Digging In: A Novel(43)

“I used to think I was boring,” I admitted.

“But not anymore?”

“I don’t know. Can someone who dug up her entire backyard still be boring? Crazy, yes. Boring? Not so much.”

Officer Leprechaun moved closer to me. He stopped before invading my personal space, but still, it felt like an advance. He reached around me and turned the sink on, and I breathed a sigh of . . . relief? Disappointment?

“It doesn’t look crazy out there,” he said while attacking the mess of utensils. “It looks like life. You’ll have something to can come end of summer. If you want, I’ll help you. But you don’t need my help.”

“I think I’ll need all the help I can get.”

“We could all use help, but need? That’s a different thing entirely.” He dried his hands on the one clean spot on a tomato-juice-covered towel. The air in the kitchen, already as humid as a Florida swamp, turned heavier. It’d been a long time since a man had looked at me the way Officer Leprechaun was eyeing me up, and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what I wanted to do.

He slowly folded a paper towel, held it under the faucet for a moment, and pressed the excess water into the sink. “Come over here a minute.”

He wasn’t really asking or ordering; it was more like an offering. Officer Leprechaun had soft blue eyes, the kind that gave the appearance of thoughtfulness. I stared into them for a long moment, and then took one step forward, then another. When I’d moved close enough for him to reach me, he smiled.

“You’re a mess,” he said, and reached over to dab my forehead. I was still far enough away to lend the action some awkwardness, so I moved a little closer. He continued to gently rub the dried tomato juice from my cheek, my hairline, the side of my neck. I could hardly move, much less breathe, but I could feel his breath against my skin, and the soft weight of his fingertips as they pressed lightly on my cheek. I closed my eyes, no expectations but sensation, and when his lips touched mine, I gasped at the contact. He froze for a moment.

“Is this okay?”

Okay? I didn’t know what that meant anymore. Tears sprang to my eyes, grief, the ever-present emotion, waiting to take over from the amateurs—lust, shock, longing.

“I—I don’t know.”

He leaned back, face flushed with concern and hopefully not embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“So am I.”

We cleaned the kitchen together, making small talk, pretending the moment hadn’t happened. Afterward, I walked him outside. Day had turned to night, but the warmth had held on. I bit my tongue to prevent myself from saying something clichéd about the heat. “Thank you,” I said instead. “I learned a lot.”

“Well, that could be taken in a number of ways,” he said, and I was glad to hear some laughter in his voice. “But I’ll keep my mind out of the gutter and assume you meant the canning process.”

He opened the door but seemed to forget what he was meant to do afterward. “Would you consider seeing me again? I promise to dress nicer and stay relatively clean.”

“I’m not sure.”

He nodded. “I understand. You’re not ready.”

“Not exactly.” I smiled at him, sheepish. “I don’t know your first name. I’ve been calling you Officer Leprechaun in my head.”

He didn’t say anything at all for a moment, and I wondered if I’d insulted him. Then a baritone of a laugh rumbled from his chest. “We’ve spent half the day together, and you don’t know my first name?”

“You never said it. And then it had gone on for too long.”

He slid into the driver’s seat. “It’s Sean. Sean Doherty. And now that we’re more familiar, can I get another date?”

“This was a date?”

Laughing, he drove away, slowly and carefully, like a good cop should.

“Are you kidding me?”

Trey sat on the front steps. I hadn’t seen him, but I was fairly certain he’d seen us.

“He’s a nice man,” I said by way of explanation. What was there to explain?

“You don’t know what you’re doing. First, this stupid garden, and now flirting with the cop? The cop who arrested me?”

“He didn’t arrest you.”

Trey grabbed on to the front railing and pulled himself to standing. Every so often, I was struck by the size of him—in my mind, he was still a toddler hanging on to my pant leg. “Up to you if you want to make a fool of yourself, but don’t expect me to stick around to watch it.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” The tears made a reappearance. “Let’s talk about this.”

“Nothing to talk about. You want to bone the cop. End of story.”

“Trey,” I said sharply. I glanced at the garden, away from him, and took a deep breath. He missed Jesse, too. I had to remember that. “I loved your dad, and I would have stayed with him forever. That’s not how it worked out. I’m trying to . . . I’m trying.”

“Trying to do what? Forget him?”

“You know I would never do that.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Whatever. I’m going over to Colin’s.”