“Do you want the actual truth or the surface answer I usually give people?” I raise my eyebrows at him in a silent challenge. An I’m-onto-you challenge. An if-you-want-to-ask-me-personal-questions-be-prepared-for-real-answers challenge.

Jack takes a long sip of his coffee before answering. “Let’s go with the real truth.”

“My family was pretty toxic growing up, and gardening provided me with two things: a reason to be outside the house and something I had control over.” On an unrelated note, therapy is great and everyone should try it.

“Wow.”

I give him a smile and make sure it’s a real one. “I also really enjoy nurturing living things, ushering them from inception and into adult life.”

He clears his throat, which I’m learning is his nervous tic. “That’s not what I was expecting.”

“What? For me to actually care about something other than myself?” I laugh a little too loudly, pretending his words have no effect. “I know it seems out of character, but don’t get me wrong, I’m still a huge asshole, and the only thing I nurture is plants. So yeah, that about covers the whole gardening obsession.” Turning back to the work at hand, I continue to distribute seeds to their pods, tucking them into their little soil homes so they can bloom and grow.

“That’s not at all what I meant, Sadie.”

I pause my seed distribution, chancing a look at him. For once he’s looking right at me, as if he needs me to see the truth in his words. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.

He clears his throat again. “Any other plans for today? Other than germinating?”

I turn back to the planters, thankful for the change in subject. “Yeah, I’ve got a training shift at the bar later.”

“Oh, cool. Well, thanks again for the coffee. I guess I’ll see you later.” He gives me one of those half-hearted waves and heads down the stairs to the basement, like he’s hit his conversation quota for the day and needs to escape. This is the pattern we’ve established. And I do my best to not take it personally. So the man doesn’t want to hang out with me and plant seeds. It’s not too much of an insult.

When I wake up on Sunday, I’m smacked in the face with the reminder of how hard it is to be a bartender. I don’t know if I was just a lot younger back in college (shut up) or if bartending has gotten more physically demanding, but I hurt everywhere. After I pee, I crawl back under the covers, pulling my phone into my little cozy cave with me.