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The next growl is a lot louder. “Bayard, Nebraska, you said?” he asks.
I laugh again, feeling lighter now. “I said no to dinner. And to giving him my number.”
“You better have said no.”
I lie back on the pillows on my bed. I feel a little…sassy, actually. “Oh? Why’s that?”
“Because you had my fingers in your sweet pussy nine days ago, and you came all over my hand. You’re spoken for, Abigail.”
My eyes go wide and my breath lodges in my chest. Holy crap. I did not expect him to go there. “Oh.” That’s all I manage to say.
“As to why you’re amazing,” he says, as if he didn’t just say something incredibly filthy to me and practically set my panties on fire. “You want to put an end to childhood hunger by building indoor farms for every school, incorporating the farm into the curriculum from kindergarten through high school, including science classes, cooking classes, business classes, and even history and social science classes. You want the farm to supply fresh food to the school, but also provide a place for families to acquire fresh food for use in their homes. You believe that when people know how to grow their own food, right in their own kitchens or backyards, they feel more secure, and are more empowered. You are looking for people to help you not only build and maintain the farms, but you want to include social scientists, psychologists, physicians, and economists to study the long-term effects because you believe these farms can significantly impact the physical, mental, and social well-being of communities, villages, and neighborhoods.”
I’m staring at the ceiling. But I only see Torin’s face.
I’m more amazed by what he just said than I was by his dirty words about his hand in my… I can’t even think the word he so easily said.
I sit up. “You…I…” I take a deep breath. “You really did read all my stuff.”
“All of it.” He pauses. “I’m fascinated to know where it all comes from though,” he says. “Why are you a farmer, Abigail?”
I only hesitate for a moment. I don’t remember the last time someone asked me about this.
“When I was ten, I decided I wanted to be a vegetarian. But I was picky about textures and strong flavors. And there were times when I wanted something we didn’t have, and I didn’t drive or have my own money to go get what I needed. It was frustrating, and I felt…helpless. I never went hungry, but I wanted to eat a certain way, a way I felt strongly about for ethical reasons, but I couldn’t because of various limitations. So I decided to grow my own food. That way I always had food I liked available.”
He's quiet, and I wish I’d thought to video call him so I could see his face.
“So you understand what it’s like to have your food options limited,” he says.
Yes, he gets it.
“I was really privileged. It’s not the same as people who have limited access to food because of true financial or mobility or access issues,” I say. “They’re limited in accessing all types of food. I was just picky. But I remember how it felt, and I can easily understand how awful it would feel to be unable to provide good food to your whole family, your children, on a consistent basis.”
I run a finger over the design on the hotel room duvet, thinking about what all to tell Torin.
“Anyway, I started growing vegetables in a garden, but of course not everything can grow all the time. So I moved a bunch of plants to pots inside. My parents got sick of having pots all over the house, and I wanted things that took up more space. Strawberries, melons, bushes for berries. So…I built a greenhouse.”
“You built a greenhouse by yourself?” he asks.
I smile. “I designed it and was planning to, but my dad did jump in along with a few of his friends. And I’ve built two since then.”
“And then you grew…everything?”
“I slowly added onto it. As I learned about different plants and what they needed to grow. And as I wanted to try different foods. And the feeling of security that came from being able to provide for myself that way really stuck with me.”
I frown. “Then I started my college classes, and learned about food insecurity and was appalled to learn that Louisiana is one of the hungriest states in the US. My hometown, where I was growing my own food in my backyard, has so many families who don’t always have enough. That shook me. I can’t believe that in the United States, one of the wealthiest countries on the planet, we have children going hungry on a daily basis.”
I feel the familiar rage and frustration tightening my chest. “I know what it feels like to be empowered by being able to provide for myself in that very basic way, and I decided to help find a way to give that to everyone. Especially kids. They are, obviously, dependent in so many ways. But if they can access food, understand how food grows, and that it can happen anywhere they are if they are just a little creative, that will make them feel secure in a way that can influence so many other things. And doing that through their schools just makes sense. It combines education with simple access. Kids have to go to school. So helping provide their most basic needs there seems like a no-brainer.”
He’s quiet for several seconds, and I worry that I scared him off. Or put him to sleep.
I’m amazed by how many words I actually said. I’m not one to go off on rants or give eloquent monologues. Or any monologues. But with Torin, the words just…come out.
“That’s incredible, Abigail,” he finally says. His voice sounds gruff.
“It has the potential to be incredible,” I say. “We’re not to the incredible stage yet.”
“The passion behind it is incredible,” he says, firmly. “All you need to do is convince people who have the resources to give them to you. Like me.”
