Page 86

I didn’t notice the silence when Boone wasn’t here because I had nothing with which to compare it. I didn’t know what it sounded like when someone laughed or called my name from another room. I didn’t know what it felt like to hear another set of footsteps in the corridor and know exactly who they belonged to.

Now I do.

I move farther into the greenhouse and stop.

The small clay pot sits on the workbench exactly where Boone left it.

Something green has broken through the soil.

I don’t move.

I set the watering can down slowly and stare at the pot.

The cherry seed has sprouted.

A thin green stem rises from the dark earth. Two tiny leaves have opened at the top, still curled slightly inward and so delicate that the faint movement of warm air through the greenhouse makes them tremble.

I see Boone standing here again.

His sweater is lying over the bench because he became too warm. There’s soil under his fingernails and a smudge of it across the side of his hand. His hair keeps falling forward while he fills the pot because he refuses to stop long enough to push it back.

More, I told him.

He added another scoop.

Use your hand. Dig a well.

He listened.

Then he held that cherry pit in his palm and looked at me, his expression better suited to something precious than the seed from a piece of fruit.

Can I? I’d like to plant my first cherry.

I draw in a breath and reach toward the tiny plant, but my fingers stop an inch from the leaves.

Boone should be here.

I grip the edge of the workbench.

He should be standing beside me and staring at this ridiculous little plant with that expression he gets whenever he discovers something he’s only ever read about. He should be smiling. He should be asking me how long it will take to become a tree and whether it will survive if we transplant it.

He should be here to see what he planted grow.

But he isn’t.

I left him in the village.

I take a step backward and bump against the workbench behind me. The edge presses into my back. I stay there for a moment, staring at the tiny leaves, then lower myself onto the warm stone floor and stretch my legs out in front of me.

The position is familiar. My mother used to find me sitting like this when I was young, and Boone found me this way too. Somewhere along the way, without ever realizing it, sitting on the floor became something I only did around the people who mattered enough to see me when I wasn’t pretending to be something stronger.

There is no one here to see me now.

I lean my head against the workbench and close my eyes, but that only makes it easier to see him standing beside me again. His sleeves are pushed up and he’s covered in dirt. His face holds that quiet wonder he could never hide whenever he encountered something new.

Can I? I’d like to plant my first cherry.

“Damn you,” I whisper.