Page 22 of The Risks of Reuniting

Poppy

I take it back, she might go for that.

Dani

Please, please, please let it be so.

Avery

I will love you forever if this happens, Chlo. Genius move!

Lucy

Yes, yes, yes. Then Dani could write a book about their love story.

Sadie

Eww, that's Kaden we're talking about. No one wants to read his lovestory.

Dani

Yeah, Lucy, are you trying to kill my career? Besides, I write romantasy. Unless he's going to marry a princess and then get eaten by a dragon, I'm not touching it.

All I'm saying is I planted the seed, it's up to you ladies to help water it. You have your missions, should you choose to accept.

Poppy

On it!

HOLT

Gardening is not my forte. Thanks to the careful tutelage of my father, I can create beautiful things with wood, hammer, nails, drills and tools, but I have a black thumb of death when it comes to greenery. Every plant my mom had in our house was fake, and we got our nature time by being outside as much as we could.

I try to explain that to Carlos on Tuesday morning when he asks me to join a group going up the hillside to a community garden they're starting,but he doesn't listen. The morning is warmer than usual, and I use my work glove to wipe away a trickle of sweat before it can get in my eyes. My dark tee is already sticking to the backs of my shoulders and if I'm going to be sweaty, I want it to be from working, not from talking. As far as I'm concerned, this conversation is a waste of time – and I hate the thought of being unproductive. I've already been here a week and I'm feeling the press of hours flying by. I want to get as much done as I can for these people while I'm here.

"The garden is important," Carlos presses back.

"I can build some garden boxes," I offer hopefully.

"They do not need boxes," he states. "We are in our dry season and need to get seeds in the dirt."

"I'm not good at growing things," I respond, holding up my hands. "I kill plants."

He shakes his head and hands me a crate filled with seeds and spades. "But you do not kill seeds."

I nod once, accepting defeat, and hold the crate close to my chest as I follow Cesar and four other people heading uphill. Cesar is carrying water and a picnic lunch for each of us in a backpack, and he tugs a shade hat lower over his brow. The others are carrying shovels and rakes, and more water in jugs they have over their shoulders. I'm in decent shape, but the incline is steep and my body is burning by the time we reach the square of land amid the shanties. I haven't come this far up yet, and I have no idea how the people living here manage to haul water up and down each day for their needs. It would exhaust even the healthiest person, but these people often don't have enough food to keep them going. It's humbling, and I suddenly don't mind being put to work gardening. If it brings the food closer to them, that has to be a good thing.

The soil is dark brown as we dig in, reminding me of the color of Chloe's eyes. Everything reminds me of her. It was easier when we were thousands of miles apart, but having her easily accessible has made it impossible to ignore her. I keep an eye out for her all day long, hoping to catch a glimpse. More often than not, when I do see her, I'm left disappointed. She's polite at best, cold at worst, and I understand that it's her way of protecting herself. Chloe is slow to warm up, but when she loves, she does it with her whole heart. And when she's hurt, she's hurt deeply.

The thing is, even when we officially broke up I knew it was a mistake. I never actually tried to stop loving her. Instead, I threw myself into my pharmacy school, and getting to know my roommate Brock, and working out regularly to keep my mental health good. So it's not a surprise to me that I have no chill where she's concerned. I never did.

I'm pulled out of my thoughts by volleys of Spanish directing us, and Cesar and I fall into our assigned roles of using hoes to dig lines in the soil. Others follow us, making holes, and others after them, dropping in seeds and covering them. Last in line is the water guy, dripping cupfuls of precious water over every seed. I can understand why they wait for the dry season to plant. On a hillside like this, rain would wash the seeds downhill before they could take root.

The work is monotonous, so when one of the women starts singing a Peruvian song, the others join in. It doesn't take long for me to pick up the gist of it, and I add my voice to theirs, humming when I don't know the words. A few of the songs are familiar – songs my abeula sang while sweeping her house and hanging laundry – and it lightens my heart to be among my people this way. It's been a gift in my life to live in two worlds – America and Peru. I hope I've taken the best of both of them as I live my life.

We get the square of potatoes planted and take a break, sitting in the dirt to drink our water and snack on some dried fruit. Well, the local people snack on fresh fruit. I may have spent a lot of time here growing up, but my digestive tract is still very American.

"I have an idea for this weekend," Cesar says as he bites into a handful of goldenberries, his hands covered in dirt and his shirt damp with sweat.

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