Chapter 11 #2
He’s so close, I can see the pale scars on his knuckles.
“No,” I say, determined. “I can do it.”
I dig in, using both hands to twist the trowel deeper. The soil gives, just barely, and I wedge the little pepper start in, roots and all, then pack the dirt around it. It’s messy but it works.
“See?” I say.
I look up at him, and there’s a flash of something in his eyes. It’s a quick, silent approval that makes me want to do it again, just to see if I can get that same reaction. He doesn’t say anything, but he nods once and moves to the next spot, dropping another pepper seedling into my reach.
We work side by side, the sun inching higher, warming the back of my neck and the tops of my ears.
I catch myself glancing at him every few minutes, not because I need help but because it’s surprisingly easy to get used to working with someone.
There’s a rhythm to it, a give and take.
Like maybe I’m not a lost cause after all.
We finish the peppers and sit back on our heels, surveying the work. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and realize I’m grinning. It’s a new feeling, gentle and complete, like the day decided to be good after all.
Troy straightens and stands, stretching in that way that makes it very hard not to look at him. His shirt rides up just a little and I see a flash of skin — tan, with a line of dark hair at the waistband. I look away fast, but not before my brain makes a note of it for later.
He glances down at me. “You want to water them in, or wait until this afternoon?”
I blink, caught off guard by the sudden return to business. “Uh, let’s do it now. I don’t trust my memory. I might forget by then and come back to a lettuce graveyard.”
He nods, and I half-expect him to go fetch the hose himself, but instead he waits, letting me take the lead.
I dust the dirt off my knees, stand, and head toward the side of the cabin and find the nozzle exactly where Troy left it yesterday, coiled neatly and hung on a mount attached to the exterior.
I unhook it, feeling his eyes on me, and drag the hose across the yard like it’s a leash for a very stubborn dog. I have to wrestle it a little, but I make it to the garden plot.
The water arcs out, a perfect parabolic rainbow, and I try to be gentle.
None of that blast-the-earth-into-submission energy.
I set the spray to “shower” and move it back and forth, watching the droplets land on the little green leaves.
The soft droplets darken the soil without washing it away.
The sun catches the beads and makes them sparkle, and for a second I just stand there, mesmerized, watering my improbable garden like it’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.
There’s a quiet behind me, the kind that tells me Troy is watching either me or the plants. I don’t know. I finish a slow pass over the whole row, then turn the water off and look up, a little self-conscious.
“Did I overdo it?” I ask, expecting some correction or at least a note on proper hose technique.
He shakes his head. “No. They’ll like it better if you water in the morning.” He tips his chin at the plot. “Less mildew, less stress. They’ll grow faster.”
I nod like I understand, and maybe I do. Or maybe I just like the way he says things so confidently, like the universe is a puzzle he’s already solved.
“Is that a real thing, or are you just making it up to see if I’ll believe you?”
“Wouldn’t matter,” he says. “You’d believe me anyway.”
It isn’t exactly a compliment, but it doesn’t feel like an insult, either.
I coil up the hose and hang it back on the rack.
Then, I wipe sweat from my upper lip, trying to look composed.
Troy stands in the sun, arms folded, surveying the garden like it’s a job site.
I have the urge to say something clever, but my brain is empty of anything except the realization that I want him to stay.
Longer than just a morning. Maybe the whole day.
“So what now?” I ask, a little exhale in my voice.
He glances at the garden. “Give them some time. They’ll do the work on their own.”
“Plants are so self-sufficient,” I say. “Who knew?”
He looks at me for a moment. “You remind me of them.”
“Plants?”
He shrugs, but there’s something in his eyes that says he means it. “Stubborn. You dig in.”
I snort. “That’s not a compliment, is it?”
“It is.”
I cross my arms, resisting the urge to smile.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
He shakes his head. “Only if it matters.”
I want to ask what else he thinks matters, but I’m not sure I want the answer.
Or maybe I do, but I want to. I want to know what happens if I ask.
But I realize how comfortable it is to just stand here in the sun with him.
Not talking, not filling up the space with nervous jokes or explanations.
Just being. This is odd for me. I talk a lot — mostly to fill a void that needs to be filled.
He glances at my feet. “You’re gonna have mud between your toes all day.”
“Maybe I like the way it feels,” I say, and this time, it’s not a lie.
He looks at me intensely, and for a few seconds, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world.
It makes me dizzy in a way that is not entirely unpleasant.
Troy shifts, then leans down and brushes a fleck of dirt from his knee.
“You want breakfast?” he asks, like the answer should be obvious.
I blink. “You cook?”
He gives a half-shrug. “A little.”
I think about the state of my own kitchen.
There's cereal, instant coffee, and a loaf of bread that’s probably past its prime.
But there’s something so easy about the way he asks that I just nod and say, “I’d like some.
” The words are out before I can overthink them, and I pretend not to notice the way my voice cracks just a little.
“Wash those feet, grab some shoes and come on,” he says, gesturing toward his truck.
“Wait, your place?”
The question sounds more loaded than I mean, but he just nods once, matter-of-fact.
“If you want.”
Want? What do I really want? Food or more Troy? How about both.