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Kind regards,
Kai Akana
Head Gardener
The email makes a little whooshing noise as it sends. I bury my face in my hands, my groan echoing around the kitchen. Thank god I live alone, because no one else needs to witness this low moment.
I hate knowing a young woman might be scared of me. Feels all sickly and wrong. And the worst part is—I do look at Eden more often than I should. I do make excuses to walk by her in the greenhouse, checking on her work in the plant beds; I do forget to blink sometimes when I stare at her. Pretty sure she caught me sniffing her shampoo once, too, when I stood behind her in the greenhouse. Mint and tea tree. So pretty and fresh.
But all that damning evidence aside, Eden’s email hinted at a different problem. So… maybe I don’t freak her out after all.
My chair judders back over the kitchen tiles as I stand, and I start to bang around my kitchen cupboards, fixing dinner. Oil heats in a wok, and I chop veggies blindly, lucky I don’t lose a damn finger as my thoughts race.
Maybe it’s the other undergrad—Jeremiah. There’s a weird tension between those two. I sniffed it out in our very first session, noting the way they eyed each other warily; the way they danced around each other on the narrow paths. Truth be told, I thought maybe they liked each other—and god help me, did that jealousy eat me alive as I went home that day. But since then, I’ve figured they’re way too frosty with each other to be crushing.
So maybe I’m not the one scaring Eden into silence.
Maybe Jeremiah’s freaking her out.
Oh hell no.
As I slice up a red pepper, my chest puffs out and my grip tightens reflexively on the knife. The protectiveness rises up in me like a tsunami, unexpected but so powerful, urging me to do whatever it takes to make Eden Hopkins feel safe. Whatever. It. Takes.
Down, boy. Clearing my throat, I force my fingers to stop white-knuckling the knife handle and chop neatly. Better save those thoughts for when I’m not holding a deadly weapon. Yeah.
* * *
Their next session is on Monday morning, and I watch that pair like a hawk. They both turn up early, like always—Jeremiah catching my eye, wanting to make sure I’ve seen him arrive, while Eden scuttles in behind him, her chin ducked. They walk together to the lockers tucked away by the glass wall, and when Jeremiah waves an arm, gesturing for Eden to go first, she nods and hurries ahead on the narrow path.
Is she running from him? Running scared?
Has he ever said something to her? Threatened her?
My hands ball into fists in my gloves, the dusty leather creaking, but I force myself to stay back and watch, ducked beneath a mossy branch. It’s no good me tossing Jeremiah into the stream all ‘cause Eden’s twitchy in the greenhouse. Not without evidence that the reason is him. That’s mob justice.
“Come on,” I mutter, my words swallowed up by the babbling stream and flurry of wings. “Come on, Eden. Show me what’s wrong.”
I’ll fix it, baby.
Outside, the sun rises over the cliff side, spearing shafts of golden light through the fogged-up greenhouse walls.
Their boots crunch on the stone path. They’re walking back, stripped down to faded old t-shirts and torn jeans—no use wearing fancy clothes to garden. Everyone learns that lesson on day one. My students are both dark haired, skinny and pale, like in another world they could be siblings, and they’re both tugging on raggedy gloves.
As I watch, my mouth so dry despite the damp air, Eden turns her head and says something to Jeremiah. She speaks to him.
Ah, shit.
Eden will speak to that puffed-up, arrogant little undergrad, with his patchy attempts at facial hair and loud opinions on what makes a proper coffee? She’ll chat to the guy who rolls his eyes when she takes too long to dig up a root, and who always leaves her to clean up the trowels?
So Jeremiah is not the problem. He’s not the one freaking Eden out.
It is me.
“Damn.” My curse is low and quiet, and I clear my throat before pushing the trailing vines aside and stepping out onto the path. Sure enough, Jeremiah smiles and tips his chin up in that universal bro greeting, while Eden flushes bright pink and jerks back a step, like she needs to huddle for protection behind Jeremiah.
As if that skinny little undergrad could save her from me. What would he do, debate me to death? Jeez.
I’m in a bad, bad mood. Never been a Monday-hater before, but here I am already craving the weekend and the feel of my board beneath me, rocking back and forth with the waves. Easing these troubles away.
