Page 19 of Putting Down Roots

“Can I help again today?”

“Of course, but you know you don’t need to ask—it’s your garden.” He’s right of course, but for some reason I think of the garden as Jackson’s domain—he seems so at home in it.

“I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t, and if you do, I can always try to fix it.” His voice sounds rougher, gravelly, when he says that. I look up and his gaze is intense—I feel seen. Even though he doesn’t know my secrets, it looks like he’s already dug to the bottom of my soul and he isn’t afraid of what he sees there.

“Thank you,” I croak, and then hold his gaze for a few seconds longer, hoping that it’s enough of an answer for the unspoken meaning.

“Um, what can I do then?” It breaks the spell. I need to. I can’t think of anything else to do, as every other scenario running through my head ends with me kissing him—or him kissing me—and neither of those is likely to happen with Jackson being straight.

“Same as yesterday, if you want.” His voice is back to normal, light and easy-going, like it’s ready for a joke. I like his voice—it feels safe.

I’ve come out in my hoodie but am soon too warm for it. This time I’m prepared. It’s another big step for me to take, but I peel off the hoodie and throw it on the bench—I just have a t-shirt underneath—and try to nonchalantly return to work. But I know Jackson sees me, is taking it in. I look at him—he smilesand nods at me before turning back to work. I think I might be blushing a little. I hope my hair hides it if he notices. Actually, my hair is annoying. It’s not really long, but long enough to cling to my face when I get hot and sweaty. I grab one of the bands I have round my wrist and tie it back. It’s long enough for that—just.

By lunchtime, I’m exhausted. I have a new appreciation of how fit Jackson is, but then, I can see that just by looking at him—which I do as often as I can. I feel puny and weak next to him. My lack of physical stature hasn’t really bothered me before, except maybe at school, but then my elfin looks—as they called my face—was what they teased me about. Being slim and pretty had been a bonus when I was in London. But here in Jackson’s presence, I feel weedy and embarrassed about it—him being strong and well built, with muscles for days. But if he finds my appearance odd, he never says anything. In the many times I glance at him, he only looks back with a smile on his handsome face.

CHAPTER 17

Jackson

I’m soimpressed and pleased that Luca felt brave enough, comfortable enough with me, to show up in a t-shirt today. And to come back and help. He could have hidden in the house. I would have been sad about that, but I would have understood. I think the work will be good for him, physically and mentally.

I looked up self-harm last night on my phone. I could have looked up Luca, as he’d mentioned a scandal—no doubt there are stories online about him—but I didn’t want to know them. What I wish to know about Luca, I’d prefer him to tell me when he’s ready. But I wanted to know more about the things he’d been through that were bad enough for him to do that to himself.

I’m still shocked, and extremely angry that these things could happen. I guess I knew they could, but in my own little corner of life, they haven’t affected me and I’ve been blissfully ignorant of the facts. I don’t know what his story is, but I have animagination and it went through all the possibilities. Even if half of them are true, no wonder the guy has panic attacks.

I spent a lot of time reflecting on whether this mattered to me at all, and every time I probed, the answer was a resounding, “no.” His past is his past and what I really wish to do is make a brighter future for him.

I want him to know that I’ll be here to help him, but after yesterday, I don’t want to start another big talk and scare him away. I don’t know how to start it anyway—big talk not being my thing. I’m a straightforward kind of guy.

Oblique references? That was my ex-wife’s speciality—though they were all of the derogatory kind rather than the supportive. But when we talk about the garden, I hope he understands that when I say I can try to fixit, he knows I meanhim. I think he does. That’s all I can hope for.

So it’s not awkward anymore—well not in that way—but there is a fragile thread, a delicate tension between us. I think there’s more he wants to say. There’s more I want to say,and a hell of a lot more I want to do with him, but I don’t even know how to approach that. I don’t know what he’s into, if he is into anything. Maybe I’ll hug him again—hugging seems fine.

CHAPTER 18

Luca

After a few dayshelping Jackson in the garden, my muscles are sore. They were sore after the first day, but I wanted to continue to help, and I wanted to be with him. That Ihavemuscles that can be sore is a marvel to me. I feel a bit stronger. Being in the garden feels good as well, even though I can only manage a couple of hours. Although giving my hands something to do leaves my mind free, it doesn’t seem to wander into the dark places so much, and when it does, there’s a thread of light leading it back. I’m not sure that it’s the physical work, though Jackson swears it’s good for the mind—I think it’s more Jackson. We haven’t spoken about anything much since that day when he gazed into my soul—well, nothing of importance. It’s been all about the garden, and the plants he thinks we should put in. I have no experience, so I’m happy to go along with his suggestions. Though I do notice that he’s started to put in the plants he brought with him. They’re making the garden colourful, and I like sketching them when Jackson’s gone home.

I have no idea how to bring up any other subjects. I still don’t want to tell him my secrets. My shame. Even if he accepts them—I don’t accept them. So this existence is okay, this closeness, but no further. He hugged me again. I was feeling very down that day—I have no explanation why—some days are just like that. The hug was good, and I drank in his earthy, woody, pine scent. I wanted a whole lot more, but the fear of rejection was more than I could handle.

One eveningI’m lying on the sofa, listening to music. My shoulders and arms are aching from another few hours in the garden with Jackson. But it’s a good ache, like work well done rather than muscles pulled. There’s a knock on the door. Jackson went home hours ago. My stomach flips that it might be him, then hollows out when I remember he has a key. It flips again at the thought he’s never been at the house at this time in the evening, and might not feel comfortable just walking in. My stomach is flipping so much I start to feel nauseous and I can feel panic rising up—I need to find out who it is.

“Anna!”

“Well, hello Luca. Still with us, I see,” her tone is mock icy, but she has a point. I haven’t called her for several days, she probably came all the way out here just to check on me. She would do that—she’s a good friend. I feel crappy that I haven’t called her.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.” She raises an eyebrow at that, like she doesn’t believe me. She knows me too well. Most people find Anna like marmite, and most come down on the side of thinking she’s too bitter. She has a very sharp wit that many people find too cutting, but she has a heart of gold underneath, andshe rarely turns her acid tongue to me. If she does, it’s usually because I deserve it.

“I’ve been . . . er . . . gardening.” At that she snorts, and I know there’s no way I’m going to tell her about Jackson—not for a while anyway.

She chooses to ignore my ridiculous statement and instead asks, “Have you eaten?”

I haven’t. I am trying to get better at eating in the evening, and I have more appetite now, but I haven’t bothered tonight.

“Not yet.” She gives me a look like she knew I was going to answer exactly that, then says, “Then show me the way to the kitchen, I brought food.” Typical Anna. She takes charge in thirty seconds flat, and that’s one of the reasons I love her. She’s very good at taking charge of me, but I don’t want her taking charge of how things are going for me right now—except for the food, of course.

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