“Stop.”
I freeze.
“What?”
“You’re overthinking it.”
I look up at him. Troy crouches beside me again and he’s close … very close. His hand covers mine briefly, steadying it.
“Like this.”
My breath catches … again. This is becoming a pattern. He adjusts the plant slightly, then presses the soil in place.
“There,” he says.
I pull my hand back.
“Okay. I can do that.”
“Do it again.”
I do. This time it’s better. Still not perfect, but better. We fall into a rhythm now of planting, pressing, moving to the next location and doing it again. It’s relaxing in a way and I’m quiet for a change. The only sound is birdsong from the trees in the distance.
In the middle of it, I realize I’m not thinking about the roof or money. I’m not worried about the mess I need to organize inside the house. I’m just here doing and building something … with him. I sit back on my heels and look over the small row we’ve started.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “This might actually work.”
“It will.”
I glance up at him.
“You sound very confident about that.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
He looks out over the yard, then back at me.
“Because you’re still here.”
I look down at the small plants and the row we just made.
“Well,” I say softly, “so are you.”
Something softens in his expression. It’s subtle, but I see it. Then, it’s quickly gone. He stands, brushing his hands off on his jeans.
“That’s enough for today.”
“We just got started.”
“You’ll kill them if you rush.”
I frown.
“That feels personal.”
“It’s not.”
