That’s not entirely true. One single radish is still alive.
I lean over it and graze the green leaves with the tips of my fingers. The thing feels limp. I glance through my gardening book, attempting to find a solution. Maybe I can save this one sad-sack radish. Then I can say I wasn’t a complete failure.
I find a passage about caring for plants midgrowth. It reads: talking to your plants is one surefire way to perk them up!
Talk to the plants? What do you say to a plant?
“Grow, you little piece of shit,” I say. “Don’t you wanna live? Fucking act like it.”
I swear the radish wilts a little more the moment I’m done talking.
Miles opens the back sliding glass door and steps out into our backyard. He’s dressed in his police academy uniform—some shiny black shoes, dark blue cargo pants, and a tight matching T-shirt. He looks like a cop already, in part due to all the rigorous training he’s gone through to make sure he can pass all the obstacle course tests.
“Pierce,” he says as he approaches. “I’m going to go pick up Jayden and Lacy from their tutoring lesson.” He glances from me to the garden box. “Who were you talking to?”
“The last of my sanity,” I quip. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?”
“Yeah. I’ll be back in a little bit.”
I nod.
Miles walks over and kisses me. I don’t protest, but it’s not like our backyard is a bastion of privacy. There are missing fence boards on all sides, sometimes multiple in a row. I can see into each neighbor’s yard, and I’m sure they can do the same.
“Why’re you in uniform?” I ask him as he turns back for the house.
“I went to the shooting range this morning.”
“Hm.”
Miles disappears inside, leaving me with my failed attempt at a simple life.
I’m not in the mood for company.
Jayden and Lacy, Miles’s siblings, are the sole reason we didn’t leave Illinois after I broke away from the mob. Miles wants to help his brother get back on track with his life, and he also wants to get to know his sister more than not at all. They’re also the reason why we rent a shitty house and use a junker as our vehicle of choice.
We’ll get better things once we’re away from here. Well, that’s the plan, at least. I didn’t leave the mob poor. I took half a million dollars in savings when I left—which is what we live on now. That’ll keep us going for a while without worry, but not forever.
I return my attention to the dead vegetation and sigh. A small piece of me worries. If I can’t make this simple hobby work, what chance do I have of making a life for myself once the money runs out?
“Stop crowding them together.”
I snap my attention to the sound of the scratchy voice. Our neighbor, some old crone, stands on the other side of the fence, staring through the missing fence boards. Her sunbaked face scrunches into a long frown. Given the heavy age lines and sagging skin, I’d say she’s somewhere in her seventies.
I ignore her and start the process of ripping up all the dead produce. After a few moments, she clears her throat. I stop and return my gaze to her, this time glaring.
“The soil isn’t ready for planting yet,” she says in the tone of a disapproving grump.
I’m not in the mood for this bullshit. “Did I ask for your input? Keep to your own business, Grandma.”
She answers with a huff and holds both her hands on the small of her back. “I’ve been forced to watch you muddle in the mud for months now. If this isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is.”
Everybody’s a goddamn critic.
With a long exhale, I stand and brush the dirt off my slacks. “I can do this on my own.”
“Not at the rate you’re going.”
“What does it matter, you old hag?” I snap, throwing up a dismissive wave of my hand. “You’ll be dead in a couple days anyway.”
She replies with another huff and then turns away. I wait, watching her hobble into her house before once again returning to my graveyard.
My phone rings. I groan and answer the thing, way more irritated than I should be with each new distraction.
“What is it?” I ask, half yelling.
“Pierce?”
I recognize Shelby’s voice, and I take a deep, calming breath. “Yeah. It’s me.”
“I’ve been callin’ you. Have you gotten any of my messages?”
“I saw. I’ve been busy.”
“What’re you doing?”
“Pulling up weeds.”
“Stop that. I need your help.”
I focus more of my attention on the conversation. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t talk about it right now,” he replies, his voice barely above a whisper. “You need to come see me. I want you to work on something.”
“Aren’t you in the hospital?” I ask. I figured I wouldn’t be working for the next few weeks while Shelby recovers, but I guess I got that wrong.
“Yes. The hospital. Come see me in the hospital.”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
“No!” he says, stepping on the end of my statement. “Not now. Later tonight. Around 8:00 p.m.”
The hell? What’s this guy’s problem? “Why?” I ask.
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
Shelby hangs up the phone before I get my two cents in. Whatever. My level of giving a damn is pretty low. I stoop down to the garden box and pull a plastic baggie out from the wood paneling. It’s got a pack of cigarettes and a lighter—they’re the last of my old habit—and I take out a smoke and light it up.
After one long inhale, tranquility settles over the ramshackle neighborhood. Maybe I should drink more to compensate for not smoking. Obviously I get irritable without something coursing through my system.
Now that I feel more like myself, I kneel back down and snatch up my spade. It doesn’t take me long to tear through all the plant corpses, and I
