I don't know what to say to that. Cat is still humming, swaying slightly to her own tune. The morning light catches the copper in her hair.
"I have to go," I say. "We're working on the herb garden."
"We," Nadia repeats. "You and the definitely-not-hot roommate."
"Goodbye, Nadia."
"Call me later! I want details!"
I hang up before she can say anything else, my heart beating faster than it should.
The herb gardenis behind the kitchen, a small walled enclosure that's been overtaken by neglect. What should be neat rows of rosemary, thyme, sage, and lavender is instead ajungle of competing growth, weeds strangling the useful plants, everything tangled together in verdant chaos.
"Grand-mère would be horrified," Cat says, surveying the damage. "She took such care of this garden."
"We'll fix it."
Cat glances at me, that half-smile tugging at her lips. "Listen to you. 'We'll fix it.' Very can-do."
"I've been working on my optimism."
"I noticed."
We divide the garden between us and get to work. The morning sun beats down, the scent of crushed herbs rising around us as we pull weeds and prune overgrowth. Cat works with the easy competence of someone who's done this a hundred times before, her hands sure and quick among the plants.
I work with the grim determination of someone who has a lot of catching up to do.
"Too aggressive," Cat says after a while. She's suddenly beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body. "See how you're tearing the roots? You want to work them out gently."
She reaches past me, her arm brushing mine, and demonstrates the motion. Her fingers are deft, careful, almost tender with the plant.
"Like this," she says. "Let the soil give before you pull."
"I was pulling too hard?"
"You pull everything too hard." She looks up at me, and her face is very close. "You approach everything like it's a battle to win. Sometimes you just need to... breathe. Let things be."
I can smell her—sweat and herbs and something warm beneath.
"I'm not very good at letting things be," I manage.
"Got it." Her smile is soft. "But you're learning."
She moves away to return to her section of the garden, and I remember how lungs work.
We work through the morning and into the afternoon, stopping for water and a lunch of bread and cheese that Cat produces from somewhere. The garden slowly takes shape under our hands, the chaos giving way to something ordered and intentional.
I'm starting to understand why she loves this. There's something meditative about the work—the rhythm of it, the slow satisfaction of visible progress. My hands are dirty, my back aches, and I feel more grounded than I have in years.
"Where’s the trowel?" Cat asks.
I reach for it at the same moment she does. Our hands collide, and suddenly we're very still, her fingers wrapped around mine, the trowel forgotten between us.
"Sorry," I say.
"Don't be."
Neither of us moves. Her eyes are very green in the afternoon light.
