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.
