“Thanks. They didn’t die overnight, so I think I’m crushing it.”
He doesn’t laugh exactly. But the edge of his mouth curves upward in a way that feels like a reward.
“That’s the first step.”
He glances at the rest of the yard, then at me. “You ready for the tomatoes?”
“Are they temperamental?”
“They’ll do fine. Might need some shelter if we get another cold snap.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I say. “I’m already invested. These are my children now.”
He’s close enough that I can smell soap and whatever green thing lingers on him. It’s a surprisingly clean scent for someone who looks like he could bench-press a tractor. I remember what he said about burying the roots sideways, so I ask, “Is that real, or were you messing with me?”
He looks me dead in the eye. “It’s real. Tomatoes root along the stem. You lay them sideways and they send out roots everywhere. Makes the plant stronger.”
Troy says it so matter-of-factly that I have to trust him, even though it sounds like the kind of thing you’d make up to haze the new kid.
“So it’s like horizontal parenting for tomatoes.”
Troy gives me a look like he’s not sure if I’m joking or if I just don’t get out much.
“If you want to call it that,” he says, but there’s a hint of a smile.
He crouches. “We’ll put them in the back row, keep the greens in front,” he says. “Tomatoes need more space.”
I crouch too, mirroring him, even though my knees are protesting. “You must have a plan for everything.”
“You plan, you get better results.” He looks at me, assessing. “Everything else is just improvising with what you’ve got.”
I let that hang in the air. Maybe it’s about gardening. Maybe it’s about everything. I pick up one of the tomato plants and cradle it in my hand. The soil is damp, crumbly, not packed down. I try not to squeeze it too hard, but I’m not sure what the right amount of pressure is.
“Do I just dig a hole and drop it in?”
Troy picks up the shovel from the edge of the plot and rotates it in his hand. “Not quite. Tomatoes like it deep. You want to bury them up to the first set of leaves.” He demonstrates with the shovel, digging a hole that’s way bigger than I would have thought necessary. “You can pinch off the lower leaves. Give it a clean start.”
“Violent,” I say, but I do it anyway, snapping off the little leaves that look like arms. The scent is sharp and green, and it leaves a sticky film on my fingers.
He glances at my hands. “You get used to it.”
I could listen to him talk about plants all day. Or maybe just talk. His voice has this low, certain quality that makes even the most idiotic question I might ask feel like a reasonable thing to say out loud.
I dig my fingers into the dirt and press the tomato plant in, being careful to keep its little neck upright. Troy watches, just enough to make me self-conscious, then grabs a second plant and sets it up next to mine.
He’s better at it, obviously, but he doesn’t say anything condescending. We work in rhythm, like this is just what people do now—garden together on a Tuesday morning in the mountains.
We get halfway through the tray before I work up the nerve to ask, “So, is this what you do every day? Rescue doomed gardens and make them less doomed?”
He wipes his hands on his jeans. “Not always gardens.”
I press. “But you’re, like, a plant guy?”
He nods. “And greenhouses. Raised beds, landscaping. Sometimes trees.” He glances at me.
I take another plant and set it in the row. I dig with a trowel, then my glove, trying to go deep. That’s when I see something move. It’s fast but creepy crawly. Some kind of worm. It bursts out of the soil and wriggles over my gloved finger like I’m not even there. I yelp. I don’t mean to, but it’s a full-on, high-pitched, embarrassing sound that echoes.
Troy looks up, sees the thing, and just scoops it up with his bare hand. He’s not even fazed. He holds the worm up for a second, a little gray squirming tube, and says, “That’s good soil life.” Then he tucks it back into the dirt, like he’s personally rehoming a little lost friend. I have to admit it’s weirdly endearing.
