“You’re not grossed out?” I ask, still half on the verge of a heart attack.
He gives me a sideways glance. “You should see what happens in a compost pile.”
“Oh, I won’t,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s a hard pass.”
“You get used to it. Life underneath. It’s all connected.”
There’s something about the way he says it, like he’s not just talking about worms but everything else that’s alive and moving and hidden under the surface. I try not to read into it. I focus on planting the next tomato seedling. We finish the tomatoes until all we have left are pepper plants.
“Troy, are any of these hot peppers?”
“Do you like it hot?” he asks, looking my way. He has his sunglasses on now and I can’t tell if he’s looking into my eyes or not. I also wonder if that’s a question to trap me into some embarrassing moment. So, I don’t answer right away.
“Sometimes,” I finally say. because that seems like the safest answer.
He seems satisfied with that, planting the next seedling with an extra bit of force.
“This one’s sweet pepper,” he says, setting it down. “You want the hot ones, we can get some next time.”
Next time. The certainty of it makes my hands feel a little lighter. I pick up one of the sweet peppers and hold it up, inspecting the leaves for imperfections. They’re perfect, of course. I go to plant it, but the soil resists. I push harder, and nothing happens. I glance up at Troy. “Okay. What am I doing wrong?”
He leans closer, his voice low. “You need to loosen it more first. Want me to break it up?”
He’s so close, I can see the pale scars on his knuckles.
“No,” I say, determined. “I can do it.”
I dig in, using both hands to twist the trowel deeper. The soil gives, just barely, and I wedge the little pepper start in, roots and all, then pack the dirt around it. It’s messy but it works.
“See?” I say.
I look up at him, and there’s a flash of something in his eyes. It’s a quick, silent approval that makes me want to do it again, just to see if I can get that same reaction. He doesn’t say anything, but he nods once and moves to the next spot, dropping another pepper seedling into my reach.
We work side by side, the sun inching higher, warming the back of my neck and the tops of my ears. I catch myself glancing at him every few minutes, not because I need help but because it’s surprisingly easy to get used to working with someone. There’s a rhythm to it, a give and take. Like maybe I’m not a lost cause after all.
We finish the peppers and sit back on our heels, surveying the work. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand andrealize I’m grinning. It’s a new feeling, gentle and complete, like the day decided to be good after all.
Troy straightens and stands, stretching in that way that makes it very hard not to look at him. His shirt rides up just a little and I see a flash of skin — tan, with a line of dark hair at the waistband. I look away fast, but not before my brain makes a note of it for later.
He glances down at me. “You want to water them in, or wait until this afternoon?”
I blink, caught off guard by the sudden return to business. “Uh, let’s do it now. I don’t trust my memory. I might forget by then and come back to a lettuce graveyard.”
He nods, and I half-expect him to go fetch the hose himself, but instead he waits, letting me take the lead. I dust the dirt off my knees, stand, and head toward the side of the cabin and find the nozzle exactly where Troy left it yesterday, coiled neatly and hung on a mount attached to the exterior.
I unhook it, feeling his eyes on me, and drag the hose across the yard like it’s a leash for a very stubborn dog. I have to wrestle it a little, but I make it to the garden plot.
The water arcs out, a perfect parabolic rainbow, and I try to be gentle. None of that blast-the-earth-into-submission energy. I set the spray to “shower” and move it back and forth, watching the droplets land on the little green leaves. The soft droplets darken the soil without washing it away. The sun catches the beads and makes them sparkle, and for a second I just stand there, mesmerized, watering my improbable garden like it’s the most important thing I’ve ever done.
There’s a quiet behind me, the kind that tells me Troy is watching either me or the plants. I don’t know. I finish a slow pass over the whole row, then turn the water off and look up, a little self-conscious.
“Did I overdo it?” I ask, expecting some correction or at least a note on proper hose technique.
He shakes his head. “No. They’ll like it better if you water in the morning.” He tips his chin at the plot. “Less mildew, less stress. They’ll grow faster.”
I nod like I understand, and maybe I do. Or maybe I just like the way he says things so confidently, like the universe is a puzzle he’s already solved.
“Is that a real thing, or are you just making it up to see if I’ll believe you?”
