Page 28 of Seeds of Christmas
Maybe he’s not the guy who bailed freshman year.
Or maybe he is, but he’s trying not to be.
We barely need to talk—just the occasional “hand me that” or “what’s the pH reading?” Our movements are synchronized in a way that shouldn’t be possible after less than a day together. He reaches for something, I hand it to him. I need the thermometer, he’s already passing it over.
“Hey,” Carter says, pulling me from my spiral. “What’s the baseline temp supposed to be for this site?”
I check my tablet. “Forty-two point three Celsius. Why?”
“We’re reading forty-two point seven.”
I frown, double-checking his work. He’s right. “That’s... weird. Let me recalibrate.”
But even after recalibration, the reading holds. Point four degrees higher than baseline.
“Is that bad?” Carter asks.
“It’s probably nothing. Seasonal variation, maybe. Or the sensor drifted since last check.” But I’m already making notes, flagging it for analysis. Because point four degrees might be nothing, or it might be the start of a pattern. And patterns are what make papers interesting.
“You’re really into this,” Carter observes.
I look up from my tablet. “What?”
“This. The data. The measurements.” He gestures at the hot spring. “You get this look on your face when you’re working. Like everything else disappears and it’s just you and the numbers.”
My cheeks heat. “That’s not—I don’t?—”
“It’s not a bad thing.” He’s smiling, but it’s not teasing. It’s... warm. “It’s kind of cool, actually. Seeing someone care this much about something.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Matthew used to complain that I cared too much about my work. That I was “obsessed.” That I chose geology over him.
Carter’s still watching me with that expression I can’t quite read. Like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect.
“We should finish up,” I say, deflecting. “We’ve got three more sites today.”
“Right. Yeah.” He helps me pack the equipment, and as we’re loading it back into the truck, he says casually, “You were right, by the way.”
“About what?”
“The weather. We had plenty of time.” He looks at the sky, which is still holding, still grey but not threatening. “You know what you’re doing. You should trust that more.”
The words land softly, but they hit something deep.
“I’m working on it,” I say quietly.
“Yeah.” He smiles. “I can tell.”
As we drive to Site Three, it sinks in that I stated my professional opinion and someone actually listened.
Didn’t dismiss it. Didn’t talk over it. Didn’t make me doubt myself.
Just... listened.
And believed me.
Site three passes in a blur, no mishaps or problems. I actually like working with Carter Wolfe.
I’m standingin my motel room staring at the laminated room service menu like it will answer all my big burning questions about the meaning of life.
