Page 52 of You Had Me At Pumpkin Patch
He looked up at her from his sandwich, seemingly impressed with her boldness. A few strands of dark hair hung around his face, framing his strong jaw and dancing in front of his eyes. She felt an urge to reach across and tidy them back into his bun so she could see him properly, but she clamped a hand around her beer.
‘My mum died when I was eleven, though I was in care before that. She had addiction problems. Drugs, gambling, alcohol. Anything she got her hands on she couldn’t get enough of. Except me.’
The final two words came out so softly, Rosie wasn’t even sure that he knew he’d said them.
‘I wasn’t enough. I guess I’m nobody’s addiction.’ The small smile on his lips didn’t fool her. He was trying to make light of things again. That he had to tore a piece of her heart.
She reached across and squeezed his hand, resisting the impulse to jump up and throw her arms around him and tell him how easily she’d become addicted to every fibre of him. He was so much more than he gave himself credit for. How could she even express that? She longed for him, as much as she tried constantly to suppress it.
‘Never say that. You have no idea.’ Her eyes welled up, the pressure of tears and sadness almost excruciating. ‘I’m... I’m sorry you had to go through that. I can’t imagine how tough that must have been.’
‘Tough.’ He said it like he was mulling something over. ‘My mum’s sister used that word at the funeral.She was a tough woman to love. You’re better off without her.’
‘That sounds... harsh?’
‘Yeah. Or stupid. I don’t think anyone ever got it.’ He rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. ‘I didn’t love my mum one bit less for anything that she ever did. We’re not programmed like that. It didn’t cross my mind to blame her. I blamed me. I lovedmeless. I was the one who wasn’tenough.Not even for my slightly mean aunt, who had a big enough house and no intention of sharing it.’
‘No, no, no.’ Rosie squeezed both of his hands with hers, having none left to stop the flow of tears from her eyes.
‘Hey, it’s OK.’ He pulled a hand away and used the corner of his sleeve to wipe her cheeks. ‘It’s just life, isn’t it? We weren’t all built to last the race. My mum’s probably better off sitting on a cloud. At least she can’t spend all her time swearing at slot machines up there. And the view must be fantastic.’
They both knew that wasn’t why Rosie’s heart was slowly breaking. Her thoughts went out to the mother who’d lost her way. But sometimes it was the ones who were left behind who struggled to find their path again.
Zain was trying to avoid the heaviness, and something in his eyes told her she should respect that. Dark humour was sometimes his way.
‘I suppose you want to know about my dad now?’ His smile was wry. Almost playful.
‘No! I honestly didn’t come here to be nosy.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, before you ask, Montana is a long way.’
‘Oh. You didn’t ever think about...?’
Zain placed a finger on her nose, which was almost certainly a little snotty. She would normally have been self-conscious, but somehow, in that moment, they were beyond that.
He took a swig of his beer. ‘Some things can’t be fixed.’ He pointed the bottle towards her notebook. ‘Anyway, we were meant to be coming up with plans for your thing. Maybe that’ssomething wecanhave some control over. But the past? The past is done.’ His look said he didn’t want to hear any more about it. She could hardly blame him for that.
‘OK. But if you ever want to talk...’
‘Understood. Now, work. Sometimes you and your notebooks are a welcome distraction.’
‘Right, yes.’ Rosie shook herself down and grabbed her pen. She needed to get back onto safer territory. Territory where she didn’t want to throw her arms around Zain and make everything all right. Much like Steve the cat, maybe the things he’d been lacking had made him stronger. And it wasn’t her place to try and fix any parts of him that needed healing, as much as her instincts begged to. Zain had made it clear he didn’t want that, and it was tricky enough to get him onside when it came to work matters. If they were going to come together to save their homes, she couldn’t risk rocking their already precarious boat. And she didn’t want her heart to be thrown overboard by him again.
‘Maybe your partygoers would be drawn in by magical sunsets and stargazing. And your chef could do a pumpkin harvest feast theme.’
Her heart gave a little skip. And there she’d been, hoping that talk of work would make her want to hug him less. Why did he come up with ideas that made her swoony?
‘Great.’ She busied her hands with adding items to her list.
‘And your hayrides. I can organise that. I have ideas from stuff I’ve seen at my paternal family’s place, in the US. I mean, it was a long time ago. I was only there briefly, and it didn’t work out.’
His voice had trailed off a bit. Rosie stayed quiet, wondering if he wanted to talk.
‘You know, they could trace their history right back to the early settlers, who learned how to cultivate the fruit from Native Americans. Can you imagine? Hundreds of years of belonging to something and farming one of the oldest known crops. Deep roots. Hard toil. The joy of watching something grow. Something you planted and cared for, with your own bare hands.’
Now and again, Zain disappeared into something that sounded like the perfectly written musings of his soul. That had been one of those moments. Where did it come from? It was a far cry from the reclusive, huffy Zain she’d first met, who’d made her believe he’d barely seen a classroom. Though she knew he couldn’t be harbouring a secret library of poetic pumpkin verse.
‘Maybe that’s why you’re so connected to the land, Zain. It’s in you.’
