Page 22 of The Broken Hearts Club

There was a cracked concrete path running right down the center of the yard, with a bunch of weeds on either side of it. “There’s so much you could do with this,” I said, as I followed the path to an equally cracked concrete patio.

Miller carried his wine down the stairs and took a seat on the second-lowest step. “Like what?”

“The first thing I’d do would be to buy a swing set. I had one as a kid, and I really missed it when I moved into the apartment with Aunt Sue. That’s just me, though. What you should do is grow a bunch of tomato plants. You obviously have a green thumb, judging by your big, leafy friend in the pot.”

“I don’t need that many tomatoes.”

“Sure you do! You could can them.”

“I’m really not going to do that,” he said, “since I’m not Laura Ingalls Wilder, I don’t live in a little house on a prairie, and this isn’t the eighteen-hundreds.”

“People still can stuff.”

“I’m not the canning sort.”

“Well, then how about being the tomato guy? That could totally be your thing, taking baskets of fresh tomatoes to all your neighbors. They’d love you for it.”

“That still sounds like something Laura Ingalls Wilder would do.”

“It could also be something Miller Anderson does.”

“Generally speaking, I don’t want to bond with my neighbors—except for the lesbian couple across the street, they’re awesome. But they already like me without having to ply them with fruit.”

I turned to look at him and said, “Oh no. Please don’t tell me you’re one of those people.”

“What people?”

“Ones who call tomatoes fruits.”

“That’s what they are.”

“Technically, yes. But come on. If you went to make a fruit salad, would you ever in a million years add tomatoes?”

“No, but what does that prove?”

“That’s they’re—oh shit!” I tripped over a crack in the patio and landed on my hands and knees. Miller came running, and as he helped me up, I said, “This doesn’t prove you right, because I didn’t slip. I tripped, and that could have happened no matter what I was wearing on my feet.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

When I started back down the path, he pointed out, “You’re limping.”

“I banged up my knees a little.”

“Want me to carry you?”

“No, both because I’m fine, and because your shoulder probably still hurts.”

“How are your hands? And don’t just tell me you’re fine again.”

I looked at my palms, which were a little scratched, and brushed off some gravel as I said, “I’m hunky dory.”

He caught up to me and said, “Let me see.”

I hid them behind my back, but then I decided I was being childish and held them palms up. Miller took my hands in his and examined them in the light spilling from the back of the house. When he met my gaze, he asked, “Why are you grinning like that?”

“Because you’re as much of a caretaker as I am. I appreciate that in a person.”