Page 49 of Love is an Open Book
“Mia.” I bend my head to kiss her, when the potting bench begins to rattle.
For a moment, it’s just another sensation, but then diesel fumes hit my nostrils. Someone started up the tractor.
I pull away faster than I would’ve thought possible a moment ago. “Better grab the tools and head out before Faye comes looking.”
“Can’t have that.” Mia looks as dazed as I feel but I resist the urge to reach for her hand. Touching her again could be catastrophic.
Her voice reaches me as I open the latch on the toolshed. “She’d miss you, too,” Mia says. “So would Dale. They’d understand. But you’re someone people want to keep around. Whatever you decide, don’t forget that.”
She doesn’t know everything Scott told me. How he assumed the life I’d built here was easy to turn my back on. How he made me feel like my friendships were nothing compared to marriage and kids, and it was time to grow up and build a real life.
I haven’t let on how uncertain I’ve been feeling. Wondering whether what’s next looks nothing like I’d imagined. But Mia knew anyway because she’s not some casual friend. She’s my roots. Instead of picturing our relationship as a seedling breaking through the soil, fresh and new, suddenly I imagine a full-grown tree, lush and vibrant, uprooted by the storm of our shifting feelings. Change can be a beginning, but it can also be the end of something beautiful.
Fifteen
Mia
I’ve always been a firm believer that gardening is overrated. Who wants to spend their Sunday sweating in the dirt when they could be washing down waffles with a mimosa on a patio or curled up indoors with a good book by a bay window overlooking said garden?
Not that I don’t appreciate the beauty of gardens, but I never saw the appeal of doing it myself. Turns out it’s even worse than I feared. Not only is this a ton of work, but it’s painful, too.
I bend to grab a branch to haul away and am rewarded by the jab of a thistle hidden in the tangle. Shaking my stinging hand, I glance around to see if anyone noticed, but the other volunteers are all busy with their own tasks, laughing and making small talk like this is a walk in the park.
A future park, maybe, but right now the vacant lot is a mess. I’m glad it’s being cleaned up, but less glad that I’m the one who signed up to do it. I send a silent apology to all my characters who I put through fish-out-of-water situations.
I knew I would be outside my depth physically but figured this would be better than a trope that put me in over my heademotionally. Big miscalculation. Technically, we’re encouraged to take breaks whenever we feel the need, according to the person who checked me in. But my competitive streak has me wanting to keep up with all the other volunteers.
Gavin got pulled away the moment we arrived, and since we were late, I jumped in with a group who was pulling weeds. I immediately got scolded by one of the older volunteers for not yanking out the roots—I wasn’t given a tutorial, but she acted like it was common sense—and after ten minutes of struggling to dig out the root of a single giant weed and breaking two nails, I slunk away when no one was looking and joined the people hauling branches to the curb.
My arms are stinging from the prickly bushes, but I’ve done my best to keep up, which means no chance to join in the conversation around me. My throat is dry, and I regret leaving my tumbler in Gavin’s truck. I noticed water bottles in the tent during sign-in, but I’m trying to brave it out until lunchtime.
In front of me, a guy is struggling to drag a huge branch, and I jog over to help. He smiles his thanks and together we haul it across the lot. But when we set it down, a twig catches in my hair. I twist my head, trying to get loose, and reach around, feeling blindly for the spot that’s snared. My head is tilted upward, and I squint against the sting of the bright midday sun.
The guy must not have noticed my plight because no offer of assistance comes. Just as well. I’d rather not have any witnesses to this embarrassing moment. I bend my knees, hoping to create slack, but the twig yanks at my roots. “Ow!”
“Here, let me,” an unfamiliar voice says. I’m not in the position to be picky over my rescuer, so I hold still, thankful for the help. “You’re Mia, right?”
Oh no. Please tell me this isn’t a fan. I don’t get recognized often but it would be just my luck to have it happen when I’m at the mercy of a nefarious twig. A rosy-cheeked face appearsin front of me, framed by flyaway tendrils of light red hair. “I’m Riley by the way. Gavin and I work together.”
Ah, so that’s how she knows me. “The trivia queen,” I say, and smile.
She gives a little laugh. “Doesn’t say much considering the level of competition, but I’ll take it.” Another small tug, and she drops her hand, stepping back. “You’re free.”
“Thanks.” I pat my scalp to ease the pain and try not to think of how my hair must look. Should’ve worn a scarf. Yet another misstep.
Riley is giving me an appraising look, hands on her broad hips. “Wanna stick with me for a while?”
I give her a grateful nod. At least she knows what she’s doing.
Heading off toward the tent, she gestures for me to follow. “First stop, water.”
I take it back. Gardening has one redeeming quality. The sheer physical effort involved makes dwelling on emotional stress impossible. Normally I would be questioning what the heck I was thinking when I flirted with Gavin earlier—without even the excuse of a trope test to fall back on—but struggling to keep up with Riley and the others has taken all my focus.
Anytime I feel worry creeping up over how I’m going to resolve things now that Sydney and Victor are a couple or shame blossoming for how I flirted with Gavin less than an hour after calling a time-out on the trope tests, I just yank out another weed. Riley showed me the bin of gloves set aside for volunteers and gave me a special shovel that makes it a lot easier.
At home, my mind would be spinning over the way Gavin’s touch affected me, but out here I’ve been too busy to even keep track of where he’s at.
Digging in the dirt is cathartic, and I’m actually enjoying myself right now, in spite of my sweaty face and grime-caked knees. I definitely regret changing out of my new jeans whenI saw the forecast, but the upside is feeling the slight relief of the breeze on my bare legs.
