I lift my chin and stride toward the clinic, visualizing scenarios and outcomes, my goal to cement a second date.
But then I see how busy they are, so I freeze in the center of the archway instead of stepping on through. There’s a line at reception, several people waiting their turn, so I decide to head out the back exit of the building and treat myself to a latte and a lemon bar at the coffee shop three blocks away.
I whip out my phone so I can multitask and clear emails, using my hip to shove out the door. With the sun shining down, and my eyes struggling to adjust to the brightness, I can’t see the words onscreen. Relying heavily on the handrail, I squint and descend the stairs, the humidity greeting me in the same sticky-tongued manner as an overly excited puppy.
To ensure I won’t fall, I glance from my phone as I take the last step and see Noah hunched over a flower bed with a spade.
I note the piles of dark, upturned dirt that’s also caked to the knees of his jeans, along with the plastic trays of flowers and greenery. He’s replacing the wilted and the dead, and this must be the grannies’ mysterious landscaping contact—I’d asked for more details, only to be told by Grandma Helen I should stop worrying and trying to micromanage everybody, but that “It’ll be done by Monday.”
“Whoa,” I say, because I’m articulate like that. “You’re not who I expected.”
Noah pauses to lift his forearm to his forehead, using the shade to look up at me. “Yeah, I like to plant flowers around the walkways while waiting around to yell at grandparents.”
A smile plays at his lips, a bit restrained with a pinch of arrogance, just like him. He winks, and why is my heart goingthump,thump, thumpto this?
My eyes immediately give me the answer, roving the undone buttons up top that give a tantalizing peek at his chest. My stomach goes on a roller coaster ride, cresting around my ribcage before plummeting to my toes. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been winked at, but it’s certainly never elicited this reaction.
Of coursehe pulls it off, with nothing more than a teasing gleam in the squint of his baby blues, too. Talk about unfair.
But this moment was inevitable, and so I brace myself for a task I’ll likely struggle with till the day I die.
I have to apologize.
It’s not saying sorry that’s so difficult, but the admission of fault—that I made a mistake my brain will replay again and again. If I cause or can’t fix a problem, I’ve disappointed someone, and that’s a hundred times worse than yelling or anger.
“It was unfair of me to accuse you of that,” I say, the words coming out thickly. Not only was it an exaggeration, but if I ever cross paths again with the ex-husband who left Arlene so gobsmacked, lost, and heartbroken, I’ll probably be the one screaming. “Even if I saw it with my own eyes.”
Noah’s jaw drops, so he definitely heard that last part that was supposed to stay in my head. See what I mean? Maybe I’mallergicto apologizing.
I tense, prepping for another verbal sparring match, but I’d feel much better about my odds if my body wasn’t confusing attraction and angry heat.
Then the dude belly laughs, and I’m really not sure what to do with that.
What Ishoulddo is try again and, since I tend to do what I should, I give it another go.
“I might’ve been a little—” I refuse to useemotional, not because it’s untrue or I consider it a weakness, but because it’s been weaponized against women for centuries—“riled up the evening of the safe sex seminar. I thought I’d just give a quick refresher course that resulted in everyone vowing to do better, so I could turn my focus to literally any other issue…”
Whoops, that’s more than I meant to say, but now the truth’s out there, and I’m not sure whether I should finish it.
Noah’s so quiet I check to see if he’s still listening, but I completely lose my train of thought when I find his gaze so steady on me. This time he doesn’t fight back a smile, and he has a very nice mouth is all I’m saying. “I could say the same, about that night and my frustration over stubborn grandparents who won’t listen to reason.”
I laugh, no longer feeling like such a failure for caving to their demands. “What did they bribe you with?” I indicate the cart filled with a bag of sod and various plants with a jerk of my chin. “In exchange for landscaping?”
Is this their big master plan? Outsource labor-intensive tasks to the grandchildren of the community who can’t seem to say no?
“No bribe.” Noah sits back on his heels and swipes his palms together. “I know some guys and don’t mind getting my hands dirty, either.”
“Is that a slam on me?” Here I thought we were having a moment. “I don’t mind the dirt. The trouble’s the germs.”
He cocks his head, squeezing one eye closed as he peers up at me, and damn that boyish charm and my inability to withhold information.
Okay, maybe that was some projecting on my part, which can happen when my anxiety meets my OCD.
“Get down here and dig in the dirt with me, then,” Noah says, snagging a foam board off his cart. He rests it next to him on the sidewalk so I have padding for my bare shins, and despite the dare in his tone, my insides have gone all melty and warm. “Unless there’s a floral virus going around that I’m not aware of.”
“Smartass,”I say, his surprising mix of humor and chivalry making me comfortable enough to jab right back. “I’d kick dirt at you if it wouldn’t soil my shoes.”
“A thank-you would suffice,” he snarks, swinging a plant with clumps of soil around its roots in my direction as I kneel on the padded surface he provided and rearrange my pleated navy skirt. “This is Hibiscus coccineus, often referred to as a scarlet rosemallow or swamp mallow, because they’re native to Florida and can grow in marshy areas. It needs to be buried about four inches.”
