“Wouldn’t matter,” he says. “You’d believe me anyway.”
It isn’t exactly a compliment, but it doesn’t feel like an insult, either. I coil up the hose and hang it back on the rack. Then, I wipe sweat from my upper lip, trying to look composed. Troy stands in the sun, arms folded, surveying the garden like it’s a job site. I have the urge to say something clever, but my brain is empty of anything except the realization that I want him to stay. Longer than just a morning. Maybe the whole day.
“So what now?” I ask, a little exhale in my voice.
He glances at the garden. “Give them some time. They’ll do the work on their own.”
“Plants are so self-sufficient,” I say. “Who knew?”
He looks at me for a moment. “You remind me of them.”
“Plants?”
He shrugs, but there’s something in his eyes that says he means it. “Stubborn. You dig in.”
I snort. “That’s not a compliment, is it?”
“It is.”
I cross my arms, resisting the urge to smile.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
He shakes his head. “Only if it matters.”
I want to ask what else he thinks matters, but I’m not sure I want the answer. Or maybe I do, but I want to. I want to knowwhat happens if I ask. But I realize how comfortable it is to just stand here in the sun with him. Not talking, not filling up the space with nervous jokes or explanations. Just being. This is odd for me. I talk a lot — mostly to fill a void that needs to be filled.
He glances at my feet. “You’re gonna have mud between your toes all day.”
“Maybe I like the way it feels,” I say, and this time, it’s not a lie.
He looks at me intensely, and for a few seconds, it feels like we’re the only two people in the world. It makes me dizzy in a way that is not entirely unpleasant. Troy shifts, then leans down and brushes a fleck of dirt from his knee. “You want breakfast?” he asks, like the answer should be obvious.
I blink. “You cook?”
He gives a half-shrug. “A little.”
I think about the state of my own kitchen. There's cereal, instant coffee, and a loaf of bread that’s probably past its prime. But there’s something so easy about the way he asks that I just nod and say, “I’d like some.” The words are out before I can overthink them, and I pretend not to notice the way my voice cracks just a little.
“Wash those feet, grab some shoes and come on,” he says, gesturing toward his truck.
“Wait, your place?”
The question sounds more loaded than I mean, but he just nods once, matter-of-fact.
“If you want.”
Want? What do I really want? Food or more Troy? How about both.
Chapter 12
Troy
Ilet her lead the way across the yard, which is still wet enough to leave footprints, and watch as she tiptoes over the muddy spots. She tries to look like she’s not taking care to avoid the mess, but she is. I’m supposed to be thinking about the plants we just put in, or the next job on my list, but all I can do is keep track of the way Rainey moves. Like she’s memorizing the ground under her feet, daring it to trip her. She cleans her feet with the hose and pulls on socks and a pair of tennis shoes inside.
She locks her front door as I wait for her beside my truck. Sliding into the passenger seat, Rainey tucks her legs up and folds her hands in her lap. It sort of reminds me of a yoga pose. There’s a quiet excitement under the surface, like she’s bracing for something, but she covers it with a joke as soon as I fire up the engine.
“You sure this isn’t how you lure in all the city girls? Free tomato plants and a breakfast invite?”
