He pulled. The weed came free with a long, pale root.
I stared at it. “That was weirdly satisfying.”
“It gets better.”
“That sounds like propaganda.”
“It’s gardening.”
“Same delivery system.”
His gaze flicked to mine. For one hot second, we were close enough that the noise of the garden thinned out: the sprinkler tick, the scrape of Gus’s rake, Tyler dragging his shovel through compost, Birdie clipping tomato stems. Zane’s eyes were a clear, hard blue-green, mountain water under sun, and they stayed on me a beat too long to be only supervisory.
Then he stood.
The garden sounds rushed back in.
“You take this section to the marker,” he said. “Keep the carrot tops. Pull the broadleaf weeds. If you’re unsure, call me.”
My mouth went dry in a way water wouldn’t fix. “Got it.”
He stepped back, and I still felt exactly where he’d been.
I pressed my gloved fingers into the soil and worked them around the base of a weed.
It snapped off in my hand.
Zane, who had made it only three steps away, stopped.
I held up the leafy top. “It surrendered.”
“It hid.”
“Cowardly plant.”
“Root’s still in there.”
“Right.” I turned back to the bed. “Follow-up question.”
“Already?”
“I’m building confidence through inquiry.”
“Ask.”
“How personal is too personal with a root system?”
Birdie wheezed. Tyler laughed so hard he had to set down his shovel. Gus’s beard twitched.
Zane looked up at the sky for a second, as if asking Montana for patience.
When he faced me again, his expression was stern and his eyes weren’t. “Daphne.”
“Yes?”
“Dig around it.”
“Great. Practical. I can do practical.”
