Chapter 8 Reed
Reed
The greenhouse hums with the sound of equipment working overtime and my friends helping to bail my ass out.
Paolo adjusts my backup grow lights while Vick measures nutrient solutions with the precision of someone who’s watched me do it a hundred times.
Kash crouches beside a tray of seedlings, documenting their progress on my tablet.
“These look good,” he says, photographing a symmetrical specimen. “How many do you need for the presentation?”
“Twenty-four,” I say, checking the time on my phone. Again. “Twelve for the main tables, twelve as backup in case of damage.”
“How many are presentation-ready?” Paolo asks, smirking, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
I look around the lab, mentally cataloging each tray. “Sixteen. Maybe eighteen if I’m being optimistic about the ones still filling out.”
“So, we need miracles,” Vick says cheerfully. “Good thing you called in the cavalry.”
The cavalry being these three guys, who showed up without question when I sent a desperate group text. They’ve been here since 6:00 pm, and it’s now past eleven. Tomorrow is presentation day.
Eliza was here all day, distracting me more than she ought to, snapping at me for relying on machines she thinks are ruining everything, but she had to go tend to her villains.
My phone buzzes with yet another message from my mother about the “wonderful opportunity” to meet potential Nicholas Industries board members at tomorrow night’s event.
Apparently, half the city’s business elite will be at Bramblewood’s pitch fest, including my father’s former business partner, who’s now running a major development firm.
I should feel happy that my parents are acknowledging tomorrow’s event, but I know this is just lip-service enthusiasm.
They really prefer I ditch the small business and join Dad’s firm.
“Your parents again?” Kash asks, noting my grimace.
“My mother thinks tomorrow is my chance to ‘network properly’ instead of ‘playing with plants.’” I set the phone facedown on the counter. “She’s invited three separate investors to meet me, none of whom cares about sustainable agriculture.”
“But they have money,” Paolo points out.
“They have money and expectations. They’ll want to see profit margins and expansion plans, not environmental impact studies.” I adjust the timer on the nutrient pump, trying to channel my anxiety into useful tasks. “My presentation is designed for people who care about sustainability.”
“What about your dad?” Vick asks. “Will he be there?”
The question I’ve been avoiding. “Yeah. He always shows up to these things to ‘maintain important relationships.’” I can hear the bitter edge creeping into my voice. “Should be fun explaining to him why I’m still playing scientist instead of accepting his job offer.”
A sharp electrical pop echoes through the greenhouse, followed by the distinct smell of burning circuits. One of the main grow lights flickers, then goes dark.
“Shit,” I breathe, rushing toward the affected section. A full quarter of my seedlings sits in sudden darkness.
“Can we fix it?” Paolo asks, already pulling out tools, twirling a hammer like he’s a fancy bartender with a cocktail shaker.
I examine the control unit, my stomach sinking as I take in the melted wiring and fried circuits. “Not tonight. Maybe not at all.” I groan and tug at my hair.
“What does that mean for the trees?” Kash asks.
I stare at the dark section, doing rapid calculations in my head. “Without proper light exposure, these seedlings will start declining within hours. By tomorrow afternoon…” I trail off, not wanting to voice the obvious conclusion.
“How many trees are we talking about?” Vick asks.
“Eight. Eight trees that I need for the Bramblewood tables.” I run both hands through my hair, the familiar gesture providing no comfort. “Which means I’m going with an incomplete display and the joy of explaining to my parents why their investment in my education was wasted.”
The three of them exchange glances, and I can practically see them trying to figure out how to fix something that can’t be fixed with solar panels, waste management expertise, or architectural drawings.
“What about calling Eliza?” Paolo suggests. “Isn’t she supposed to be helping you?”
“It’s almost midnight,” I protest. “And she doesn’t know anything about grow lights.”
“She knows about plants,” Kash points out. “And emergency problem-solving.”
I consider this. Eliza does have an annoying talent for seeing solutions I miss. But asking for help means admitting my high-tech systems are failing, that maybe there’s truth to her criticisms about over-reliance on equipment.
Another glance at my darkened seedlings makes the decision for me.
Eliza answers on the second ring, voice thick with sleep. “Reed? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry to wake you. I have an emergency at the greenhouse, and I… you said you’d help with the trees, and I know it’s late, but—”
“Slow down,” she interrupts, and I can hear the rustling sounds of her getting out of bed. Oh god, I’m thinking about her in bed. “What happened?”
I squeeze my eyes shut to clear my head and explain about the light failure, the deadline, the eight seedlings sitting in darkness. She listens without interrupting, asking only a few technical questions about the lighting.
“I’ll be there in twenty,” she says.
“Eliza, you don’t have to—”
“Reed. You called me, remember? I’m coming.”
The line goes dead, leaving me staring at my phone while my friends pretend not to look smugly satisfied.
Eliza arrives wearing jeans and a hoodie, her hair pulled in a messy ponytail. She is somehow more alluring than she was in the overalls. She nods at Paolo, Vick, and Kash like she’s known them for years instead of having met them once.
“Show me,” she says.
I lead her to the darkened section, explaining what each light array was supposed to accomplish. She crouches beside the seedlings, gently touching their needles and humming softly.
“The ones closer to the working lights are getting some spillover. But these four”—she points to the seedlings in complete darkness—“need help now.”
“The replacement parts won’t arrive until next week,” I say. “Even if I could get them tomorrow, I don’t have time to rewire the system before the presentation.”
Eliza stands, dusting off her hands. “Who says we need the same system?”
“What do you mean?”
“You said the plants need specific light wavelengths, right? Blue for growth, red for flowering?” She’s already walking toward my equipment storage, scanning the shelves with purpose.
“What if we don’t replace the fancy array?
What if we just give them what they need to survive the next eighteen hours? ”
I watch her pull out spare grow bulbs, extension cords, and clamp lights. “That’s not going to provide the precise spectrum control—”
“But will it keep them alive?” she interrupts, connecting a red-spectrum bulb to a basic clamp fixture.
I consider this. “Probably. But the light distribution won’t be even, and the intensity levels—”
“Reed.” Eliza turns to face me, holding the improvised light. “Will it keep them alive until after your presentation?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But—”
“Then that’s what we do. Listen.” She’s already positioning the clamp light over the most vulnerable seedlings.
“I once kept my sister’s gecko alive for an entire winter after our electricity got shut off.
I feel good about keeping mini trees growing.
” She tears a piece of electrical tape with her teeth, and I feel a sudden jolt in the crotch of my jeans. “We can fine-tune later.”
As I watch her work, I stop worrying so much about the measurements and replicating these conditions. Instead, I stare at her long fingers and the way her worn jeans cling to her hips. What is wrong with me? Maybe I inhaled fertilizer gases or spent too much time with my hands near fir oils.
“Here,” I say, grabbing another clamp light, desperate to regain some control. “Let me help.”
For the next hour, we work side by side to create a makeshift lighting system.
Eliza holds bulbs while I adjust heights.
I calculate optimal distances while she secures clamps and runs extension cords.
My friends help where they can, but mostly they stay out of our way as we develop a rhythm that feels almost natural.
“This one’s getting too much heat,” Eliza observes, touching the soil around a seedling. “Can we move the red light back a few inches?”
I measure the distance. “You’re right. How did you notice without a gauge?”
Eliza shrugs and keeps poking around at my precious plants. I realize she’s operating on instinct and some innate knowledge of agriculture, which is a little beside the point of what I’m doing, but somehow turns me on even more.
“This section needs more blue light,” I add, noting the pale color of several seedlings. “They’re starting to stretch.”
Eliza repositions a bulb. “Better?”
I take readings with my light meter, amazed by how closely her instincts align with my protocols. “Perfect, actually.”
By the time we finish, the improvised system looks like something a mad scientist would build in a disaster movie. Extension cords snake across the floor, clamp lights hang from every available surface, and the whole setup violates about twelve safety codes.
But it works.
“The seedlings should be stable now,” I say, taking a final set of measurements.
“And tomorrow’s presentation?” Eliza asks.
I meet her gaze and swallow, staring into her brown eyes as she seems genuinely concerned with my work.
“Should go fine. Assuming I don’t completely humiliate myself in front of my father and half of Pittsburgh’s business community.
” I realize how that sounds and quickly add, “Not that I’m nervous or anything. ”
Eliza gives me a look that suggests she’s not buying my casual tone. “Your dad’s going to be there?”