“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” He clears his throat. “Are you going to need any help with anything?”
“Nah. It’ll mostly be weeding today, so I should be able to handle it. It’s basically free therapy.” Emphasis on the “free” since losing my job also meant losing my health care. Yay America.
“Great. Well. I guess just let me know if you need any help.” He gives me a weird little half wave.
Which I mistakenly interpret as his offering a high five. I go to slap his hand just as he pulls his back and good lord, this is painful.
I brush past him and head to the French doors leading out to the yard, desperate for a quick escape. “Okay, then.”
Luckily he doesn’t follow me and try to make things even more awkward than they already are. I push through the doors and can practically feel the tension draining from my body as I enter the garden. There is a lot of work to do back here, but I’m seriously stoked about it.
I set my bag down on a weather-beaten metal table and unload my supplies. Tugging on my pink gardening gloves, I dig out shovels andtrowels and a knee guard and set up shop in front of the planter in the back. I figure I’ll start here and work my way forward.
Once I get in the rhythm, my mind completely clears. This is my meditation, the time when I can turn off all the negative thoughts in my brain and just be. Most kids probably aren’t super into gardening, but for me, the garden was always a place of quiet—both internal and external. It brought me a peace I desperately needed, and even though I haven’t been able to dig my hands in the dirt in quite some time, I’m automatically transported back to my happy place. My calm place.
I work for hours, snipping and pulling, clearing and weeding, until I have huge piles of stems and branches collected and planters ready to be filled with flowers. When I finally hit the point when even I need a break, I pull off my gloves and head back to the metal bistro set. A cup of ice water sits on the table, next to a plate covered in tinfoil. I sink into one of the chairs, gratefully sipping the cool water. Peeking under the foil, I find a sandwich waiting for me. I am someone easily swayed by food, and Jack’s offering completely erases any lingering doubts our awkward encounter might have stirred up. I devour the whole thing, not realizing how hungry I am until I take the first bite.
Surveying the work I’ve done, I decide to pack it in for the day. I shake off my gloves and bang my shoes against the concrete steps before pushing back into the house, not wanting to leave a trail of dirt as I go.
“Jack, I’m taking off,” I call, striding quickly for the front door, hoping to avoid another stilted encounter.
Steps thud from the basement stairs. “Don’t forget your key.” Jack crosses over to the entryway table, handing me a gold key on a plastic key ring.
It’s one of those old-timey-looking hotel key chains, bright pink with “Park Slope” etched in white retro letters. I don’t know why, but the thoughtful gesture brings a smile to my face. A genuine one. “Thanks, Jack. And thanks for the sandwich.”
“You’re welcome. Thanks for doing all that work in the yard.”
I tuck the key in the inner pocket of my bag. “I’ll come back sometime this week to clear out all the debris. I’ll text you when I know what day.”
“Sounds good.” This time he very deliberately holds up his hand.
And I just as deliberately slap him a high five. “Bye, Jack.”
“Bye, Sadie.”
I wake easily at the chirp of my alarm on moving day, dressing in cut-off jean shorts and a worn Columbia T-shirt. Hair in messy bun, sneakers on feet, I run down to grab some coffee for the gang, which is just the first of many trips I’ll be making up and down these stairs today. I’m eating only carbs for the rest of the week. Balancing our tray of coffees on top of a pink box of doughnuts, I make it back to my place with plenty of time to shove a maple bar in my face before everyone arrives.
Harley and Gemma show up together, and Nick knocks on the already open door a few minutes later.
He pokes his head through the doorway. “How much do you love me?”
“I’m not answering that after my brief foray into Nicksanity brought on by your comparing me to Maria von Trapp.” I take downanother doughnut because all that lies before me is stairs. So many stairs.
Nick steps into the room, then makes a sweeping gesture with his arm, signaling the entry of four college-aged guys.
“Are they strippers?” Gemma looks at each one from head to toe.
“Interns.” Nick snaps his fingers, and the four man-boys each grab a box and make their way back down the stairs.
“Ninety-nine percent sure this is illegal.” Harley hands Nick a cup of coffee and two sugar packets.
I give Nick a fist bump. “One hundred percent sure I don’t care.”
“Does this mean I can sit and watch?” Gemma hops up onto my counter, angling herself so she has a view of the door.
I yank on her arm, pulling her right back down. “I do not trust college boys with my plants. Let’s do this.”
We all take final swigs of our coffee and get down to business. Since I’m moving into a fully furnished home, I was able to sell my couch, bed, dresser, and coffee table, which both padded my savings and now makes for a much easier move. With the help of the strapping young interns, we’ve got the place loaded up in an hour, which must be some kind of New York record. We wave goodbye to the eye candy and pile into the cab of the moving van Nick rented because he’s the only one with a valid driver’s license.
