel like a defense.

Inside, beneath the steady hum of the diner lights, their joined hands rested between empty cups—quiet, unmoving, and full of promise.

Outside, the world washed itself clean.