Having him help me might also be the first thing I’ve started in a long time that I don’t immediately want to quit.
Chapter 6
Troy
The first thing I notice is that she doesn’t back away from the machine. Many people do. They hear the engine, see the blades chew into the ground, and instinct tells them to give it space. Rainey steps closer like she wants to understand it. I could be wrong, but it seems like she wants to understand everything.
I kill the engine and the sudden quiet settles over us, broken only by the wind moving through the trees and her breathing, still a little uneven from the shovel fight she insisted on having.
She looks at the ground. Then at the tiller. Then at me. Then back at the ground again. Processing. I’ve seen that look before too. It’s the moment where frustration starts turning into determination or quitting. Hers doesn’t feel like quitting. Not yet.
“That feels like cheating,” she says.
“Or working smarter.”
She huffs a laugh, and it hits me again how her personality is so bright and unfiltered. Words fly out of her mouth without care. Nothing about her is careful. I shouldn’t notice that. I do anyway.
She steps into the tilled section, crouching down and dragging her fingers through the loosened soil the same way I did earlier. She's mimicking. and learning. Her jeans pull tight across her hips when she bends, and I look away before the thought finishes forming. That’s not why I’m here. I’ve had enough of wanting something that doesn’t stay.
“Feels different,” she says.
“It is.”
She glances up at me over her shoulder.
“How do you just … know that?”
I shrug.
“You look at land long enough, you learn what it can handle.”
“And people?” she asks.
I meet her eyes.
“Same idea.”
There’s a pause. She looks back down at the soil like that answer gave her more than she expected. Good. That means she’s thinking.
I rest my hand on the tiller handle, watching her for another second. She’s not dressed for this. Not really. Good jeans. Decent boots, but not broken in. Gloves that still look new. But she showed up. That counts for more than most.
“Stand up,” I say.
She does, brushing dirt from her hands onto her jeans like it doesn’t matter. I step forward and take her hand before I think too hard about it, turning it palm up. There’s already a faint redness across her skin where the shovel rubbed. She goes still. I shouldn’t be holding her hand. I know that. But I don’t let go.She's so soft and the ground is solid and hard. The more I touch her, so am I.
“You’ll blister,” I say.
“I’ve survived worse.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Her eyes look upward into mine. This feels too close and I release her hand before I hold it longer than I should.
“Gloves,” I add.
“I was wearing them.”
“Wear them longer or you may need to get a heavier type.”
