Gus tugged weeds along the fence. "Some weeds need consequences."
Daphne's hand stilled around the rake.
She recovered fast.
Not fast enough.
By noon, the heat had sharpened. The sky was white-blue and hard above the pines. The beds smelled like tomato leaves and bark dust. A thin line of sweat ran down my spine under my shirt, and my shoulders ached from hauling two bags of mulch and resetting the old wheelbarrow tire.
Daphne stood near the east row with the rake braced in both hands. Dirt streaked her cheek. She didn't know it was there.
I wanted to wipe it off with my thumb.
I grabbed the empty mulch bag instead. "You can stop there."
She looked over. "There's still a bare patch by the end."
"I'll get it."
"I can do it."
"I know."
Her chin lifted. "Then why are you taking it?"
"Because you've got ten minutes before sign-out, and your hands are shaking."
She looked down.
Her gloved fingers trembled around the rake handle. Not much. Enough.
"Oh," she said.
No joke came after it.
I crossed the path, took the rake from her, and set it against the bed. "You're not in trouble for getting tired."
"I know that."
I waited.
She looked toward the shed, then back at the row. "I don't like stopping before something's finished."
"Most people here can't wait to stop."
"I'm not most people."
"No," I said before I could stop myself. "You're not."
Her eyes came to mine.
The short strip of path between our boots turned hot and still. Daphne's lips parted.
I could've stepped closer. It would've been easy. Too easy. One step, maybe two, and I'd know if she tasted like coffee and sun-warmed skin. I'd know if that quick mouth went soft when she stopped joking. I'd know how she sounded when my hand wasn't over hers for a tomato vine but at the small of her back, pulling her where I wanted her to go.
The empty mulch bag crackled in my fist.
Daphne heard it.
