I set down the weed I was holding and move closer, kneeling beside her in the dirt. "You won’t lose it."
"You don't know that."
"I do." I meet her eyes, holding her gaze. "Because you're the most stubborn, determined person I've ever met. You made a five-page rule sheet with footnotes and color-coded the bathroom cabinet. You're not letting this garden go anywhere."
Her lips twitch. "You think I'm stubborn?"
"I think you're a fighter." I pause. "And I think your grandmother would be proud as hell of you."
Her breath catches, and for a second I think she might cry. But then she blinks hard and looks away, fingers curling into the soil.
"Thank you," she whispers.
"For what?"
"For not making me feel stupid about any of this."
"You're not stupid, Ainsley. You're careful. There's a difference."
She glances at me, something unreadable in her expression. Then she clears her throat and stands, brushing dirt off her knees. "Come on. We still have half of the bed to weed."
We work side by side for another hour, and slowly, she talks again.
She tells me about her favorite plant, which is a stubborn heirloom tomato that refuses to grow, but she keeps trying anyway because Grandma loved the variety. How she accidentally killed an entire row of basil and cried for twenty minutes. And how she dreams of owning a nursery someday, a small one, where she can help people grow things and not have to deal with drunk assholes grabbing her.
I listen to all of it. Memorize the way her voice lifts when she talks about propagating cuttings. The way she bites her lip when she's deciding where to plant something new.
And then she asks, "What about you?"
I glance up from the tomato plant I'm staking. "What about me?"
"You know everything about me now. My grandma, my terrible ex-friend, my plant obsession. What's your story?"
I tie off the stake and sit back, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Not much to tell."
"Bullshit." She grins. "Come on. Fair's fair."
I exhale. "Alright. I got shot."
Her hands go still. "What?"
"Overseas. Took a round to the shoulder during a patrol." I roll my left shoulder without thinking, feeling the tightness that never quite goes away. "It wasn't life-threatening, but it was bad enough that they medically discharged me."
"Troy..." Her voice is soft. Careful.
"Fourteen years in the Army," I continue. "It was all I knew. And suddenly, I was out. No plan, no direction. My dad died while I was deployed, so I didn't even have a home to go back to."
"I'm sorry."
I shrug. "He was a single dad. Did his best. We had little, but he made sure I had what I needed. When he died, I was halfway around the world and couldn't even make it to the funeral on time."
Ainsley's hand lands on my arm, warm and grounding. I look down at it, then up at her.
"That's awful," she says.
"Yeah." I swallow hard. "After I got out, I didn't know what to do with myself. I worked in construction before the Army—loved building things, working with my hands. So I figured maybe I could do that again."
"And Levi and Kevin convinced you to come here."
