Chapter 5
Rainey
Two days later, I am standing in my backyard holding a shovel like I’ve been personally challenged to prove something. Which, to be fair, I have. To myself. To my ex-husband. To the entire state of Colorado, apparently.
I glance down at my phone again. 9:07 a.m.
Troy said he’d be here “in the morning,” which I’m discovering is a dangerously vague phrase when applied to a man who probably wakes up at sunrise and casually builds things before breakfast.
I, on the other hand, have been awake since six, fueled by coffee and determination and a mild sense of panic.
The yard looks better. Not good, but better. I cleared a section of weeds yesterday. Or what Ithoughtwere weeds. There’s a strong possibility I accidentally pulled somethingimportant, but we’re not focusing on that. We’re focusing on progress.
I have:
• a cleared patch of ground
• three tools laid out like I know what I’m doing
• gloves
• a water bottle
• and exactly zero actual experience
But I also have three contractor bids sitting in my email for the roof and gutters. Ouch! That still hurts. Financially. Emotionally. Spiritually. Apparently “a little TLC” translates to several thousand dollars.
I shift the shovel in my hands and stab it into the ground. Or attempt to. The blade hits the dirt with a dullthunkand barely goes in. I stare at it. Then push harder. Nothing.
“Okay,” I mutter. “We’re not doing this today.”
The shovel remains unimpressed. I raise it higher in the air and try again with more force. This time it goes in about half an inch before stopping like it’s hit a moral boundary. I plant my foot on the edge and push. The shovel sinks slightly deeper. Victory. Tiny, stubborn victory.
“See?” I say to no one. “We’re learning.”
Behind me, a truck engine cuts off. I freeze, then turn slowly. Troy is stepping out of his truck like he belongs here. Like he belongs anywhere he stands. He’s wearing a faded T-shirt that clings in a way that should probably be illegal and a pair of worn jeans that have seen actual work. I immediately forget what I was doing. Which is impressive, considering I was mid-battle with the earth.
He walks toward me, eyes taking in the yard, the tools, the very small patch I’ve cleared of weeds. Then his gaze drops to the shovel. Then back to me.
“You start a fight?” he asks.
I lift my chin.
“I’m winning.”
He looks at the ground. Then at the shovel. Then back at me.
“Debatable.”
I exhale sharply. “Okay, in my defense, the ground is … resistant.”
He steps closer and crouches, dragging his fingers through the top layer of soil. I try not to notice how easily he moves. How grounded he looks doing something as simple as touching dirt. I fail immediately.
“It’s compacted,” he says.
“I gathered that.”
“You’ve been digging shallow.”
