“B-both of those words start withS. I’m stressed. Another S-word. In case you didn’t know.”
More staring.
More feeling the utter collapse of my mental health.
Finally, he shrugs those shoulders of his and says, “I like it, Lemonade. Now we both have nicknames.”
It takes an entire minute—or several hours; I can’t be sure—to process those words. By the time my eyes have stopped glazing over, Samson is standing in front of me. “What did Lazul want from you?”
My mouth is dry, but through sheer force of will, I open it and form words. “Five hundred rocks.”
“What?”
“For retaining walls.”
Samson’s face scrunches, and he rubs at the day-old scruff on his cheek. It’s shorter than before my sad girl days. I must’ve missed him shave. Will agony never cease to chase me?
He mumbles, “And that idiot specifically asked you to gatherfive hundredrocks?”
“W-well…” No. He wasn’t specific. My journal told me I need five hundred. But I don’t know if anyone else here has a book that they can talk to. So I’m not certain I want to confess that information.
Samson crosses his arms, grumbling, “That’s such a vague demand. What size rocks? What type of rock? No. None of that.Justbring me five hundred rocks, even though yesterday you were storing pears in a wooden box and probably have no idea what kinds a retaining wall even calls for.”
Urk.
That’s fine.
I didn’t need my self-esteem anymore. It was, arguably, a tiny little scrap of nothingness anyway. Barely of consequence.
Samson sighs. “I’ll get my own pick. We can start working through cleaning up your land at least and hope the resources Gabbro and Austin need are among the rubble.”
My eyes widen, and my mouth opens, but I can’t figure out what I’m trying to say before Samson’s long strides are carrying him through the brush toward the path in the trees that separates our farmland.
When he returns, I haven’t moved, and—for unimaginable reasons—this seems to concern him. “You okay, Lemonade?”
He’s got his pick propped against one shoulder like a proper farmboy…and…
Yeah.
I think I might be better than okay.
This is the second day in a row that Samson is reaching out to me. It’s almost like he cares about my well-being or something.
Clearing my throat, I whisper, “You’re going to help me?”
“I don’t want a landslide to crush Slate any more than anyone else, assuming he’s who needs the retaining wall. The landslide that covered the mines and washed his junk away could have killed him if he were in the wrong room at the wrong time. We’re lucky Lazul had enough sense to force a mandatory evacuation to his manor. Without that, I’m positive Slate would’ve been outside. The idiot always studies weather events.”
Yep. He does. When it rains in game, he’s always in front of his lab with wet goggles, babbling on about the beautiful strength of nature. He’s the one who reported that a big stormwas coming, and he’s the person you can go to in order to check the forecast for the next day in the game.
Pyro might be my backup love interest, but by far Slate is my favorite character—second only to Samson, of course.
If only he didn’t have wimpy nerd shoulders, I may have been content with his romance arc. It’s very…interesting. That’s for sure.
Reminding myself we arenottreating people like game characters anymore—which includes refraining from sexualizing their shoulders—I say, “Slate needs a retaining wall, and so do Laumon and Neptun.”
Samson’s eyes roll. “No, actually Lau and Nep need to accept that sand is a terrible foundation, get off the beach, and stop prioritizing theatmosphere of the oceanabove safety.” He swings his attention toward the chaos that is my farmland before I can decide whether or not I’m allowed to laugh. I don’tthinkhe’s joking. But he is so, so very right. With a single, affirmative nod, he states, “Let’s clear this place.”
I cringe at the mere idea of tackling this monstrosity without better tools. Just my attempt to plow a path to Samson’s farm resulted in a thousand scratches and sore muscles I can still feel if I turn the wrong way.
