12. Sanctuary in the Dirt #2
I didn’t look back to see if he recovered. I shut out his apologies, grabbed a new bundle of dead stems off the wet staging table, and went back to work.
I locked my knees and braced myself, waiting for the inevitable sound of Hayes pushing his way back down the aisle to demand the rest of the conversation.
The far door swung open, the hinges squealing in the humid air.
I didn’t look up, assuming it was Ruby coming to enforce my water break. Instead, the steady, rhythmic thud of work boots hitting the mats echoed down the narrow center row. It wasn’t the clumsy, slipping sound Hayes had made.
Declan walked down the aisle, his tattooed arms bare in a gray T-shirt. He carried a wrench in his right hand.
He stopped a few feet away, taking in the claustrophobic scene. He looked at my tense posture, the pile of dead plants in my hand, and the actor standing directly behind me.
“Am I interrupting the afternoon schedule, Sutton?” Declan asked, his voice calm and even.
“No,” I told him, keeping my eyes on the wooden table. “I’m just clearing the staging area.”
Declan nodded once. He didn’t ask questions. He stepped directly between us, claiming the center of the aisle.
I let out a slow, silent exhale the exact second his broad shoulders blocked Hayes from view. My tight grip on the dead stems loosened, the brittle leaves shifting in my palm.
In Los Angeles, men puffed their chests out and postured over every perceived insult. Declan didn’t try to pick a fight or assert dominance. He just stepped directly into the middle of the mess and made himself an immovable obstacle.
“Water pressure just dropped on my side of the property line,” Declan said, addressing me directly.
He stepped closer to the table, forcing Hayes to shuffle backward to avoid getting bumped.
“I need to get to the shared valve right behind you,” Declan finished, pointing the wrench toward the pipes running along the back wall.
I stepped to the side to give him clear access to the plumbing, leaving Hayes standing exposed a few feet away. He looked exhausted, watching Declan take over the space. He didn’t challenge the farmer.
Instead, Hayes looked past Declan’s shoulder, fixing his eyes on me.
“Just give me five more minutes, Sutton,” Hayes pleaded, his tone soft and desperate.
He took a hesitant step forward on the wet rubber.
“Please,” he said. “I just need you to hear me out.”
Declan ignored the interruption entirely. He leaned forward over the table, raising the wrench. He tapped the rusted tool against the metal pipe. The sharp clank echoed off the plastic walls, puncturing the tense, cinematic spell Hayes was trying to cast.
Declan secured the jaws of the wrench around the valve.
“The farm schedule doesn’t stop for private conversations,” Declan said, locking the wrench in place. “You need to clear the aisle so I can fix these pipes.”
He pulled his arm back, putting his weight into the motion. The rusted valve squealed as he forced it to turn. I used the sudden noise as an excuse to stop my work. I lowered my hands, resting them on the staging table.
“I’ll clear the rest of this staging table so you have room to check the lower pressure gauge,” I told Declan.
He gave a curt nod, keeping his focus on the plumbing. I turned my attention to the scattering of dead, yellowing stems left over from my morning shift. I swept the entire pile of dead leaves over the edge in one swift motion.
The brittle leaves hit the bottom of the bin with a hollow clatter. Stems snapped on impact. Sweeping the mess away felt like an immediate, sharp release. I stared down into the bin, wishing I could sweep away the manufactured drama Hayes dragged into my sanctuary just as easily as the dead stems.
Hayes stood a few feet away, waiting for a cinematic climax. He held his ground in a desperate, theatrical demand for me to listen. He expected me to crumble. He wanted me to weep, to demand answers, to play the role of the hysterical wife so he could play the benevolent, returning hero.
But we were standing in a sweltering greenhouse. The air smelled of damp potting soil and crushed ferns. His shirt clung to his ribs, and sweat dripped from his chin. His Hollywood script held zero power in the mud. I owed him no emotional performance.
I took a step backward. The sole of my boot squeaked against the wet floor. I shifted my stance, using Declan’s broad back as a shield. The neighboring farmer did not posture for an audience. He just kept turning the wrench, standing like a solid wall between me and my husband.
Hayes stared at the farmer, his stance tightening.
“Sutton, don’t just shut me out while he’s standing right here in the middle of this,” Hayes pleaded.
He tried to step around Declan, but the narrow gap between the tables blocked him. He swatted the plant away, his boots sliding against the slick rubber.
“Declan is right,” I said. “Ruby and I have a business to run. You can’t just barge in here throwing apologies around when people are trying to work.”
I picked up my shears from the table and pointed the steel tips toward the exit door.
“I am trying to fix this marriage!” Hayes said, his voice cracking over the hiss of the water pipes. “I am standing right here, ready to do whatever it takes to bring you home.”
He took another step forward. His boot slipped off the mat, coming down hard on a seedling tray resting on the dirt floor. A fragile green shoot snapped under his boot, flattening into the mud.
I stared at the ruined plant. I tightened my grip on the handles of the shears.
“This is my home now. Please leave, because you are literally standing on my seedlings.”
Hayes stared down at the dirt floor. He stood frozen in the humid air, his ruined shirt clinging to his ribs. He lifted the toe of his boot, staring at the destroyed seedling.
“I ruined it,” he whispered, staring at the destroyed plant.
The desperate tension holding him together finally relaxed. His broad shoulders slumped forward, stripping the imposing, untouchable A-list actor away until only an exhausted man remained. He didn’t try to defend himself. He didn’t invoke the studio or his mother to justify the mess he had made.
He took a slow, deliberate step backward to get out of my way.
“I’m sorry,” Hayes said, his voice dropping below the steady hiss of the water pipes. “I didn’t come in here to trample over the things you’ve built.”
I maintained my tight grip on the handles of the shears. I kept my boots planted on the mat, refusing to lower the blades or drop my guard as long as he remained in my aisle.
“Then you understand why you can’t stay in here,” I said, keeping my tone flat. “I have an entire row left to process.”
Hayes nodded. He took the rejection without fighting for the final word. The surrender was jarring. For three years, I had watched him manipulate directors, studio executives, and reporters, refusing to leave a room until he bent the narrative to his will.
Now, he just lowered his chin and backed away.
“I’ll get out of your way,” Hayes said, retreating further down the aisle. “I’m leaving for tonight, but I’ll be back tomorrow if you change your mind.”
He turned his back on me. He trudged toward the far end of the greenhouse, ducking his head under the low-hanging ferns. He shoved his shoulder against the sticking door, forcing it open. He stepped out into the sweltering yard.
The steady hum of the exhaust fan and the hiss of the pipes were the only sounds left in the greenhouse. I stood still, my knuckles aching against the metal handles. I stared down the empty center aisle. He was gone, but he had left gritty smears of brown mud tracking across my mats.
I refused to let his unfamiliar surrender soften my resolve. I dropped the shears back onto the table, turning my attention to the untouched trays of seedlings. I picked up a new flat of pots, letting the quiet, familiar rhythm of the work steady my hands.
The door shut behind him, leaving me in the quiet hum of the greenhouse as he returned to the dirt outside.