The first frost of autumn nipped at the gym’s windows, but inside, the air still smelled like cinnamon—lingering from the last batch of banana muffins we’d baked with the kids. Lila was kneeling beside the old wooden bench, her black curly hair tied back with a frayed purple ribbon, gently brushing dust from the plaque honoring her grandma. “It feels empty without the kids,” she said, her voice soft as she traced the words “Elena Carter—Dreamer” with her finger. I set down the small pot I’d been carrying and knelt beside her. “I brought something to fix that,” I said, lifting the lid to reveal a cluster of green vine cuttings—English ivy, just like the kind that had grown around the park bench where I’d first met Marisol years ago.
Lila’s eyes lit up. “Grandma loved ivy,” she said, reaching out to touch a tendril. “She used to grow it on her porch. Said it was ‘proof that love clings, even when things get cold.’” I smiled, remembering the Latin phrase I’d stumbled on in that old poetry book: Cras consectetur lectus id interdum—rough connections and the spaces between them, held together by something steady. That’s what the ivy was, I thought. A way to tie our story to hers, to let the bench feel like more than wood and memories.
We spent the afternoon planting the ivy around the base of the bench, digging small holes in the gym’s potted soil, gently guiding the tendrils toward the wood. Lila’s curls kept falling in her face as she worked, and I’d brush them back, my fingers lingering in the soft ringlets. “You’re gonna get dirt in your hair,” I said, grinning. She laughed, wiping a smudge of soil on my cheek. “You’re one to talk—you have ivy leaves in your shirt.” We sat back to admire our work: the tiny vines curling toward the bench’s legs, a promise of green even as winter came. “Cras consectetur lectus id interdum,” I whispered, more to myself than to her. Lila tilted her head. “What does that mean?” I took her hand, pressing it to the bench where a vine had already clung to the wood. “It means this—rough edges, messy moments, but something that holds on. Like the ivy. Like us.”
We checked on the ivy every day, watering it when the soil dried, adjusting the tendrils when they wandered toward the gym’s blue walls. Lila started bringing her grandma’s old gardening gloves—purple, frayed at the cuffs—and we’d spend evenings after practice tending to the vines, talking about the kids (who’d called to say they missed “Coach Lila’s curly hair and banana snacks”) and the upcoming holidays. One night, we found a small ivy tendril wrapped around the bench’s armrest, tight as a hug. “It’s clinging,” Lila said, her voice quiet with wonder. I wrapped my arm around her, pulling her close. “Just like we do,” I said.
By Thanksgiving, the ivy had grown halfway up the bench, its leaves glossy and green against the wood. We hosted a small dinner at the gym—turkey sandwiches, cranberry sauce, and banana muffins (of course)—and invited Mr. Torres and a few of the kids who lived nearby. Mia gasped when she saw the ivy. “It’s like the bench has a blanket!” she said, running her hand over the vines. Lila knelt down, helping Mia trace a tendril. “My grandma used to say ivy is a friend,” she said. “It stays with you, even when it’s cold.” Mia nodded, then picked a small leaf and tucked it into Lila’s curly hair. “For your grandma,” she said. Lila’s eyes filled with tears, and I squeezed her hand.
That night, after everyone left, we sat on the bench, the ivy wrapping around our ankles like a gentle hold. The gym’s lights were dim, and the blue walls glowed softly. Lila pulled the ivy leaf from her hair, pressing it between the pages of her grandma’s photo album. “She’d love this,” she said, leaning her head on my shoulder. I kissed the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair—still a little like cinnamon, a little like soil. “She is here,” I said. “In the ivy, in the bench, in you.” We sat there for a long time, watching the ivy sway in the gym’s quiet, until Lila spoke again. “Remember when I hated my curls?” she said, laughing. “Now they’re full of ivy leaves and banana sauce. Messy, but mine.” I brushed a curl from her face. “Messy, but perfect,” I said. “Just like us.”
Christmas came, and we draped a small string of white lights around the ivy-covered bench, the glow reflecting off the blue walls. Lila’s grandma’s purple gardening gloves hung from the bench’s armrest, and my sketchbook—filled with drawings of curls, ivy, and banana muffins—sat on the shelf beside the white lilac jar. We exchanged small gifts: I gave Lila a necklace with a tiny ivy leaf pendant, and she gave me a new sketch pencil—purple, of course—with a note that said, “For drawing our story, one vine at a time.”
On New Year’s Eve, we stood by the bench, the ivy now covering most of the wood, and counted down to midnight. When the clock struck twelve, Lila kissed me, her curls brushing my face, the ivy leaves rustling in the breeze. “Here’s to more ivy,” she said, smiling. “More curls. More banana muffins.” I kissed her again, pressing my hand to the bench where the ivy clung tight. “Here’s to us,” I said. “To Cras consectetur lectus id interdum—to holding on, no matter what.”
Love isn’t about perfect vines or perfect hair. It’s about ivy that clings to a old bench, about curls full of soil and leaves, about banana muffins and late nights tending to something that matters. It’s about Lila—her curly hair, her kind heart, her love for her grandma and the kids and me. It’s about the rough edges and the spaces between, held together by something steady.
And as the ivy grows, as the curls bounce, as we keep tending to our little corner of the gym, I know one thing for sure: we’ll keep clinging. To each other, to the memories, to the love that wraps around us like ivy—warm, steady, and forever.
