Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
I lift my eyebrows. It’s awkward trying to look at him with our foreheads together, faces mere molecules apart. “For what?” I ask as softly as I can manage.
“I don’t … I don’t know how to do this.”
I’m holding his waist. He’s gripping mine. Like two teens at a school dance and the slow song came on and neither of us knows what the hell to do with our stupid hands.
“Neither do I,” I whisper back.
He says nothing. His eyes are closed.
I think it’s easier for him to talk when they’re closed.
When I’m here, but not.
“Really making a mess out of all this, huh,” he mumbles.
“Yep, total fucking mess,” I agree.
He chuckles.
Wait.
Did I just make Diego Valdez chuckle?
It was slight. Barely a breath. But I did it. I made him chuckle.
He lets go of me suddenly and steps back. His eyes twist open. “Your soup’s getting cold.” He clears his throat. “Haven’t eaten all day. Don’t wanna waste it.”
“Yeah, of course,” I quickly agree, fighting some sort of weird fiery blush trying to invade my cheeks, then sit back down at the table with him, and suddenly we’re eating again.
I can’t quite say that the energy is less awkward than before.
Or that anything has improved between us.
But he kissed me again.
And didn’t run away.
And now we’re enjoying minestrone and focaccia together. In silence. Well, not quite silence, as there’s still rain tapping all over the windows.
On second thought, it’s actually pretty peaceful.
I’m not sure it’d be this peaceful with anyone else.
Diego meets my eyes across the table. He just took a giant bite out of a piece of bread. “Superb,” he says through his mouthful. I fight back a laugh, then nod at him for a thank you.
I’m at the sink with our bowls when he goes to the front door. A second before I ask if he’s leaving already, he says, “Rain’s let up. I’m just heading over to get some tools.” At the blank look on my face, he says, “The crooked shelf, remember?”
Oh, right. Greenhouse. “You don’t … have to do that.”
“Nowhere in the whole damned story does Rapunzel fall outta her own tower.” He looks almost offended on her behalf. “I’ll just be five.” And he’s gone.
And in exactly five, he’s back.
I’m standing at the door to the greenhouse, watching.
He’s there with a level. Screws. Drill. He more than fixes it. He adds additional support. Then he remembers how one of the lower drawer handles wiggled when he passed by and fixes that, too. I’m just watching him fix this and that, listening to the tree limbs and the edges of my roof dripping from the rain that’s passed.
“Rapunzel really appreciates your hard work.”
“She’d better,” snorts Diego as he adjusts the hinges on the door to the greenhouse itself. Apparently it’s cockeyed. “You talk to these plants?”
“All the time.”
He stops. Eyes me. “Really?”
“Of course.” I let a large nearby leaf of a fern rest in my palm. “You might think it’s stupid, but plants react to kindness. They’re more sensitive than you think.”
He gives it a thought. “Not that stupid.” He glances over at the fence. “Just thinking that means my orchid’s fucked.”
I chuckle. “I think it’ll live.”
He doesn’t respond to that. He just continues tightening the hinge, like it’s the only thing in the universe he knows right now. When finished, he closes the door. Opens it. Closes it again. Then nods, satisfied—until spotting my rake leaning awkwardly in the corner. He straightens that right up, too. Picks a fallen leaf off the floor. Then another.
I’m trying not to smile.
Trying not to think too much.
It’s impossible around him.
Then Diego starts to inspect the table in the middle, eyebrows pulled down critically.
I tell him, “You don’t have to fix everything.”
“Can’t help it,” he mumbles back, not looking up. He crouches down to inspect the table at eye level. Runs a hand over the edge. Mutters something to himself. Then tightens a screw.
I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe. “Your uncle made that table.”
He stops.
“There’s traces of Lottie and Marcos all over my house and my garden, actually.”
After a moment, he rises up. “Y’all were close, huh?”
He asks without looking at me—and in a smaller voice, too.
I nod slowly. “As close as neighbors can be. I sure miss them.”
He peers down, eyes landing on a particular potted plant on the table. Tight little blush-colored buds crowd the stems, not yet open, just holding their breath.
I nod at it. “Bertha.”
He flinches, confused. Then: “Oh … that its name?”
“Yep. She’s my Dianthus. That specific variety is called … wait for it … Pink Kisses.” I smile at the look on his face. “Thought you’d like that. Your Aunt Lottie did, too. Always asked how her Bertha’s doing. Sometimes she’d come back here all on her own and sing to them. Literally. I’d come back here and catch her standing where you are right now giving it a whole dang concert.”