“Prayer plant, peace lily, ZZ plant, calathea,” he continues, pointing at each.
“ZZ plant?” I laugh, imagining it snoring.
“It’s short for…uhm…”
I look at him, smiling as his nose scrunches while he thinks. Then his gray eyes light up.
“Zamioculcas zamiifolia, I think. But please don’t quote me on that,” he says, the pinch between his light eyebrows smoothing out again.
“Wow. Do you have all of these for biology class or…?”
“Not really.” Linden huffs out a laugh, stepping back so I can get up and continue wandering through his room.
“I just like plants. Sometimes they’re marked down or even given away for free at the garden center. I can’t stand them getting thrown out, so I bring them here.” He shrugs, then crosses his arms over his chest like he’s waiting for me to make fun of him.
“That’s cool. You must have the best sleep in here.” I grin, but I’m already distracted by an orchid on his desk.
“Hey there, gorgeous,” I murmur, stepping closer. Unable to help myself, I touch the orange petals with my fingertips. They look like tiny sunsets in a pot.
“Oh my God,” I snort when I spot the next curiosity sitting on his windowsill. “What’s that? It looks like an olive tree!”
“Thatisan olive tree,” Linden confirms with a sheepish grin, scratching the side of his head. “This is more of a…temporary solution. I’ll have to find it a forever home eventually. But it would have ended up in the trash hadn’t I taken it!”
“Oh, I’m sure it’ll pay you back with prosperity,” I joke, then halt when I notice his stare. “Or isn’t that one of its meanings?”
“It is.” He pauses. “But how do you know that?”
“Ouch.” I laugh. “Do you mean how does the dumb football jo—”
“Oh no, that’s not what I meant!” Linden cuts in quickly, raising both hands. “I just…I didn’texpect—”
“It’s alright. I don’t knowthatmuch about houseplants. My mom was a florist before she had me, and she had all these books about flora and fauna. I liked to flip through them on rainy days, and she’d tell me stories for each plant. Although I have to admitI liked the ones about herbs and wildflowers best,” I explain. I’ve abandoned his desk and turned to the bookshelf, scanning the titles. It’s all textbooks and non-fiction, plus a few coffee-table books with photographs of nature—the rainforest, the Serengeti, US national parks, gardens from around the world.
There are also a few framed pictures displaying several nature shots. Endless summer fields, grazing cows, and the colorful fall foliage that Vermont is famous for. The last one shows what can only be the Woodrow clan—a kindly faced woman in her mid-fifties in a sun hat, her serious-looking husband by her side. Something about the sun hat tugs at my insides before I look away. The similarity between Linden and his father is uncanny: the same fair hair and gray eyes, paired with high cheekbones and an elegant, sloping nose. Three women in their late twenties surround the couple. One of them must have taken the picture as a selfie, her arm filling the lower-left corner of the frame. It takes a moment for me to peel my eyes away, and only then do I register the silence spreading between us. When I turn to find Linden, he’s watching me with sad eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
I blink, trying to figure out if I missed something.“About what?”
“Your mom…” He gestures helplessly, and it takes me a second to catch up. A laugh escapes me when I realize what he must have been thinking.
“Oh no, she’s alive and well; don’t worry!” I reassure him quickly. Though I can’t actually be sure—she at least sounded like it the last time we spoke, even when I could barely understand her with the spotty phone reception.
Linden’s eyes widen, his cheeks flushing. It’s fascinating to watch how quickly the soft pink creeps in, giving his fairy-like features a healthy glow.
“Fuck, now I’m even more sorry! The way you phrased it…and you never talk about her, so I thought…” he stammers.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “My mom left the US after my parents divorced. We… don’t have much contact anymore. The last time I spoke to her, she was riding elephants in Thailand.”
“Oh. Well…then I’m still sorry, though,” he mutters, but I force a smile on my face and wave him off.
“Ah, it’s okay. She’s living her dream. Is that your family?” I hold up the framed picture, and he nods.
“Yes, my parents and sisters. They took this before I left for college.” There’s an odd tone to his voice, almost distant, but I don’t want to pry, so I put the picture back. For a while, we both stand there, unsure of what to do.
“Well,” we say at the same time, then break off with a laugh. I can hear the nerves in my voice, feel the jitters spread inside my body, the same sensation I got during my high school games whenever I knew college scouts were in the stands, ready to scrutinize my every move.
“So, do we just like…start making out?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck. Good Lord, get it together, Mahoney! This isn’t going to be my first time, and it probably can’t get worse than that, either. But I’ve never been in a situation like this—never met someone just to jump headfirst into bed with them. It feels like we’re skipping all the bases before, aiming straight for the home run on a random afternoon in June.
