Chapter 5
Rainey
Two days later, I am standing in my backyard holding a shovel like I’ve been personally challenged to prove something. Which, to be fair, I have. To myself. To my ex-husband. To the entire state of Colorado, apparently.
Troy said he’d be here “in the morning,” which I’m discovering is a dangerously vague phrase when applied to a man who probably wakes up at sunrise and casually builds things before breakfast.
I, on the other hand, have been awake since six, fueled by coffee and determination and a mild sense of panic.
The yard looks better. Not good, but better. I cleared a section of weeds yesterday. Or what I thought were weeds. There’s a strong possibility I accidentally pulled something important, but we’re not focusing on that. We’re focusing on progress.
I have:
· a cleared patch of ground
· three tools laid out like I know what I’m doing
· gloves
· a water bottle
· and exactly zero actual experience
But I also have three contractor bids sitting in my email for the roof and gutters. Ouch! That still hurts. Financially. Emotionally. Spiritually. Apparently “a little TLC” translates to several thousand dollars.
I shift the shovel in my hands and stab it into the ground. Or attempt to. The blade hits the dirt with a dull thunk and barely goes in. I stare at it. Then push harder. Nothing.
“Okay,” I mutter. “We’re not doing this today.”
The shovel remains unimpressed. I raise it higher in the air and try again with more force. This time it goes in about half an inch before stopping like it’s hit a moral boundary. I plant my foot on the edge and push. The shovel sinks slightly deeper. Victory. Tiny, stubborn victory.
“See?” I say to no one. “We’re learning.”
Behind me, a truck engine cuts off. I freeze, then turn slowly.
Troy is stepping out of his truck like he belongs here.
Like he belongs anywhere he stands. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt that clings in a way that should probably be illegal and a pair of worn jeans that have seen actual work.
I immediately forget what I was doing. Which is impressive, considering I was mid-battle with the earth.
He walks toward me, eyes taking in the yard, the tools, the very small patch I’ve cleared of weeds. Then his gaze drops to the shovel. Then back to me.
“You start a fight?” he asks.
I lift my chin.
“I’m winning.”
He looks at the ground. Then at the shovel. Then back at me.
“Debatable.”
I exhale sharply. “Okay, in my defense, the ground is … resistant.”
He steps closer and crouches, dragging his fingers through the top layer of soil. I try not to notice how easily he moves. How grounded he looks doing something as simple as touching dirt. I fail immediately.
“It’s compacted,” he says.
“I gathered that.”
“You’ve been digging shallow.”
“I’ve been digging for approximately forty-five seconds.”
“That’s long enough to do it wrong.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Wow. You’re really easing me into this.”
His mouth twitches. Then he stands and reaches for the shovel.
“Show me what you did.”
I hesitate for half a second before handing it over. His fingers brush mine. Just barely. But it’s enough. A small, sharp awareness sparks up my arm and settles somewhere inconvenient. I try to ignore it.
Troy positions the shovel, presses it into the ground with his boot, and leans into it. The blade sinks cleanly. Effortlessly. I cross my arms.
“Show-off.”
He doesn’t respond. Just works the shovel back and forth, loosening the soil in a way that suddenly makes it look … manageable. Maybe the ground isn’t the enemy. It just needed to be handled correctly.
He steps back and hands the shovel to me.
“Your turn.”
I take it. Determined. Focused. Absolutely not thinking about how close he’s standing.
“Okay,” I say. “I can do that.”
I position the shovel the same way he did. Press down. It goes in deeper this time. Not as smooth, but better.
“See?” I say, glancing at him. “Progress.”
He nods once.
“Again.”
I do it again … and again. Each time the ground gives a little more.
Each time it gets easier. Somewhere between the third and fifth attempt, I realize I’m not frustrated anymore.
I’m engaged. This might actually be something I can figure out.
I glance up at him. He’s watching me. Not hovering or correcting. Just observing.
“You’re not going to say anything?” I ask.
“You’re doing it.”
“That’s it?”
“What else do you want?”
I consider that. Then shrug.
“Praise?”
He huffs a quiet breath that might be a laugh.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
I grin despite myself.
“Rude.”
He steps closer again, reaching around me to adjust my grip on the handle. His chest brushes my back. My breath catches. His hand closes over mine for a second, shifting my position.
“Like this,” he says quietly.
I nod. I think. I’m not entirely sure my brain is functioning at full capacity. He steps back again. The air feels different without him that close. I clear my throat.
“So,” I say, forcing myself to focus, “if I keep doing this, eventually the ground will stop fighting me?”
“It’s not fighting you.”
I glance at him.
“It feels like it is.”
“It’s just waiting for you to do it right.”
His words dig into me like the shovel I can’t quite manage.
I look back down at the soil., then at the small section we’ve loosened.
My eyes take in the size of the yard. This is a lot and very overwhelming.
I think this is going to be a tiny garden.
Maybe just for attracting a few butterflies or fairies. I need some fairies for good luck.
While it's a lot, I do get the sense it's not impossible. Not like it felt two days ago. I lean on the shovel and look at him.
“So what’s next, teacher?”
His gaze holds mine.
“Now we figure out what you’re planting.”
He holds my gaze for another second. Then he nods once and turns toward his truck.
“Where are you going?”
“Getting something.”
That is not a helpful answer. I watch him walk away, the sun catching on his shoulders, the easy confidence in his stride doing absolutely nothing to help my concentration. I plant the shovel into the ground and lean on it, catching my breath. Okay. This is fine. This is manageable. This is —
Troy drops the tailgate of his truck. There’s a heavy metallic shift, followed by the unmistakable sound of something being dragged forward. I straighten, trying to get a glimpse.
“What are you doing?”
No answer. A second later, he lowers something to the ground. I squint. It looks like a piece of equipment. Possibly, a dangerous one. A why does that exist kind of one. I point at it.
“What is that?”
“Tiller.”
That does not help.
“And that means…?”
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches for the cord and gives it a sharp pull. The machine roars to life.
I jump. Like, actually jump.
“Okay! It’s loud! Good to know!”
He doesn’t even flinch. He walks it forward, guiding it into the patch of ground I’ve been personally battling like a stubborn idiot for the last few minutes that seem like three hours.
And then — the earth gives. The machine churns through the soil, breaking it apart like it’s been waiting for permission.
Dirt flips over, loosens and softens in mere seconds.
I stare at him, then look down at the shovel in my hands.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
He glances over his shoulder.
“What?”
I gesture wildly between the churned earth and the machine.
“That.”
He keeps moving the tiller.
“It breaks up the soil.”
“I can see that.”
I drop the shovel.
“You had that the whole time?”
“Yes.”
I gesture wildly between the tiller and the small patch of dirt I’ve been personally battling like a pioneer woman with a grudge.
“That was an option?”
“Yes.”
“And you just—what—watched me dig like that anyway? You just stood there while I fought for my life with a shovel?”
“You weren’t fighting.”
I cross my arms.
“I absolutely was.”
He cuts the engine. The sudden silence feels just as dramatic. He looks at the loosened soil. Then at me.
“You needed to feel what you were working with first.”
I stare at him.
“That is not a real answer.”
“It is.”
I step toward him, pointing at the machine.
“That thing just did in thirty seconds what I’ve been trying to do for the last—”
I check my phone.
“—forty-eight minutes of personal growth.”
His mouth pulls slightly to one side.
“You still have to dig.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Why?”
He rests one hand on the tiller handle.
“Because that breaks it up.”
He nods toward the soil.
“You still have to go deep if you want anything to grow.”
I narrow my eyes.
“That feels like it’s about more than dirt.”
“It is.”
“Okay, well that’s… mildly threatening.”
“It’s not.”
“You just made it sound like my entire life is shallow.”
He watches me for a second. Then says, calm as ever:
“Wrong tool.”
I huff out a laugh.
“Excuse me?”
“You were trying to force it.”
He gestures toward the ground.
“This just helps you get where you need to go faster.”
I look at the soil. It's soft now and manageable.
“So you’re saying I suffered unnecessarily.”
“I’m saying,” he replies, “you needed to understand what you were working with before you used the right tool to make progress.”
I stare at him. Then shake my head.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“No.”
“You are, Troy.”
“No.”
“You absolutely are.”
He doesn’t answer which, to me, is confirmation. I glance at the ground again. Then at the tiller. Then at him.
“Well,” I say slowly, “this feels like cheating.”
“Or working smarter.”
I huff a laugh. This is the moment where I realize two things at the exact same time. One: I might actually be able to do this. And two: Troy Bennett is going to be a problem.
Having him help me might also be the first thing I’ve started in a long time that I don’t immediately want to quit.