Chris "CJ"

There are plenty of hobbies I could get into.

Finding treasure on the beach

Collecting baseball cards.

Street race

Cook yet never in a million years did I think I'd end up in a damn garden club. 

Ain't this some shit. 

I grumble under my breath leaning against the wooden garden bed, the salty tang of the ocean air brushing against my face while the sun beat down like it had a personal vendetta. My black t-shirt clung to my chest, the damp fabric sticking to the curve of my shoulders. I swiped a hand across the back of my neck, feeling the sweat slick against my skin, and let out a low growl. Reaching up, I adjusted the brim of my fitted hat, which was turned backward, the edge brushing against my fingertips.

Rows of vegetables stretched out before me, looking neat and purposeful, like they knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing.

Unlike me.

Mom swore up and down that this gardening thing would bring me some kind of peace. "It's about finding balance, Christopher," she'd said, her voice all soft and hopeful, like I wasn't the most impatient person alive.

I muttered a string of curses under my breath, glaring out at the rows of tomatoes and herbs like they'd personally offended me. My eyes shifted to Damian, my best friend since high school, who looked entirely too comfortable in this setup with his white shirt and tan bucket hat with a big fat smile beaming on his face. He moved between the plants with this calm, easy rhythm. He used to help out with his grandparents farm out in the country in the summers for fun.

He is weird as shit.

Damian paused mid-step, surveying the garden like he was admiring his kingdom. His eyes swept over the group before landing on me. The corner of his mouth tugged up in a smirk, and I knew—he was about to make one of his speeches. "I like this quote from May Sarton, she says everything that slows down forces, patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace."

"Let's talk about patience."

Patience.

Damian's eyes swept across the group, his tone calm but purposeful. "Grief," he started, pausing as if letting the word sink in, "Is a lot like planting. You start with something small, maybe just a seed or a bulb, and you put it in the dirt. At first, it doesn't look like anything's happening. Days, maybe weeks go by, and the ground looks exactly the same. But underground? That's where the work is happening. The roots are spreading, growing. The foundation's being built."

His gaze landed on Jake, the youngest guy in the group, a wiry kid with a nervous energy who couldn't be more than twenty-three. Damian gestured toward him with a small nod. "Jake, you've been pretty quiet today. What about you? What's patience been teaching you?"

Jake shifted awkwardly, leaning on his rake like it was a crutch. He hesitated, looking down at his dirt-caked boots, before finally speaking. "Uh... I guess... I guess I learned this week that it's okay to wait? Like, my sister, she... she's been mad at me for years 'cause I wasn't there when our mom died. I kept trying to fix it right away, you know? But..." He trailed off, his voice dropping lower. "She told me she needed time. And maybe I just needed to give her that. Maybe patience is about not trying to rush what's broken."

A quiet murmur ran through the group. Damian gave Jake a small, approving smile, his voice warm. "That's a good lesson, Jake. Sometimes the hardest part of patience is letting go of control, trusting that things will grow when they're ready."

He turned his attention back to all of us, his hands motioning to the garden. "Grief's the same way. It doesn't follow your timeline. You can't force it. You've got to sit with it, like you sit with this dirt, and trust that something's happening, even if you can't see it yet. You take care of it. You keep showing up. You water it. And eventually—when it's ready—you see the bud. The new growth. The sign that things are changing, even if it's slow."

His words hung in the air, heavy and raw, like the damp humidity clinging to my skin. I followed his gesture toward the tiny green sprout peeking out of the soil, its delicate leaves trembling in the breeze.

It was such a small thing, but it was there—alive, stubborn, and growing.

I wanted to believe that this was some kind of metaphor for my life, for the mess I was in. Maybe, if I just kept moving, kept showing up for Rio and Teal, kept pushing through the exhaustion of losing Sienna, of watching my dad get weaker, of carrying the weight of my parents' collapsing finances, maybe I'd see my own version of that sprout someday.

But right now, I can't see it.

All I could feel was the weight of what wasn't there.

Damian's voice cut through my thoughts. "CJ," he said, his tone soft but firm. "What about you? What's this garden been teaching you?"

I snorted, dragging my hand over my jaw, feeling the roughness of stubble beneath my fingers. "That I'm bad at this shit," I muttered, the corner of my mouth twitching despite myself. A few guys laughed, Jake among them, his laugh bright and brief, like a crack of sunlight through clouds.

Damian didn't let me off the hook that easily, though. He stepped closer, his eyes locking onto mine. "Nah, man. You're here. That's the lesson. Showing up even when you don't feel like it. Even when you think it's not doing anything. That's what patience is. That's what healing is."

My jaw clenches as I looked at that budding tomato plant like it had personally offended me. All I wanted to do was crush it under my boot, like that would somehow make everything better.

"How long does it even take to grow tomatoes, anyway? We've been out here for weeks," Ricky, one of the older guys, grumbled as he jabbed his shovel into the dirt with a huff.

Damian, ever the optimist, turned toward him with a grin that was so damn cheerful it was irritating. "Great question! Ricky, Tomatoes," he declared with enthusiasm, clapping his hands together, "Are a labor of love. Takes anywhere from sixty to eighty days. Give or take."

Ricky groaned dramatically, leaning on his shovel like it might hold up his sanity. "Eighty days? You mean to tell me I could've grown a beard longer than this stupid plant's lifespan?"

"You should try it," Damian fired back, smirking. "You got your stubble working in." Damian rubbed his chin. That earned a round of chuckles from the group, but I stayed silent, my eyes still fixed on that tiny, insignificant plant. It didn't care about the storm raging inside me, and I hated it for that.

"We did some good work today. And remember, we're all here to help each other because we're all going through the same thing, See you guys next Monday!" Damian concludes with a megawatt grin.

We all nodded, some of the guys looking down or away, the weight of his words sinking in. A few of them started cleaning up the rakes and shovels, the sound of metal scraping the ground filling the air.

I could have seen this coming from Damian becoming a life coach and counselor. It was obvious when he used to give motivational pep talks during our high school football games channeling his inner Ray Lewis. He had a way of making it feel like we're moving forward, even when we weren't sure how.  The whole time in this therapy group he has been Passionate, intense, with this unstoppable energy that could probably motivate a sloth to run a marathon.

Thank God he doesn't try the dance, though. Can you imagine? Him stomping around the garden, scaring off the seagulls while the rest of us stand there pretending not to look embarrassed? Yeah, hard pass. Damian's already enough to handle his motivational speeches—throw in some moves, and we'd all probably quit on the spot. He means well though, he always has. He definitely deserves to go through what he went through with his wife Amara to the very end.

Amara and Sienna are both up there cheering us on like they did in high school.

Damian lost Amara to Breast cancer two years ago and he has an army of kids. I don't see how he does it but he still stands strong with all that he is going through especially now that his oldest is battling with cerebral palsy.

August is an angel above.

She said it would help me connect with god.

This so-called God and I?

We're definitely not on speaking terms. How could we be, after He took Sienna from us? Every time someone tells me, 'She's in a better place," or 'It was part of His plan,' I want to laugh. Or scream. Or maybe both.

What kind of plan rips a mother away from her kids?

What kind of plan gives their father Parkinson's Disease?

Sienna wasn't just my fiancée—she was my anchor. My first love. My wife in every way that mattered, even if we never got the chance to make it official. 

What people don't tell you—what nobody talks about—is how hard it is for a man to lose his partner. Everyone expects you to just tough it out. To keep it together. But the truth is, when you lose the person you've built your life around, it feels like the ground is ripped out from under you. You're free-falling, and no one teaches you how to land. 

Sienna and I built something together, something more than just a house or a life. It was trust. It was a connection. It was knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that she had my back, and I had hers. We had plans—big ones. We were going to grow old together, watch Rio and Teal grow up, maybe even open a little burger shop on the beach one day, just because we could. 

Now, all those plans are just... gone. Erased like they never mattered. And what's left? A bunch of photos that don't do her justice, two kids who'll never really get to know their mom, and a hole in my chest that no amount of time seems to fill. 

But here's the part that really gets me—nobody asks if I'm okay. Not really. Sure, they ask about the kids, about Dad, about the shop. But me? I'm just expected to be fine. Because I'm a man, right? And men don't break. We just grit our teeth, swallow the pain, and keep moving. 

But damn it, I miss her.

I miss the way her laughter filled a room, the way her hand felt in mine, the way she could look at me and make me feel like I was enough. And now, every time I look at Rio's smile or Teal's big brown eyes, I see her. It's a blessing and a curse. They're pieces of her, living reminders of everything I've lost and everything I still have to fight for. 

So yeah, I'm still standing. But it's not because I'm strong. It's because I don't have a choice. 

I grabbed the last bag of dirt, the rough material biting into my palms, and made my way to Damian's truck. He was leaning against the open tailgate, beer in hand, looking like he didn't have a care in the world. It annoyed me how calm he could look, even with everything going on.  I tossed the bag into the truck bed with more force than necessary, the sound of it landing breaking the stillness.

Damian, unfazed as always, reached into a cooler wedged between some tools and pulled out another beer. He held it out to me with a raised brow. 

"Thirsty?" he asked, his voice light, like this was just another summer evening and not the train wreck it actually was. 

I hesitated, staring at the beer like it might have answers I couldn't find anywhere else. "Not gonna lie, this is the only good thing about this garden club bullshit," I muttered, snatching the can and cracking it open with a sharp hiss. 

Damian let out a loud laugh, the kind that always used to make the team rally in the locker room. "Man, you're so damn predictable," he teased, tilting his head as if daring me to argue. "Sit your grumpy ass down before you scare off the seagulls." 

I slid onto the tailgate beside him, the cold metal biting into the back of my legs. The ocean stretched out before us. "Soooooo," Damian started with a big smug grin

"So what?" I asked, not bothering to look at him feeling his big smile on the side of my face 

"What'd you think?" he pressed, leaning in slightly, like he was ready to analyze me like one of his football plays. 

"What do you mean, what did I think?" I replied, staring at the horizon. 

"The group, man." he motions his hand toward the rows of vegetables like they were some masterpiece. 

I exhaled sharply, running a hand down my face. "I think this is gonna be my last time." 

His jaw dropped, and he stared at me like I'd just confessed to hating puppies. "Come on, man! This was your first day! You didn't even give it a chance!"

"This isn't me, Damian," I said flatly. I glanced at him, then back at the waves. "If it was riding bikes or hiking i could get with it. But this isn't my style."

Damian leaned back, resting his elbows on the tailgate. "Yeah? You think it's anyone else's style here? You think I woke up one day and thought, 'Oh, you know what sounds dope? A garden club?'" He gestured toward the garden with his beer, his tone shifting to something softer.

"Definitely." I chuckle and he laughs too and shoves me playfully.

"But there's an art to this. A patience. You've gotta let things grow—kinda like us."  He sighs lightly.

I let out a dry laugh. "You've always been good at motivating, you definitely found your dream job."

He smirked, taking another sip. "Manifestation is real, you know, you should try it." He winks at the end.

"That shit aint real," I chuckle and he bounces his shoulders.

Damian's voice cut through my thoughts. "CJ," he said, quieter now, almost hesitant. "I don't know if I've told you, but... I'm really sorry about Sienna." 

I froze, my grip tightening on the beer can. The metal gave slightly under the pressure, and I forced myself to relax before it crushed completely. "It's alright," I said, my voice low. 

"It's not," Damian replied, turning to face me. His eyes searched mine, his brows furrowed like he was trying to find the right words. "Y'all were high school sweethearts. That kind of love doesn't just disappear, man and I know you are probably hurting being back here."

I felt my jaw clench. "The past is the past, Damian." 

His gaze softened, but he didn't back down. "You can't just bury this shit, CJ. You haven't grieved her. Not really, I mean I'm still grieving Amara. Shit is hard yo."

I looked away, the beer cold against my palm. "I know," I admitted, barely above a whisper. "But life goes on, right? I've got two kids who need me to keep moving. I can't fall apart." 

Damian leaned back on his elbows, the beer dangling loosely from his fingers. "Yeah, life goes on," he said, his voice quieter now, like the weight of his own grief was pressing down on him too. "But going on and actually living? Those are two different things, bro. You can't just run on autopilot forever."

I felt my chest tighten, the truth of his words cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. The cold beer in my hand felt like an anchor, something to keep me steady when everything else felt like it was slipping away. "What do you want me to do, Damian?" I asked, my voice rough. "Fall apart? Break down in front of my kids? My parents?  How does that help anything!" He huff.

"It's not about falling apart," Damian said, his tone firm but gentle. "It's about letting yourself feel it. Letting yourself be human. You think your kids don't see you hurting? They're smarter than you give them credit for, CJ. They need to know it's okay to hurt, to miss her. Otherwise, what are you teaching them? To bottle it up like you?"

I winced, his words hitting a nerve I didn't want exposed. "They're just kids," I muttered, staring out at the horizon. The ocean was calm tonight, waves lapping softly against the shore. "They shouldn't have to carry this shit."

"And neither should you," Damian countered. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, "Look, man, when I lost Amara.. I got too many kids to count to navigate and to understand this grieving process but I'm doing it.."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "I don't even know where to start," I admitted, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.

Damian gave a small, sad smile. "Start by not acting like she never existed. Talk about her. Laugh about the good memories. Cry when it hurts. Whatever you need to do, do it. Just stop pretending you're fine, because we both know you're not."

The beer felt heavier in my hand, and for a moment, I just stared at it. Images of Sienna flashed through my mind—her smile, the way she'd sing off-key just to make Teal laugh, the way her hand always found mine without her even thinking about it.

"I miss her," I finally whispered, my voice breaking. The words felt like they were dragged out of me, raw and jagged.

"I know you do," Damian said softly. "And it's okay to miss her. Hell, I miss Amara every day. But I've learned... it's not about moving on, Chris. It's about moving forward. Carrying them with you, not leaving them behind."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe.

Moving forward.

How the hell was I supposed to do that when everything in me wanted to go back to when she was still here, when everything made sense?

But as I looked at Damian, the pain in his eyes mingled with something else—hope, maybe? I realized he wasn't just talking to me; he was living it. He was proof that it was possible to keep going, even when the weight of loss threatened to pull you under.

Damian raised his beer in a small toast, his voice low and reflective. "For them. And for you." 

The sound of the waves filled the brief silence, but Damian's gaze stayed fixed on me, steady and searching. Finally, he let out a long breath and shifted the conversation. "How's your dad holding up?" 

"Fighting through," I replied, my voice rougher than I intended. I cleared my throat, forcing myself to stay composed. "It's not a good prognosis, but you know my dad. He's not the type to give up easily. Stubborn as hell, just like he's always been." 

"That's where you get it from," Damian said with a small, knowing smile. He took another swig of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Damn right, and i got to help them with their finances right now because they are a half a million in debt" I muttered, dragging a hand across my jaw, the weight of it all pressing down on me again.

Damian spits out his beer a bit, "Half a million! The hell."

I chuckle and take another sip, "I'm working every angle I can—fixing cars, bartending, even thinking about selling the Mustang. But no matter what I do, it feels like I'm just bailing water from a sinking ship." 

Damian let out a low whistle, leaning back. "Selling the Mustang? Man, your grandpa would roll in his grave if he heard that." 

I laughed bitterly, the sound more hollow than anything else. "Yeah, well, desperate times, right? I don't know what else to do. Every time I think I'm making progress, something else comes along to knock me back down." 

Damian shifted uncomfortably, his fingers tracing the condensation on his beer can.  "I heard about the Hamza store too, near your parents' shop this morning" he said quietly, his voice cautious like he wasn't sure he should bring it up. "That vandalism. It's fucked up, man." 

"I wish someone would try that shit with my parents," I growled, the words slipping out like a low rumble of thunder. I took a sharp swig of beer, the cold liquid doing little to cool the simmering anger beneath my skin.

Racism wasn't new to me. It wasn't some distant concept I read about in headlines—it was personal, ugly, and ever-present. Especially in this town. My parents, immigrants from El Salvador, had felt its sting from the moment they opened the bookstore. I still remembered the early days, the side-eyes, the murmured slurs they thought my dad couldn't hear or my mom didn't understand.

I dare one try, I just dare.

I clenched the beer in my hand, my knuckles white against the can. "I dare someone to try that shit now. I just dare."

Damian leaned back, his expression calm but knowing. "Nah, let them be ignorant," he wave his hand down. "It's exhausting trying to educate and teach people who don't wanna learn. If they won't change, that's on them—and the God above."

"I guess but the shit is exhausting to deal with." I add, shaking my head.

"Damn right, but hey yYou're doing everything you can, CJ I know it doesn't feel like enough, but you're showing up. You're fighting for him, for your family. That's more than a lot of people would do." 

I exhaled sharply, my hand running through my hair before adjusting my backwards cap. "Yeah, well, showing up doesn't pay the bills or stop the vandals from targeting people like my parents."

"No, but it matters," Damian said, his voice softer now. "It matters to your dad, to Rio and Teal. To everyone who sees you fighting and refuses to give up because you didn't. Don't sell yourself shor—"

"DADDY, DADDY, DADDY! LOOK!"

Teal's high-pitched squeal interrupted Damian, her little feet pounding the ground as she sprinted toward me. She held up a crinkled paper puppet with a crudely drawn pig's face on it, her cheeks painted pink with smudged face paint. Right behind her, Rio toddled as fast as his three-year-old legs could carry him, clutching a small stuffed pig close to his chest. His big brown eyes were wide with excitement, and my mom trailed behind them, looking half out of breath but smiling.

Teal practically leaped into my arms, thrusting the puppet in my face. "Daddy, look, look, look! A piggie!!" she exclaimed, her words tumbling out so fast they practically blended together. "And if you give a pig a pancake, he's gonna want syrup! And then he'll want more pancakes, and then he'll want to dance! And then Grace said we could make crafts with him, and she made the puppet with me! And she's so pretty, Daddy! She looks just like Princess Belle!"

I blinked, trying to keep up with Teal's mile-a-minute chatter. "Wait, slow down, sweetheart. Who's Grace?"

Teal rolled her eyes dramatically, like I should've already known. "Grace! She works at the library, Daddy!" Her voice had that "duh, Dad" energy that only a kid could pull off.

"Duh, Dad," Damian teased, shaking his head with a grin as he leaned against his truck.

I pressed my lips together, suppressing a laugh, as Teal continued talking. "She has long brown hair, and and and... she has a special box with all these crafts! She's so nice, Daddy! She made me this beautiful bookmark, just for me!" Her words were a blur of excitement.

Before I could even process all that, Rio tugged gently at my jeans, holding up his stuffed pig with both hands. "Piggy," he said softly, his voice small and shy.

I crouched down, balancing Teal on one arm, and scooped Rio up with the other. "That's a fine piggy, buddy," I said, pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek. Rio giggled and buried his face into my neck, while Teal wiggled the paper puppet in my face again.

"Abuela, ¿no es Grace como la princesa Bella?" (Grandma, isn't Grace like Princess Belle?) Teal asked, her eyes wide with excitement.

I looked over at my mom, who was standing beside the garden by Damian's truck. She gave a soft smile and shook her head, clearly amused. "It's Grace Carrington, Pastor Carrington's youngest daughter. She works in the library. She's been volunteering a lot with the kids."

I raised an eyebrow "Grace Carrington, huh?"

Teal's eyes sparkled, and she bounced in my arms. "She's so pretty, Daddy. She looks like Princess Belle! She's sooo nice! I like her so much!"

I chuckled, surprised at how much Teal was going on about Grace. She never gushed like that over anyone. "She sounds pretty special," I said, giving her a smile. "Guess I'll have to meet this Grace sometime."

Mom glanced at Damian, then back at me, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "She's always at the bookstore, loves it like it's her own."

I nodded, not really interested. Grace Carrington? Probably just as self-righteous as her parents—always walking around like they were better than everyone else. It didn't matter, though. I wasn't looking for anyone new in my life.

But before I could let my thoughts linger on it, my mom shifted the conversation. "The garden looks great, Damian. What are you planting?"

Damian flashed a grin, clearly proud of the group's work. "Tomatoes, peppers, carrots, lettuce, herbs," he said, gesturing toward the plants as if showing off a prized possession.

Mom smiled warmly, looking around. "It really does. I can't wait for the community garden to open. We definitely could use some fresh produce around here, instead of always driving across town for it."

"Isn't that the truth?" Damian agreed, chuckling. "And your lovely son, Christopher, said he loves it so much he's coming back next Monday to help us again."

I shot Damian a look, narrowing my eyes at him. "Right."

Mom didn't notice, though. She was too busy beaming at me. "Oh, that's wonderful, Christopher! I told you it would help."

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, trying not to smile at her obvious pride.

Teal suddenly scrunched her face, pointing at the garden card for the carrots. "Ewww, yucky carrots!"

I leaned down and kissed her cheek, then did the same to Rio, who was also making a face. As I kissed his cheek, I made a silly noise, causing both of them to giggle loudly.

Mom, watching us, smiled and said, "Mis nietos, las zanahorias son deliciosas y buenas para ustedes." (My grandchildren, carrots are yummy and good for you.)

I whispered playfully to the kids, "You don't have to eat them." Then I leaned in and pretended to eat their faces, making them giggle even more. Their laughter was pure, innocent, and carefree, and I could feel the weight of everything else in my life lift, even if just for a moment.

As I held them close, hearing their laughter ringing in the air, I realized something: I wanted to hear it more. I wanted to protect these moments of joy. In a world filled with pain and uncertainty, their happiness felt like the only thing that mattered.

Author's Note

Now that we have four chapters with deep deep deep thoughts and conversation. I would love to know what you think so far. I love when people come together with brokenness and make beautiful things don't you?

What do you think about our lover boy Chris?

What do you think about Grace?

What do you think will happen when they meet?

Side note I'm obsessed with Age Gap lately so this is a big age gap. Don't be scared ;)

Chapter Five on it's way!