Tomboy Meets Girly Girl

Kylie glanced past her at the rows of flowers bowing under the rain. “Those need help.”

“The tools and seedlings need help. The flowers can survive a storm.”

“They’re not just flowers.”

Sally carried the crate beneath the covered picnic shelter and set it down with a wet thud. “They’re decorative flowers.”

Kylie lowered the umbrella. Water ran from its edges in bright streams. “The garden is supposed to be welcoming.”

“It can welcome people after it stops flooding.”

“That’s not how plants work.”

Sally looked at her. Kylie’s mascara had smudged faintly beneath one eye. A tiny pearl earring clung stubbornly to her damp earlobe. She should have looked ridiculous out here. Instead, the rain had softened her, made her seem less polished and more real.

Sally disliked noticing.

“Fine,” Sally said. “You want to save the petunias, save the petunias. I’m getting the seedlings.”

Kylie’s mouth tightened. “You don’t have to make everything sound like a competition.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

A gust of wind drove rain sideways beneath the shelter. Kylie’s umbrella flipped inside out with a sharp pop.

Sally reached for it at the same time Kylie did. Their hands struck together on the handle.

Kylie looked down at their fingers. “You have very cold hands.”

“You’re wearing gloves.”

“They’re fashion gloves.”

“Then they’re doing a terrible job.”

Kylie gave her a look that should have been offended. Instead, one corner of her mouth lifted. “Not everything has to be work gloves and mud.”

“Out here, it helps.”

The smile disappeared. Kylie folded the umbrella against her side. “The flower beds are part of the garden too.”

Sally wanted to argue. She wanted to tell Kylie that flowers didn’t matter when the paths were filling with brown water and the seedlings were sitting in trays beside an open door. But Kylie’s voice had changed. Beneath the bright insistence was something careful, almost pleading.

Sally turned toward the greenhouse. “Stay under the shelter.”

“I’m coming.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Kylie stepped into the rain before Sally could stop her.

The path between the beds had become a narrow stream. Water swirled around Sally’s boots, cold enough to bite through the rubber. Kylie followed with her skirt gathered in one hand, the hem already stained brown.

“Your shoes are going to be ruined,” Sally called.

“They were already ruined when I got here.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“It means I’m committed.”

“You’re committed to making a mess.”

Kylie slipped.

Sally caught her by the waist.

For one suspended second, the storm seemed to narrow around them. Kylie’s body pressed against hers, warm beneath the raincoat. Her breath touched Sally’s jaw. Sally felt the delicate grip of Kylie’s fingers tighten on her shoulder.

“Got you,” Sally said, though the words came out rougher than intended.

Kylie looked up. Water clung to her lashes. “You did.”

Sally let go too quickly.

Kylie steadied herself against the edge of a raised bed. “Thank you.”

“Watch your footing.”

“I was watching the flowers.”

“That’s the problem.”

Kylie’s gaze stayed on her face. “You always this charming?”

“Only when people ignore good advice.”

They reached the decorative beds. The rain had beaten the blossoms nearly flat, but the stems were still green beneath the water. Kylie crouched, heedless of the mud, and began lifting the drooping plants from their stakes.

Sally dropped beside her. “What are you doing?”

“Releasing them before the stakes snap.”

“You can’t save every plant.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you acting like you can?”

Kylie’s fingers paused around a crushed pink flower. “Because someone has to try.”

The answer landed harder than it should have.

Thunder rolled over the rooftops. Sally looked toward the greenhouse. Through its fogged glass, she could see the seedling trays stacked on the lowest shelves. The water was rising across the floor.

“Sally,” Kylie said, “the greenhouse.”

Sally was already moving.

They ran together, shoulder to shoulder, through the rain. Sally shoved the greenhouse door open. Warm, wet air rushed over them, thick with the smell of tomato leaves and damp earth. Water covered the floor in a shallow sheet, rippling around overturned pots.

“The trays are on the bottom shelf,” Sally said. “Take the ones with the blue tags.”

Kylie lifted a tray. “What about these?”

“Those are herbs.”

“They’re living too.”

“Kylie.”

“I’m taking them.”

Sally clenched her jaw and grabbed two trays of seedlings. Their small stems trembled with each step. Kylie moved beside her, balancing three trays against her chest, her raincoat dripping onto the leaves.

At the doorway, a shelf shifted.

Sally shoved Kylie back. The metal frame crashed down where Kylie had been standing, scattering pots across the floor.

Kylie gasped. “Sally!”

“I’m fine.”

“You pushed me.”

“You were in the way.”

“I was carrying the trays.”

“And now you’re not under a shelf.”

Kylie’s face tightened. “You don’t get to decide that I’m helpless just because I’m not dressed like you.”

Sally felt the accusation strike somewhere tender. “I never said you were helpless.”

“You act like it.”

Rain hammered the greenhouse roof. Between them, a broken clay pot rolled in a slow circle and stopped.

Sally looked at Kylie’s soaked hair, her muddy knees, the red mark beginning to rise along one wrist. She wanted to say something easy. Something that would put the distance back where it belonged.

Instead, she said, “I don’t have time to worry about whether you’re offended.”

Kylie’s expression went still.

Sally regretted it immediately, but the apology caught behind her teeth. Apologies made room for questions. Questions made room for people.

Kylie set the trays down beneath the shelter. “You know, not everyone who helps is trying to get in your way.”

Sally carried the last tray outside. “Most people are.”

“That sounds lonely.”

The word followed Sally into the rain.

They worked without speaking for several minutes. Sally dragged tables away from the flooded entrance while Kylie gathered the fallen pots and tucked the bruised flowers beneath the covered benches. The storm turned the world silver. Water ran from Sally’s sleeves to her elbows. Kylie’s carefully painted nails darkened with soil.

When the last tray was safe, Sally leaned against a post and exhaled.

Kylie stood across from her, breathing hard. A smear of mud marked her cheek.

“You’re bleeding,” Sally said.

Kylie touched her wrist. “It’s a scratch.”

“Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Kylie.”

Something in Sally’s voice made her hold out her arm.

The cut was shallow, but the skin around it was scraped raw. Sally took a clean cloth from the supply box and wrapped it gently around Kylie’s wrist. Kylie watched her hands.

“You’re good at that,” Kylie said.

“At bandaging?”

“At taking care of things.”

Sally tied the cloth. “Things don’t argue.”

Kylie’s eyes lifted. “People do.”

“People leave.”

The words escaped before Sally could stop them.

Kylie didn’t tease her this time. She looked toward the ruined paths, the flattened flowers, the water shining between the beds.

“Is that what you’re afraid of?” she asked quietly. “People leaving?”

Sally pulled off her gloves. They were slick with mud. “I’m afraid of depending on someone who won’t stay.”

Kylie’s face softened, and that was worse than anger. “I came because I heard the garden was in trouble.”

“You came in pearl earrings.”

“They’re sentimental.”

Sally glanced at them.

“My grandmother gave them to me,” Kylie said. “She taught me to grow roses. Everyone thinks I like pretty things because they’re pretty. Sometimes I like them because they remind me someone believed I would keep them alive.”

The storm began to ease, but water still dripped steadily from the shelter roof.

Sally looked at Kylie’s wrapped wrist. “I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I don’t usually ask.”

“I noticed.”

Their eyes met.

Kylie stepped closer, close enough that Sally could smell rainwater and the faint sweetness of her perfume. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

Sally’s pulse stumbled. “You don’t have to follow me into every disaster.”

“Maybe I like your disasters.”

“That’s a strange thing to like.”

“Maybe I’m strange.”

Sally’s gaze dropped to Kylie’s mouth, then snapped back up. Kylie noticed. Her breath caught, barely there.

For one dangerous moment, the garden felt smaller than the space between them.

Then a car horn sounded beyond the gate.

The garden committee chair, Mrs. Alvarez, hurried in beneath a yellow rain poncho, carrying a clipboard protected inside a plastic bag. She surveyed the flooded paths, the damaged beds, and the rescued trays stacked beneath the shelter.

“Well,” she said, “you two certainly made yourselves useful.”

Sally straightened. “The seedlings are safe. The tools are dry. The greenhouse needs repairs.”

“And the flower beds?” Mrs. Alvarez asked.

Kylie looked at Sally.

Sally looked at the flattened blooms. “Some can be replanted.”

“Good.” Mrs. Alvarez opened her clipboard. “The reopening festival is in three weeks. We’ll need someone to coordinate repairs, volunteers, planting, and the new layout.”

Sally’s stomach sank. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Mrs. Alvarez said. “And Kylie can help with the flower beds and decorations.”

Kylie blinked. “I can?”

“You’re both already here.”

“That doesn’t mean - ” Sally began.

“It means you’re co-chairs,” Mrs. Alvarez said, writing their names down. “Sally Burdine and Kylie Brockman. Joint responsibility.”

The pen scratched across the page with terrible finality.

Sally turned to Kylie. “You agreed to this?”

“I didn’t get a chance.”

“You could have said no.”

“So could you.”

Mrs. Alvarez tucked the clipboard beneath her arm. “First planning meeting tomorrow evening. Try not to drown each other before then.”

She left them beneath the dripping shelter.

Kylie looked at Sally’s mud-streaked boots, then at her own ruined shoes. “Joint responsibility.”

“Apparently.”

“You’re going to hate my ideas.”

“I probably will.”

“You’re going to call my flower beds impractical.”

“They are impractical.”

“And you’re going to do everything yourself.”

Sally studied her. “You’re going to keep showing up.”

Kylie’s smile was small but steady. “Probably.”

Beyond them, the garden gleamed with damage and possibility. The seedlings were safe, but the paths would need rebuilding, the beds replanted, and the greenhouse repaired before anyone could walk through the gate again.

Sally should have felt trapped.

Instead, she found herself wondering what Kylie would suggest first - and whether that dangerous, bright smile would appear when Sally disagreed.

End of chapter one. 4 more chapters and about 10,860 words in the full book.