Luckily he doesn’t follow me and try to make things even more awkward than they already are. I push through the doors and can practically feel the tension draining from my body as I enter the garden. There is a lot of work to do back here, but I’m seriously stoked about it.

I set my bag down on a weather-beaten metal table and unload my supplies. Tugging on my pink gardening gloves, I dig out shovels and trowels and a knee guard and set up shop in front of the planter in the back. I figure I’ll start here and work my way forward.

Once I get in the rhythm, my mind completely clears. This is my meditation, the time when I can turn off all the negative thoughts in my brain and just be. Most kids probably aren’t super into gardening, but for me, the garden was always a place of quiet—both internal and external. It brought me a peace I desperately needed, and even though I haven’t been able to dig my hands in the dirt in quite some time, I’m automatically transported back to my happy place. My calm place.

I work for hours, snipping and pulling, clearing and weeding, until I have huge piles of stems and branches collected and planters ready to be filled with flowers. When I finally hit the point when even I need a break, I pull off my gloves and head back to the metal bistro set. A cup of ice water sits on the table, next to a plate covered in tinfoil. I sink into one of the chairs, gratefully sipping the cool water. Peeking under the foil, I find a sandwich waiting for me. I am someone easily swayed by food, and Jack’s offering completely erases any lingering doubts our awkward encounter might have stirred up. I devour the whole thing, not realizing how hungry I am until I take the first bite.

Surveying the work I’ve done, I decide to pack it in for the day. I shake off my gloves and bang my shoes against the concrete steps before pushing back into the house, not wanting to leave a trail of dirt as I go.

“Jack, I’m taking off,” I call, striding quickly for the front door, hoping to avoid another stilted encounter.

Steps thud from the basement stairs. “Don’t forget your key.” Jack crosses over to the entryway table, handing me a gold key on a plastic key ring.

It’s one of those old-timey-looking hotel key chains, bright pink with “Park Slope” etched in white retro letters. I don’t know why, but the thoughtful gesture brings a smile to my face. A genuine one. “Thanks, Jack. And thanks for the sandwich.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for doing all that work in the yard.”