“Oh, we’ll see about that.”
I pick up one of the small containers, turning it in my hand.
“These don’t look like they hate me.”
“They don’t know you yet.”
I gasp.
“That’s rude.”
He doesn’t react, which somehow makes it worse. I set the plant back down carefully.
“So what’s the plan?”
He steps into the tilled area, boots sinking slightly into the loosened soil.
“Spacing first.”
I follow him and immediately trip over nothing. After recovering quickly, I try to pretend it didn’t happen. He notices.
“Careful.”
“I am being careful.”
“You almost fell.”
“I didn’t fall.”
“You almost did.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
His mouth twitches. He crouches and presses his fingers into the soil, checking depth again. I crouch beside him. We’re too close. I notice immediately and so does every nerve ending I possess.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Checking moisture.”
He shifts slightly, reaching for one of the small plants.
“Watch.”
I do … very closely. Probably too closely. He digs a small hole with his hand, precise and controlled. Not like my earlier attempts at excavation warfare. He places the plant in, then presses the soil gently around it.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“That’s it.”
“That feels suspiciously easy.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
Troy stands and hands me another starter.
“Your turn.”
I take it and immediately feel nervous. But I’m determined to make it look like I am a fast learner with gardening. I try not to be completely distracted by how close he’s standing. I kneel andattempt to recreate what he just did. The hole is less precise. The plant goes in slightly crooked. I adjust it. Then adjust it again.
