Chapter 11
Rainey
There’s a kind of nervous energy that comes from waiting for someone, even if you pretend you’re not. I am staring out the window. I’ve told myself it’s so I can see the weather, but really I’m tracking the driveway for any sign of Troy’s truck.
I run to the bathroom to pee and find myself checking my appearance in the mirror. My hair is a disaster, as always, but there’s a streak of actual dirt across my cheek that must have happened at some point when I checked the plants this morning.
I wipe it away, then immediately regret not leaving it. Dirt is honest. Dirt says, “I did something.” I consider smearing it back on, just to see if it gives me credibility, but that feels insane even for me.
The porch groans when I step onto it. I’m still barefoot because it just feels right. The air is springtime cool, but not unpleasant. I kind of like it. The yard is misty, like the world hasn’t decided if it’s going to be a good day or a bad one. I decide for it: good.
I walk out to the edge of the porch and stand there, toes curled over the rough wood.
The garden patch is still a mess, but now it’s a hopeful mess.
The little green starters that Troy brought are standing just a bit taller, which feels like a minor miracle.
I want to touch them, but I’m not sure if that’s a thing you should do to plants.
The thing I never understood about waiting is how time gets slippery. On days when I have nothing planned, hours disappear. But today, every minute crawls by with the passive aggression of a DMV clerk.
Walking out to the yard, the sun is burning off the mist now.
I crouch down by the starter row and run my hands over the leaves, careful not to crush them.
They’re cool to the touch, dewy. Some of the little lettuces look like they’re actually thinking about being food someday.
I resist the urge to say hello to them, but only barely.
“I see you survived the night,” I say under my breath, and in that moment I realize I am talking to plants. My ex would laugh himself into next week if he could see me now—barefoot in a beginner garden, talking to lettuce. He always said I didn’t have a normal bone in my body.
I brush my fingers over the row. The dirt is darker, still holding some of last night’s rain. I test it with my finger, and it’s soft without the concrete resistance from before.
When I straighten, Troy’s truck is already coming up the drive.
It’s as though he materializes the moment I let my guard down, which is both impressive and unsettling.
I brush invisible dirt off my thighs and try to look like I haven’t been crouched among kale like a mountain goblin for the last ten minutes.
He parks, steps out and heads my way with the kind of calm that says he did not spend any time at all worrying about how today would go. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, and he’s carrying a cardboard flat of new starts like a tray of drinks for a picnic.
“Morning,” Troy calls. His voice sounds exactly the same as yesterday. He speaks low and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Morning,” I say back. “Welcome back.”
“I brought tomatoes,” he says, holding up the tray. “And some peppers.”
I meet him halfway, which is maybe too eager, but I’m already committed, so I keep going. He sets the tray on the edge of the garden and looks at my bare feet.
“No shoes?”
“I’m going for grounding,” I say, which is a lie, but it sounds intentional so I stick with it. “Isn’t that supposed to help you connect to the earth?”
He gives a neutral, almost-smile. “You’ll connect faster with boots.”
I ignore that and crouch to inspect the little pots. The leaves are waxy, spiky, and honestly, kind of adorable. Some of them are already sprouting tiny yellow blossoms. I glance up at him, trying to sound casual.
“These look professional.”
He nods. “Started them in January.”
“January?” I blink. “That’s so early. Is that a … farming thing?”
He crouches beside me, careful with the tray. “It’s a being impatient thing. You get better results if you start early.”
He glances at the row we did yesterday.
“Looks good.”
I pretend not to glow under the approval but it’s honestly hard not to.
“Thanks. They didn’t die overnight, so I think I’m crushing it.”
He doesn’t laugh exactly. But the edge of his mouth curves upward in a way that feels like a reward.
“That’s the first step.”
He glances at the rest of the yard, then at me. “You ready for the tomatoes?”
“Are they temperamental?”
“They’ll do fine. Might need some shelter if we get another cold snap.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I say. “I’m already invested. These are my children now.”
He’s close enough that I can smell soap and whatever green thing lingers on him. It’s a surprisingly clean scent for someone who looks like he could bench-press a tractor. I remember what he said about burying the roots sideways, so I ask, “Is that real, or were you messing with me?”
He looks me dead in the eye. “It’s real. Tomatoes root along the stem. You lay them sideways and they send out roots everywhere. Makes the plant stronger.”
Troy says it so matter-of-factly that I have to trust him, even though it sounds like the kind of thing you’d make up to haze the new kid.
“So it’s like horizontal parenting for tomatoes.”
Troy gives me a look like he’s not sure if I’m joking or if I just don’t get out much.
“If you want to call it that,” he says, but there’s a hint of a smile.
He crouches. “We’ll put them in the back row, keep the greens in front,” he says. “Tomatoes need more space.”
I crouch too, mirroring him, even though my knees are protesting. “You must have a plan for everything.”
“You plan, you get better results.” He looks at me, assessing. “Everything else is just improvising with what you’ve got.”
I let that hang in the air. Maybe it’s about gardening. Maybe it’s about everything. I pick up one of the tomato plants and cradle it in my hand. The soil is damp, crumbly, not packed down. I try not to squeeze it too hard, but I’m not sure what the right amount of pressure is.
“Do I just dig a hole and drop it in?”
Troy picks up the shovel from the edge of the plot and rotates it in his hand.
“Not quite. Tomatoes like it deep. You want to bury them up to the first set of leaves.” He demonstrates with the shovel, digging a hole that’s way bigger than I would have thought necessary.
“You can pinch off the lower leaves. Give it a clean start.”
“Violent,” I say, but I do it anyway, snapping off the little leaves that look like arms. The scent is sharp and green, and it leaves a sticky film on my fingers.
He glances at my hands. “You get used to it.”
I could listen to him talk about plants all day. Or maybe just talk. His voice has this low, certain quality that makes even the most idiotic question I might ask feel like a reasonable thing to say out loud.
I dig my fingers into the dirt and press the tomato plant in, being careful to keep its little neck upright. Troy watches, just enough to make me self-conscious, then grabs a second plant and sets it up next to mine.
He’s better at it, obviously, but he doesn’t say anything condescending. We work in rhythm, like this is just what people do now—garden together on a Tuesday morning in the mountains.
We get halfway through the tray before I work up the nerve to ask, “So, is this what you do every day? Rescue doomed gardens and make them less doomed?”
He wipes his hands on his jeans. “Not always gardens.”
I press. “But you’re, like, a plant guy?”
He nods. “And greenhouses. Raised beds, landscaping. Sometimes trees.” He glances at me.
I take another plant and set it in the row.
I dig with a trowel, then my glove, trying to go deep.
That’s when I see something move. It’s fast but creepy crawly.
Some kind of worm. It bursts out of the soil and wriggles over my gloved finger like I’m not even there.
I yelp. I don’t mean to, but it’s a full-on, high-pitched, embarrassing sound that echoes.
Troy looks up, sees the thing, and just scoops it up with his bare hand.
He’s not even fazed. He holds the worm up for a second, a little gray squirming tube, and says, “That’s good soil life.
” Then he tucks it back into the dirt, like he’s personally rehoming a little lost friend. I have to admit it’s weirdly endearing.
“You’re not grossed out?” I ask, still half on the verge of a heart attack.
He gives me a sideways glance. “You should see what happens in a compost pile.”
“Oh, I won’t,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s a hard pass.”
“You get used to it. Life underneath. It’s all connected.”
There’s something about the way he says it, like he’s not just talking about worms but everything else that’s alive and moving and hidden under the surface. I try not to read into it. I focus on planting the next tomato seedling. We finish the tomatoes until all we have left are pepper plants.
“Troy, are any of these hot peppers?”
“Do you like it hot?” he asks, looking my way. He has his sunglasses on now and I can’t tell if he’s looking into my eyes or not. I also wonder if that’s a question to trap me into some embarrassing moment. So, I don’t answer right away.
“Sometimes,” I finally say. because that seems like the safest answer.
He seems satisfied with that, planting the next seedling with an extra bit of force.
“This one’s sweet pepper,” he says, setting it down. “You want the hot ones, we can get some next time.”
Next time. The certainty of it makes my hands feel a little lighter.
I pick up one of the sweet peppers and hold it up, inspecting the leaves for imperfections.
They’re perfect, of course. I go to plant it, but the soil resists.
I push harder, and nothing happens. I glance up at Troy. “Okay. What am I doing wrong?”
He leans closer, his voice low. “You need to loosen it more first. Want me to break it up?”