12. Sanctuary in the Dirt
Chapter twelve
Sanctuary in the Dirt
Sutton
The stifling heat inside the Main Greenhouse weighed down on my skin.
I stood in the narrow center aisle, breathing in the scent of damp potting soil and crushed greenery.
My floral shears locked around the base of a wilted leaf on the staging table.
I squeezed the metal handles. The blades severed the stem with a sharp snip, dropping the debris into the plastic compost bin at my feet.
I moved down the long row of spring seedlings, repeating the careful motion.
This room offered a quiet, predictable sanctuary.
Out in the yard, my life felt fractured, but inside these plastic walls, the rules made sense.
I decided exactly what thrived and what needed to be cut away.
A drop of sweat rolled down my temple, stinging the corner of my eye.
I blinked the salt away and focused on the next green shoot.
The suffocating humidity soaked my shirt beneath my faded overalls.
I adjusted the straps over my shoulders, shifting my stance on the mats.
The baby pushed against my lower ribs, a blunt reminder of the ticking clock.
I had to get this summer crop processed and shipped.
I reached across the table, grabbed a handful of yellowing stems, and sliced them off at the base.
“You are sweating right through that shirt, Sutton.”
Ruby stood in the open doorway, blocking the meager breeze rolling in from the yard. She held a clipboard against her chest, her calloused hands stained with black earth. I ignored the ache in my lower spine and stood tall. I tossed another handful of severed stems into the bin.
“It’s a greenhouse, Ruby,” I said, wiping a streak of dirt from my cheek. “I’m supposed to be sweating.”
“I need those spring seedlings thinned before sundown,” Ruby called out, her eyes scanning the trays. “But the humidity in here is brutal today. Make sure you are drinking plenty of water.”
I set the shears down on the stainless-steel prep table. The cool metal steadied my damp palm. I grabbed my water canteen and took a long drink. The cold liquid washed the grit from my throat and settled my roiling stomach. I set the bottle next to a stack of empty pots.
“I’m working my way down the second aisle right now,” I told her. “I’ll have the section cleared out and swept before we close up.”
Ruby narrowed her eyes, stepping one foot over the rubber threshold mat. She pointed the clipboard at me.
“I am not driving you to the hospital because you forgot to hydrate,” she warned. “Take a five-minute break when you finish that row.”
“I will,” I said, offering a small, reassuring smile. “I promise.”
She turned and headed back out into the sweltering yard. Her boots crunched against the dry gravel, the sound fading into the distance. I turned my attention back to the endless rows of green shoots. The shed was silent, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the exhaust fan near the ceiling.
Hayes was out there somewhere in the dirt, just a few hundred yards away. He had tracked mud into my new life, refusing to leave after the terrible scene on the loading dock. His arrival felt like a violation of the only safe space I had left.
The thought of him lingering around the farm threatened to ruin the boundary I had built over the last four months. I refused to let his stubborn presence disrupt my shift or my sanctuary. I picked the shears up from the steel table and stepped toward the next flat of plants.
The metal handles slipped in my grip, slick with my own sweat. I squeezed the shears tighter to stop the shaking. I wiped a bead of moisture from my collarbone, lifted the shears, and let the quiet, predictable rhythm keep me grounded.
The heavy plastic door at the far end of the greenhouse groaned on its hinges. A gust of hot, dry wind rolled inside, rustling the hanging ferns, before the latch clicked shut.
I didn’t turn around. I kept my shoulders squared to the table and reached for another tray of seedlings. The mats squeaked beneath a pair of work boots.
“Sutton.”
His voice carried down the center aisle, cutting through the low hum of the exhaust fan.
I gripped the shears, forcing the metal blades through a dead stem.
I dropped the debris into the bin and moved to the next pot.
The squelch of mud and wet rubber grew louder. He wasn’t stopping at the threshold.
“Sutton, please just stop for a second,” Hayes said, his voice closer now. “I was an arrogant idiot.”
I finished the row of pots on the table. I turned my back to him and started walking deeper into the narrow, crowded aisle.
“I convinced myself that playing the PR game was the only way to secure our future, and I was wrong.”
He was tracking dirt into my workspace. The polished A-lister was gone, replaced by a man covered in fresh sweat and farm muck. His designer shirt was ruined, stained with brown earth across the ribs. He wore the dirt and sweat like a badly fitted costume.
I refused to let him dictate the pace of my morning. In Los Angeles, the entire household stopped spinning the second he walked through the front door. Not here. I stepped over a tangled green hose, ignoring him, and aimed the shears at a row of overgrown hydrangeas.
“I am working, Hayes,” I said, my voice cold and flat as I forced the blades closed. “These seedlings are on a strict schedule. If you want to talk, you can do it while I finish this aisle.”
I didn’t wait for his answer. I kept moving. The space between the tables was tight, designed for a single person to navigate. I knew every low-hanging pot and slick patch of water on the mats. He didn’t.
He followed me. A hanging fern brushed against his shoulder, the fronds slapping his shirt. He stumbled slightly, his muddy boot catching the edge of the mat. He steadied himself against the wooden table.
“I didn’t fly halfway across the world to make excuses,” he said in the suffocating heat.
I snipped another stem, letting the dead leaves fall to the floor. I picked up my pace, forcing him to weave through the narrow gap between a stack of empty crates and a watering line. If he wanted to deliver a grand Hollywood apology, he had to earn the right to stand in my reality.
“I’m here to tell you I’m so sorry about everything,” he continued, ducking his head to avoid a trailing vine.
I stopped at the end of the staging table, my hand hovering over a tray of fragile shoots. He stopped three feet behind me. His sudden presence made the cramped aisle feel instantly claustrophobic.
He ducked under a dripping fern, his boots slipping on the wet rubber, as he finally spoke the words I had waited four months to hear.
“About ruining our anniversary.”
He stepped squarely into the center of the narrow aisle between the staging tables. He planted his muddy boots firmly, completely blocking my path to the exit. The wall of humidity pressed against my skin, making the narrow aisle feel like a trap.
“Sutton, please,” Hayes said, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper as he held his ground. “Just stop moving for one second and look at me.”
“You are tracking mud all over my mats,” I told him, gripping the handles of the shears.
“I don’t care about the hoses right now,” he said, holding his empty hands out. “I need you to listen to me.”
For three years, my instinct had been to shrink backward.
When he took up space, I made myself smaller.
When the studio demanded his time, I rearranged my life to accommodate his schedule.
But the air in the greenhouse was stifling, and my denim overalls stuck to my sweat-dampened skin.
I refused to let him trap me in this aisle.
I closed the distance until we were practically chest to chest. He didn’t move. I raised the shears, gripping the handles so tight they dug into my palm, and aimed the steel tips just inches from his chest.
“You’re talking about that dinner like it was just a scheduling conflict,” I said.
Hayes stared down at the blades hovering near his ribs. He didn’t move.
“You took her to our spot,” I continued, the words pushing through the damp air. “You sat in the booth where we used to scrape pennies together and smiled for the cameras while I was waiting for you.”
Hearing the golden boy of Hollywood actually admit fault sent a strange, jarring spike through my blood.
His voice lacked the polished, rehearsed cadence he usually reserved for press tours.
He sounded exhausted. But looking at the mud on his collar, all I could see were Blaire’s manicured fingers dragging down his tailored suit on the sidewalk.
The camera flashes reflected off his easy smile, while my untouched anniversary dinner turned cold on our dining room table.
“You let her put her hands all over you, like our marriage meant nothing,” I told him.
Hayes leaned backward, pulling his chest away from the rusted blades. He paused, searching for the words.
“I was a coward,” he said, his voice cracking. “I put the studio’s image before you, and it was the biggest mistake of my life.”
He didn’t try to defend the PR strategy. He didn’t invoke Eleanor’s name to justify the photos. He just stood there, letting the stifling heat beat down on us, offering a confession.
“Just give me a chance to prove I can step up,” he begged.
“A chance?” I asked, my voice cutting through the humid air.
I thought about the dark, empty mansion in Los Angeles. I thought about the endless nights eating dinner alone, carefully managing his dry cleaning and his calendar while he played the perfect leading man for millions of strangers.
“I spent three years acting like a ghost in my own house so you could play the leading man,” I said. “I am done being a secret.”
I didn’t wait for him to get out of my way. I dropped the shears to my side, lowered my shoulder, and shoved past him. The hard hit forced him to stagger backward, his boots skidding across the slick mat.