I stay out on the porch until the last line of light sinks behind the trees, then I head in and close up the cabin, checking locks and turning off lights like I always do. I bump into a stack ofempty seedling trays by the back door, nearly knock them over, and I swear under my breath. I’m off my routine, and it’s all because of her.
I do like Rainey. She’s not like anyone else in this town.
Chapter 11
Rainey
There’s a kind of nervous energy that comes from waiting for someone, even if you pretend you’re not. I am staring out the window. I’ve told myself it’s so I can see the weather, but really I’m tracking the driveway for any sign of Troy’s truck.
I run to the bathroom to pee and find myself checking my appearance in the mirror. My hair is a disaster, as always, but there’s a streak of actual dirt across my cheek that must have happened at some point when I checked the plants this morning.
I wipe it away, then immediately regret not leaving it. Dirt is honest. Dirt says, “I did something.” I consider smearing it back on, just to see if it gives me credibility, but that feels insane even for me.
The porch groans when I step onto it. I’m still barefoot because it just feels right. The air is springtime cool, but not unpleasant. I kind of like it. The yard is misty, like the worldhasn’t decided if it’s going to be a good day or a bad one. I decide for it: good.
I walk out to the edge of the porch and stand there, toes curled over the rough wood. The garden patch is still a mess, but now it’s a hopeful mess. The little green starters that Troy brought are standing just a bit taller, which feels like a minor miracle. I want to touch them, but I’m not sure if that’s a thing you should do to plants.
The thing I never understood about waiting is how time gets slippery. On days when I have nothing planned, hours disappear. But today, every minute crawls by with the passive aggression of a DMV clerk.
Walking out to the yard, the sun is burning off the mist now. I crouch down by the starter row and run my hands over the leaves, careful not to crush them. They’re cool to the touch, dewy. Some of the little lettuces look like they’re actually thinking about being food someday. I resist the urge to say hello to them, but only barely.
“I see you survived the night,” I say under my breath, and in that moment I realize I am talking to plants. My ex would laugh himself into next week if he could see me now—barefoot in a beginner garden, talking to lettuce. He always said I didn’t have a normal bone in my body.
I brush my fingers over the row. The dirt is darker, still holding some of last night’s rain. I test it with my finger, and it’s soft without the concrete resistance from before.
When I straighten, Troy’s truck is already coming up the drive. It’s as though he materializes the moment I let my guard down, which is both impressive and unsettling. I brush invisible dirt off my thighs and try to look like I haven’t been crouched among kale like a mountain goblin for the last ten minutes.
He parks, steps out and heads my way with the kind of calm that says he did not spend any time at all worrying about howtoday would go. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and jeans, and he’s carrying a cardboard flat of new starts like a tray of drinks for a picnic.
“Morning,” Troy calls. His voice sounds exactly the same as yesterday. He speaks low and slow, like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Morning,” I say back. “Welcome back.”
“I brought tomatoes,” he says, holding up the tray. “And some peppers.”
I meet him halfway, which is maybe too eager, but I’m already committed, so I keep going. He sets the tray on the edge of the garden and looks at my bare feet.
“No shoes?”
“I’m going for grounding,” I say, which is a lie, but it sounds intentional so I stick with it. “Isn’t that supposed to help you connect to the earth?”
He gives a neutral, almost-smile. “You’ll connect faster with boots.”
I ignore that and crouch to inspect the little pots. The leaves are waxy, spiky, and honestly, kind of adorable. Some of them are already sprouting tiny yellow blossoms. I glance up at him, trying to sound casual.
“These look professional.”
He nods. “Started them in January.”
“January?” I blink. “That’s so early. Is that a … farming thing?”
He crouches beside me, careful with the tray. “It’s a being impatient thing. You get better results if you start early.”
He glances at the row we did yesterday.
“Looks good.”
I pretend not to glow under the approval but it’s honestly hard not to.
