Page 24 of Hate To Love You

She still loves those flowers. I didn’t forget. I just didn’t want to presume, either. I thought I’d let her figure that out for herself later. She’d be great at making flowers grow around here.

“Is there actually rhubarb, or do we need to run to the store somewhere or find a farmer’s market and get some?”

I point to the far corner of the garden where I can see the epic huge leaves just sticking out above the weed line. “It’s over there.”

“Thank goodness. I didn’t want to have to go anywhere. Not when the chance of catastrophe is massively high.”

We pick our way between weeds, thistles, and the stuff that is supposed to be growing and go over to the sprawling patch. The rhubarb is already going to seed. It grows all spring and summer. I tried to plant it in a cool part of the garden, where the huge trees on the far end of the yard give a little bit of shade at certain times of the day. It’s really grown like crazy, creeping along the far edge of the garden.

I know some people hate rhubarb, but I don’t understand that. Rhubarb is the spice of life. It’s good raw, put in baking, made into muffins, stewed, turned into sauce, reduced to spreads or jams, and probably a thousand other things I don’t even know about.

“I’m planning on doing a separate team-building exercise later when we bake the crisp. It’s going to be a collaborative effort.”

I’m used to Patience looking at me like I’m crazy. “You really have hope that this would work out? They seemed ready to tear each other new assholes all of last night, and this morning they got into a fight about which style of eggs were the best even though we both know they like their eggs every which way to Sunday.”

I knew our dad’s voices would carry across the yard, but we both froze when we heard my dad. “This bloody fridge!”

Then there’s Gerry, and he sounds like he’s in agreement, which is perhaps the most shocking part. “I can’t find a damn thing!”

“It’s the same with this pantry!”

“There’s no order to anything.”

“How could it get like this?”

“Who makes a mess like this?”

I cover my mouth with my hand to keep my laughter from going in the other direction and reaching them. Patience sucks back a grin, which makes her look so adorable.

“We should probably pull some weeds and then pick some of this. I can’t see it taking them more than an hour. They both have analytical, problem-solving minds. Putting them to work on organizing like that was a great idea, but you don’t want the fridge over-organized. You’ll never find anything that way, either. We’ll probably have to go in and rescue it from their combined efforts.”

I never thought of that. “You’re a smart cookie.”

“Nah.” She waves my compliment away but bends over to start picking weeds randomly here and there without any semblance of order. I think it’s so I can’t see her face.

Unfortunately, she’s giving me a perfect view of her incredible bottom, so I move away before my dick gets too much blood flow with the boner to end all boners, and I have a fainting spell.

I set a timer on my phone for an hour, then pull out the paring knife I tucked into my pocket before we left the house—the one with the little cover over it because pockets and sharp things shouldn’t mix—and go tackle the rhubarb.

When the timer goes off, we both walk back to the house. We’re significantly sweatier than when we came out since the sun is unmercifully hot today, and the humidity is no joke. We’re both grimy. I don’t comment on the dirt smears Patience has all over her bare legs, her shorts, or her face, and I don’t think about cleaning her up when she says she needs a shower. Instead, I agree to take charge with our dads.

They’ve got the fridge and cupboards put right orderly, but thank goodness we came in when we did. They’re already discussing sub-categories of sauce and starting to argue about the eight varieties of pickles I ordered from this great place online. They make some sensationally different flavors, and the best ones have to be the bubblegum ones. Don’t tell me bubblegum and pickles don’t mix because these people work miracles and make masterpieces.

I put the rhubarb in the sink, pull up a recipe on my phone, and very cleverly excuse myself to take a shower as well. Although, it’s not really an excuse. I’m drenched from the humidity outside, and I’m sure some very real stinking is imminent.

I’m as quick as I can be, and no, I don’t take care of the boner problem, which is now Boner Problem 2.0. Even that would take too long, and I’m not willing to sacrifice my kitchen if all unholy hell breaks loose down there.

The clothes I put on are probably equally as wet as the ones I took off since I yanked myself into them so fast that I barely dried myself. My hair drips water all over the back of my neck and down my forehead and temples. I keep swiping at it as I race out of the bathroom and down the stairs.

“Fuck. The shower.”

Yes, I really did forget to turn it off, so I race back to the bathroom and quickly crank the knob off. I’m such a knob. God. Who forgets to turn off the shower when they get out? Good thing the water in here is recycled, for the most part. Smart house and all that.

I wince when I remember I could have asked my Mushroom House Manager to get the shower for me. AI is a scary, wonderful thing.

There’s no sign of Patience yet. She should be able to enjoy a relaxing shower. I’m not going to go banging on the bathroom door, asking what she thinks the next step in our get our dads to go from murdery intent to liking each other again plan should be.

Closer to the kitchen, I hear the telltale signs of an argument. I hear Gerry first. “You’ve cut too much. That’s not how it should have been chopped at all.”

---