The Leap of Faith: Taking the First Step Towards Connection

Lane and Rose met under unusual circumstances, but hearing them tell their story puts it all into perspective.

Rose, 28

Maybe it’s because I was named after one, but I’ve loved flowers my whole life. Not just flowers. Plants, gardens, forests. I can spend hours at the library flipping through botany books. And even though I’ve lived with plenty of roommates in rundown apartments, I’ve always filled my place with plants. It totally changes the atmosphere. Everything is better with plants.

And, I’ve always been this way. When I was younger, the jokes used to bother me. People saying, “Doesn’t loving roses make you a narcissist?” or even worse, guys on first dates saying, “A rose for a Rose.” Barf.

But, even though it was exhausting having people make jokes about my name constantly, I wasn’t about to let that get in the way of dedicating my life to plants. In college, I tried studying botany and plant sciences, but I flunked out (who knew that the plant girls tended to also be party girls?)

Since then, I’ve had numerous jobs related to plants. I’ve been a personal gardener, I’ve hosted gardening workshops, and I’ve taught four-year-olds at hippy-esque pre-schools the basics of botany. And I’ve always worked in nurseries. That’s where I really shine—working with customers.

This is where Lane comes in. Apparently, he had bought a plant from us a few weeks ago when my coworker was covering for me (I had a plant convention to go to, and yes, those do exist, and yes, they are full of plant nerds.)

The first thing I noticed about Lane was that he was pissed. The second thing I noticed was that he was holding a very sad pothos. It’s hard to make a pothos sad. He must really not be a plant guy. The third thing I noticed was that he was kind of handsome, but I put that thought into the back of my mind.

I put on my best customer service face and walked over to Lane. Trying to start off with a bit of levity, I looked at the pothos and said, “Did this man hurt your feelings? You look so sad!”

It didn’t have quite the effect that I was hoping for.

“I just want a refund,” he said sourly.

“Sure thing,” I made sure to reel in the playfulness, but I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

I walked him over to the counter and counted out his refund in cash. He tried leaving the pothos on the counter, and I stopped him.

“Why don’t you take the plant with you and give it another try? I can give you some pointers on how to take care of it. And if it still doesn’t work, you can chuck the whole thing out.”

I would learn later that Lane was never one to pass over something offered for free. But he also wasn’t wild about looking like a jerk.

“Well,” he started. “I think the problem is the plant. I gave it water, I gave it sunlight. And it still died. I figured it probably had some kind of parasite or something.”

I knew that parasites weren't likely, since pothos are pretty hardy, but to appease Lane, I took a closer look at the leaves and vines. No sign of bugs. Just dry, dry soil and crispy leaves.

“Hmmm, no pests that I can see. Why don’t you try putting her in a place with indirect light and give her water more often? Pothos tend to come back pretty quickly. I think you’ll see some improvement in a couple of days.”

Lane took the plant with a quick “thanks” and left. I wondered if he’d be back.

Lane, 46

I hadn’t wanted the stupid plant in the first place. But a coworker of mine had come over to my place with his girlfriend, who had instantly pointed out how much it looked like a bachelor pad.

“Okay, well, is that a bad thing? I’m a bachelor,” I told her.

“It’s not a bad thing if you never want to bring a girl over here,” she said jokingly. I’ve been told I can’t take a joke.

I didn’t want to take her comment personally, but of course I did. I realized that I didn’t have any artwork on the walls or much color around the place. What I thought was minimalist was actually, maybe, boring or cold.

I decided to add a plant to give the place some life. And when I went to the nursery, Rose’s nursery, I told them I needed their most low-maintenance, hardy plant. The girl who helped me was indifferent and busy with other customers. She told me to pick out a pothos; that they were practically fool-proof.

But two weeks later, with a drooping, dry pothos in my now even sadder-looking apartment, I felt like quite the fool. I wanted a refund and to tell that girl that she should be more specific about how to take care of a plant before selling it.

When I got to the nursery, though, that girl wasn’t there. As fate would have it, Rose was working that day instead.

On the drive home, I had mixed feelings. I felt stupid, I felt like a jerk, and surprisingly, I felt a weird sense of hope. Rose’s advice had put me at ease. Her entire demeanor was calming. And she was cute.

When I got home, I put the pothos in a spot with indirect light, as Rose suggested, and gave it a big drink of water. The very next day, the plant seemed to have bounced back to life, a little bit. I thought maybe it was in my head, but I kept watering it every few days, whenever the soil dried out.

Two weeks later, the pothos looked healthy and was even growing. I hesitated to go back to the nursery after how I had acted, but I also felt drawn to Rose. I wanted to tell her about the pothos. I wanted to see her again.

Thus started a very embarrassing three months of my life, going to the nursery every Saturday when I knew that Rose was working. I was filling every square inch of my apartment with plants. And with Rose’s advice and my newfound confidence in taking care of plants, I was adopting ever more complicated species.

Anyone reading this story will, of course, know that I was going to see Rose. Once, I pulled up and saw through the window that the other girl had taken over Rose’s shift, and I left without going inside. I was a lost cause.

But I also couldn’t bring myself to ask Rose out. Maybe it was the age difference or the fact that I couldn’t tell if she was flirting with me or just trying to sell me more plants. Every Saturday, I hyped myself up to say something, and every Saturday, I came home with a new plant and no date.

Rose

Finally, I had had enough. I knew that Lane was into me. I knew that he only came in when I was working (my coworker had told me that she had seen him pulling out of the parking lot on the day she covered for me), and I knew that it was potentially risky to my job to make the first move.

But what can I say, I’m not afraid to go after what I want. So, the next time Lane came in, I took a leap of faith.

“You know,” I said, as I was ringing him up for yet another plant. “I can only imagine what your house must look like with all these new plants. I would love to see it sometime. For professional purposes, of course,” I winked.

And that’s all it took.

Now, I’m not going to say that I would ever recommend someone go to a strange older man’s house on the pretense of looking at his plants. But I had spent enough time with Lane at this point to trust him. I knew he was a big softy at heart.

From there, things got pretty serious, pretty quickly. I also knew that I didn’t want something traditional with Lane. I had never done things the traditional way, and I wasn’t going to start now. I loved my life at the nursery and spending my free time working in community gardens and offering workshops. I didn’t have time for a relationship.

So, we set something up that works for both Lane and me. On Saturdays, he comes into the nursery, sometimes to buy something, but sometimes to just browse and chat. Always with coffee. And on Saturday nights, I go over to his place. Sometimes we do plant chores, and sometimes we do other things.

There’s never any compensation, at least not in a formal way. It’s enough for him to order a big meal, treat me well, and send me home with plant cuttings.

And he never makes jokes about my name.