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Ugh. Who cares?
How can he think about that stuff now, with birds of paradise flitting overhead and the scent of damp soil in our lungs, and that—that man watching us both curiously as he walks over?
The man tugs off his gloves and tucks them in the back pocket of his jeans so he can shake both our hands. From a distance, he looked roughly our age, but up close, you can tell this guy’s older. He’s built stronger than the average student, with faint lines at the corners of his green eyes, and there’s a steadiness about him that says whatever the world wants to throw in his direction, he’s seen it all before.
When his hand closes around mine, his palm is callused and dry. Sweat trickles down my spine, and the ringing sound is back in my ears, only louder.
“Hey, you two.” It’s a nice voice. Low and melodic—the kind of voice you might hear reading you bedtime stories on an insomnia app. “I’m Kai Akana, the Head Gardener here. I’ll be taking care of you for the next couple months. You must be Eden and Jeremiah?”
Jeremiah says something in response, but I just nod in a daze. The man—Kai—smiles at me kindly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Mid thirties, maybe? Hard to be sure when this man is so sun-kissed, with a deep tan and caramel streaks in his hair. He looks like the sun licked him all over.
Lucky sun.
“So are you both excited for your placement?”
“Definitely,” Jeremiah says at once, all cool confidence.
I open my mouth to agree, but no words come. Chest tightening, I settle for another nod.
Oh hell.
“Great,” the Head Gardener says, looking at me strangely now. That’s two direct questions I haven’t answered. “I’ll show you where to leave your things, and then I’ll give you guys the tour.”
As I trail after Jeremiah and the demigod through the leaves, my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth.
Forget a stammer.
Why can’t I say a single word?
Two
Eden
Present day
“And another thing,” I say, flinging a damp swim towel in my laundry hamper. “It’s like Jeremiah thinks we’re on some reality show where we might get voted out of the greenhouse. He acts like he’s so charming and funny, making Kai laugh all the time. And he asks all these elaborate questions about botany, like such a try-hard.”
“Isn’t he a botany major?” my roommate’s boyfriend murmurs. She shushes him, digging an elbow into his ribs where they’re sitting together on her bed, backs leaned against the wall. She’s blonde and feminine; he’s dark-haired and dour. They’re a beautiful pair, and they’re both trapped here, listening to me.
Poor Lane. Poor Ambrose. He knocked on our door twenty minutes ago, trying to collect her for a date, but instead they’ve both been sucked into my vortex of doom.
It’s like—all the words I can’t say around Kai, all the words that get stuck in my throat in the Head Gardener’s presence, they don’t disappear after a while. Oh, no. Instead they wait in line until I’m back in my dorm room with people who don’t make me too nervous to speak, and then they explode out of me in an incoherent burst.
My roomie deserves a medal. Or at least to go on a date with her sexy older boyfriend when he calls.
Instead I’m mid-rant, cleaning as I go, my cheeks hot with embarrassment and my voice hoarse from all this word vomit.
“You can leave, by the way.” Holding up my waste paper basket, I sweep a medley of crap off my desk. Used post-it notes, book receipts from the library, and clothing labels from recent comfort-buys that I cannot afford patter against the base. “I know this is boring as hell.”
No one wants to hear someone else’s drama. Not in a twenty minute spew, anyway, and especially not when they should be on a hot date with their ex-tutor.
“It’s not boring,” Lane says valiantly, though Ambrose is studiously silent. Sometime in the last few minutes, his hand crept onto her thigh, and now his fingers toy with the hem of her skirt. Lane’s cheeks are pink, and she keeps squirming. “Jeremiah’s an asshole.”
“Yeah.” Slamming the waste paper basket back down, I point at my roommate like she just made a genius observation. “He totally is. He’s been such a douche at debate club all month, mocking me for being silent in the greenhouse.”
“Debate club?” Ambrose murmurs. He sounds confused, and I don’t blame him. Half of this rant has been about how unfair it is that I’m twenty two years old and can’t freaking speak.
“Obviously she can talk,” Lane whispers back, and Ambrose rolls his eyes.
