1. Andy’s First Weeks

Introduction

Andy settled into the rhythm quicker than he expected. Training stretched over two weeks—six shifts in all. Delores had him for four of them, and by the second afternoon he already knew she worked fast, talked faster, and had a way of turning even the dull parts—stocking seed racks, straightening plastic trays—into something you didn’t mind doing, as long as she was beside you.

She’d toss out a quick story about her grandkids while she showed him how to face the labels on fertilizer bags, or explain which customers liked to linger while she stacked pots two at a time.

He hadn’t planned on the garden center. It was smaller than the big-box stores, quieter, easier on the knees. Three days a week fit the gap he wanted to fill—enough to bring in a bit of extra money, not so much that it felt like starting over. Besides, there was something about this place—neighborly, personal—where people asked after each other instead of just prices.

She started her week on Tuesdays, he ended his on Fridays. They overlapped on Wednesdays and Thursdays. By the fourth shift together, Andy had stopped thinking of Delores as just the woman showing him around, and started to realize she was the one making the workday go faster.

***

The late-morning rush on his second Thursday. Andy balanced a tray of begonias while Delores nudged her cart forward with her hip, already half-loaded with seed packets and plastic pots.

“That stack over there—annuals,” she said. “Don’t mix them with the perennials unless you want Shirley from checkout to skin you alive.”

Andy raised a brow. “Sounds like a welcoming committee I don’t want to meet.”

“She’s harmless, really,” Delores grinned. “But she’ll set you straight fast. Best way to keep the peace is to label things right and keep Kevin out of the snack aisle.”

“Snack aisle?”

“Break room. He’ll eat anything that sits still long enough.”

Right on cue, Kevin ambled past with a half-empty bag of chips, tossing Andy a wave before ducking outside. A moment later David followed with a price gun in hand, fussing over a row of ceramic pots.

Delores tipped her chin toward them. “That’s our moving crew. Kevin’s the muscle—rocks, mulch, fountains, you name it. David’s the organizer. He’ll tag every last saucer, then fix it again when some kid decides they’re bowling pins. Between the two of them, nothing sits crooked for long.”

Andy adjusted the tray in his arms. “Okay, Delores. Where do these begonias go?”

“Those are tricky,” she said, steering her cart toward the display tables. “Up here, they act like annuals—the frost’ll kill ’em—but technically, they’re perennials. Dig up the tubers and you can overwinter them if you’ve got the patience.”

“So what you’re telling me is I get skinned alive no matter how I label them?”

She laughed, the sound bouncing off the plastic pots. “Pretty much. Call ’em annuals and the master gardeners’ll sniff at you. Call ’em perennials and Shirley will have your hide. Best bet is to smile, shrug, and tell people they’re whatever survives their backyard.”

“That sounds like a cop-out.”

“It’s retail, honey.” She winked. “Half the job is knowing how to dodge the skinning.”

Before he could reply, a customer in a windbreaker frowned at the begonia display. “This says perennial, but the sign says annual. Which is it?”

Before Andy could open his mouth, a voice snapped from behind him. “It’s both, if you know how to read.”

Shirley strode up, wiry and brisk, a pen in one hand and a receipt book in the other. “Perennial in theory, annual in Michigan,” she said, shoving the tag back into the pot. “You want it back next year, dig it up and coddle it. Otherwise, enjoy it this summer and buy another next spring. Simple as that.”

The customer blinked. “Oh. Okay.” He shuffled off, suitably chastened.

Shirley turned her glare on Andy. “You’re new. Don’t let the signage get sloppy. People read half of what’s in front of them, and then I’m the one leaving my line to fix it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Andy said, trying not to grin.

Delores leaned close and whispered, “Told you she’d skin you alive.”

Shirley shot her a look but was already heading back toward checkout, muttering, “If I wanted to be in two places at once, I’d clone myself.”

Andy exhaled a laugh. “Well, that was educational.”

Delores slid a pot into place, her mouth twitching. “Told you. Consider yourself warned.”

Their eyes met for a beat, humor softening the sting of Shirley’s scolding, before Delores nudged her cart forward. Andy followed, deciding he’d triple-check his labels from here on out.

***

The time clock beeped as Andy punched in. Kevin clomped past with his thermos, David balanced a box of tags, Shirley muttered about register tape. Delores slipped her card through right after his, and they fell into step as the crew thinned toward their stations.

“Busy day,” Andy said, tugging his gloves from his pocket.

“Always is when the trucks hit,” Delores replied, steering him toward the greenhouse. “Half the county’s flowers come in by the cartload. But we don’t just sell what rolls off the trucks—we start our own, too.”

“Flowers or vegetables?”

“Depends on the season. Mother’s Day? Petunias. July? Tomatoes. End of summer? Mums and winter greens. We follow what sells.”

“Smart,” he said. “So where does all that start?”

“Glad you asked.” She grinned, nodding to the back corner. “Time to learn how to start the seedlings.”

“Lead on.”

At the seedling table—a long stretch of trays, bags of soil, and rows of packets—Delores pulled on her gloves. “Little dirt, then seeds, then more dirt,” she said.

“You mean soil,” Andy teased.

“When it gets all over you like it does, it’s dirt,” she shot back.

He laughed, scooping the first handful. She stopped him a few minutes later. “Not like that. Here, let me help.”

She stepped in close, one hand threading between his, the other guiding from outside. Her shoulder brushed his ribs; her hip nudged his. For a few trays they worked pressed side by side, her voice low as she coached him. Then she stepped back, rolling her shoulder with a small wince.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing—just old joints. Need more oil, like the Tin Man.”

“I can sympathize.” He flexed his fingers.

When the last tray was done, Andy brushed soil from her shoulder where her glove had smudged it. His hand lingered a heartbeat before slipping away. He could’ve sworn she smiled at  that, but she didn’t look at him.

Instead, she slid the tray into place. “Alright, let’s get these watered so they don’t dry out.”

Andy followed, wondering if he’d imagined that almost-smile.

He looks awfully friendly

Kevin parked a pallet of mulch near the greenhouse. Andy bent, hooked his hands under a bag, and hauled it up. His shoulders burned; his back twinged, but pride kept him steady.

From across the aisle, Delores’s voice rang out. “Careful, hero. One wrong move and we’ll be visiting you in physical therapy.”

He straightened. “Somebody’s got to do it.”

“Somebody, yes.” She swung her watering can. “But not you. That’s Kevin’s job. He parked it here, he’ll be back.”

Kevin waved from down the aisle, easy grin flashing as he pulled along another pallet of mulch.

Andy cleared his throat. “You told me about him and—David, right? He looks awfully… friendly.”

Delores caught the tone and laughed. “Flirty, you mean? Yeah, but it’s innocent. Kevin’s just like that—fun, but harmless.”

Andy’s mouth tugged into a smile.

She gave him a sly grin. “Besides, if I really wanted to scandalize the place, I wouldn’t start with Kevin.”

Andy chuckled and bent for another bag—slower, more leg, less back—while her words raised some interesting questions.

***

He thought about that quip more than once that day. It wasn’t that he thought she meant anything by it—she was just quick with a line. Still, when she hustled out right at quitting time, barely pausing to say goodbye, he noticed. And although he hadn’t before, now he wondered what was waiting for her at home that made her leave so fast.

That night, Delores’s shoes were on the floor, her bra over the arm of the couch, pajama pants soft against her skin. Two sips into her beer when her phone buzzed.

Andy: Hope you didn’t stop to scandalize anyone on the way home. See you next week.

She smiled, thumb hovering, then set the phone back down. She didn’t answer.

He wondered why. Too much?

That’s a low bar, Del

Delores tipped her watering can over a row of petunias, the mist catching the greenhouse light. Andy slipped in behind her to feed the hose along. His hand brushed high on her hip as he passed—light, almost absentminded—but she noticed.

“So,” Andy said, “you mentioned you live alone. Alone-alone, or do you have a roommate stashed somewhere?”

She laughed. “No roommate. It’s just me and the dog. He’s the one waiting at the door if I’m two minutes late, so I bolt out of here after clock-out.”

“Dog, huh?” Andy asked.

“Yeah. I love my little guy. Got my first one after my divorce. More loyal than husbands.” She gave him a sly look. “This one’s my second, and I like him better than most men I’ve known.”

He chuckled. “That’s a low bar, Del.”

“Then men should try harder.”

He laughed again, shaking his head. “Alright, so dog walks. What else fills the glamorous life of Delores on her off days?”

“Costco,” she said.

“Costco?”

“Every Friday, if I can help it. I like to wander the aisles. See what’s new.”

Andy leaned in, mock-serious. “What can a single woman possibly buy at a warehouse like that that she could use within a year?”

“Toilet paper,” she said immediately. “Paper towels. Laundry soap. Bags of rice. Pasta. Things that don’t go bad.”

He grinned. “Even so, I bet you’ve got enough noodles to feed a small army.”

“I like knowing they’re there,” she said with a shrug. “Besides, it gives me an excuse to look around. Try new snacks, new wine, sometimes a sweater or a book. It’s more about the wandering than the buying.”

Andy’s grin softened into something fonder. “So you window-shop your way through Costco. That’s your wild Friday?”

“Sometimes,” she said, unbothered. “Other weekends, I do my regular grocery run, or the grandkids come over. Two, three Saturdays a month, depending on what their parents have going. We bake, we garden, we watch movies and make popcorn. That’s enough excitement for me.”

He watched her as she spoke—this woman who built her days out of quiet pleasures, her voice steady and unpretentious. “So basically,” he said, “you stay out of trouble.”

She smiled. “Mostly.” Then, with a tilt of her head, “Why? You worried I’m out painting the town red when you’re not looking?”

“Just trying to get a picture,” he said, playful again. “How you spend your time when you’re not humoring me.”

Delores brushed her knee against his, the gesture almost shy but full of warmth. “You’ve got a pretty good picture already.”

Andy looked at her across the trays of lilies. “So no mention of dinner out. No mention of meeting anyone new. Just you, the dog, Costco and grandkids.”

Delores glanced sideways at him, lips curving. “You asking if I date?”

He smiled faintly. “Just curious what kind of company you keep when I’m not around.”

She leaned back resting on the potting table behind her. “I suppose I could say I’m open to company, but the truth is, I like my peace. It took me a long time to learn that. I spent the first half of my life making room for people who didn’t know how to stay.”

Andy was quiet a moment, watching her. “So no suitors beating down the door, huh?”

She chuckled. “Only the Amazon driver. And he doesn’t linger.”

That got him laughing, the kind that deepened the lines at his eyes. “You make it sound like you’ve sworn off men.”

Delores looked at him then, the corners of her smile softening. “Not entirely. I just don’t chase what doesn’t fit. I like what I have—my garden, my dog, my grandkids, my friends.” Her gaze caught his for half a beat longer than casual. “And my company here.”

Andy’s expression gentled. “That sounds like enough.”

“It is,” she said. “More than enough, most days.”

He studied her face a moment longer. “Still,” he said slowly, “seems a shame for you not to have someone taking you to dinner now and then.”

Delores let the words sit between them. The air smelled faintly of earth and lilies, a slow rhythm of wind through the greenhouse vents. She smiled without looking at him.
“Sometimes dinners in are better than dinners out.”

Andy turned to her, eyebrows lifted, that half-grin forming. “Yeah? You cook, too?”

She shrugged lightly, still not meeting his eyes. “When there’s someone worth cooking for.”

That earned her silence from him—long enough that she could feel his gaze linger before he went back to adjusting the trays.

***

That evening, Delores strolled the park with her dog tugging happily at the leash.

Delores: The dog wanted me to thank you for not making me water the plants alone today 🙂

A few seconds later—

Andy: 🤗

She chuckled, pocketing her phone. The smile lingered.

At his own table, Andy stared at her message again. Short, light, friendly. She’d thought of him. That was enough to make him wonder what it meant.

My grandbabies

Midweek lull. Andy wiped down benches while Delores wrangled seed packets back into order.

“You ever notice how dirt multiplies on its own?” he muttered.

“Tell me about it.” She reached for a broom, scraping it over the floor, her rhythm unhurried. Then her voice brightened. “My grandbabies were over last weekend—left my kitchen looking just like this. Flour everywhere. We baked cookies, way too many sprinkles. They loved it.” She smiled. “I loved it.”

Andy leaned on the rag, watching her face light up. “Sounds like chaos.”

“The best kind. There’s nothing like hearing them laugh.”

“How old?”

“Ten, eleven, and thirteen. Two girls and a boy. I’m not looking forward to them growing up—I want to keep them right here.”

He nodded, smiling faintly. “I’ve got grandkids too. Four of them, all scattered. Every time I see them, they’ve shot up another six inches. Two are already grown. Feels like I missed their whole growing up.”

Delores looked at him, quiet sympathy in her eyes.

“They all call me Grandpa And,” he said softly, as if that was the one piece still his.

Her smile returned, gentler. “That’s a pretty good title to have.”

Andy scrubbed harder at the bench. “Yeah. Just wish I’d heard it more often.”

***

Her voice still carried in his head later—the way it brightened when she said my grandbabies. He couldn’t quite match it with his own stories; distance didn’t lend itself to that.

The next shift, while they stacked pots side by side, he caught her mentioning the kids again—little things they’d said, the way their laughter stuck with her. It made him wonder about her life before the grandkids, about the marriages she only brushed past in jokes. There was more there, he could tell, tucked between the stories, waiting for the right moment to come out.

I’ve been married twice

Delores knelt to tug a clay pot into place, dust streaking her palms. Andy lifted the mate and set it carefully on the shelf beside hers. They were building a neat pyramid of terra-cotta, one wobble away from collapse.

“You know,” Andy said, steadying the stack, “these things remind me of marriages. One wrong move, and the whole structure comes down.”

Delores snorted, straightening with a grunt. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I’ve been married twice. Both times I thought I’d picked a good man.”

She shifted her weight, dusting her gloves together. “The first one? Eight years. He cheated, so I sent him packing. Figured I’d learned my lesson and picked better the second time.”

Her mouth pulled sideways, half smile, half grimace. “Fifteen years that one lasted. And wouldn’t you know—it happened again.”

She shook her head, laughing at herself. “Turns out my picker was busted.”

Andy raised his brows, smiling at her phrasing. “You talk about it like you’re reading a weather report.”

She shrugged. “What’s the point of crying about rain when you’re already wet? First husband was an up-and-coming exec. Big house, good money, but he worked all the time. I kept my own job—massage therapist at a sports-injury clinic. Guess you could say I’ve been ‘hands-on’ most of my life.” She flashed him a grin.

Andy pointed at her, mock stern. “That’s how you knew I’d end up in physical therapy if I kept lifting those mulch bags.”

Delores winked. “And I’d charge you double.”

Andy laughed and caught her sleeve in mock protest. His fingers wrapped lightly for a second, then let go. “You’d put me in the poorhouse.”

“Better than throwing your back out. At least you’d still be walking.”

He chuckled, let the warmth linger, then nudged the conversation back. “So when you found out he was cheating…?”

“Filed for divorce. No hesitation. There wasn’t a marriage left to save. Honestly, I suspect she wasn’t the first.” She straightened another pot with precision. “If I was going to stay in something, it had to be a partnership, not… whatever that had become.”

Andy was quiet a beat, then smirked as he adjusted a pot on the upper row. “Not sure if I should admit this, but I’ve been married three times. None of them stuck.”

“Three?” Delores shot him a look. “You’re an overachiever—aren’t you?” She teased, “Is that why you haven’t married this one?” A beat. “Your girlfriend?”

“One of them,” he said.

He slid another pot into place. “First marriage at twenty—way too young. At some point we both cheated, if you want to call it that. We could’ve been swingers if we’d even known what swinging was. Funny thing is, the extra sex didn’t break us up. It was just… us. Not knowing who we were yet.”

“Kids?” she asked.

“Three. All from that first marriage. That’s where the four grandkids came from.” He grinned.

“And the other two marriages?”

“Just kinda fell into them, and then… kinda fell out of them. No ‘extra sex’ in those breakups. Unless you count the sex right before the paperwork was final.” His grin was crooked and unapologetic. “By then you couldn’t even call it cheating. We were already out the door.”

Delores barked a laugh, the sound bouncing off the shelves. “Guess we both graduated with honors from the School of Hard Knocks.”

“Yeah,” he said, setting the last pot. “But still here.”

“And still kicking,” Delores added.

They laughed off their School of Hard Knocks degrees and kept stacking until the display stood straight. For a while, neither said much—just the scrape of clay and the scuff of shoes filling the space. By the time their break rolled around, the quiet wasn’t heavy anymore—just comfortable.

I think you’re doing pretty good

They rolled a couple of empty carts out back to the shade near the greenhouse. The temperature sat in that sweet spot; a light breeze lifted the hair at Delores’s neck. She had her water bottle; Andy nursed a cup of bad coffee. Both leaned against their cart handles like the carts were holding them up.

Across the lot, David and Kevin were ribbing each other, and Delores laughed when one of them tossed a joke her way. She threw one back just as quick, her laugh ringing easy and bright.

Andy glanced sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You sure don’t have trouble keeping up with those two.”

“They’re fun,” she said. “Kevin cracks me up, and David’s got a smart mouth that’ll get him in trouble someday. Besides, I’m an old gal who lives alone with her dog—I like the attention.”

Andy nodded, staring into his coffee. “Yeah, small talk isn’t my strong suit. But attention you’ve got, Delores—and old you’re not.”

She leaned her hip against the cart, studying him. “You know, once you warm up, I think you’ll do just fine with small talk.”

He looked up, eyes catching hers. “Once I warm up,” he said with a crooked grin, “you’ll be wishing I’d shut up.”

Her laugh bubbled out, quick and genuine. “I think you’re doing pretty good right now,” she said, the faintest blush coloring her cheeks.

Kevin wandered over with a half-empty bag of chips. He offered some to Delores, who politely turned him down. Then he looked at Andy—like he was trespassing—and reluctantly offered one. Andy took a chip just to spite him.

As Kevin drifted back to David, Delores and Andy headed inside to start repotting the Chinese money plants that had arrived crammed in too-small containers.

Some couples learn

Inside, the trays of money plants waited in their tight pots. Side by side, they worked the soil loose, easing each root ball into wider space. The rhythm settled in before Delores broke it with a sideways glance.

“What do you mean, you just kind of fell into them?”

Andy blinked. “Fell into what?”

“Your marriages.” She smirked, daring him. “You said you fell into them. How does that even happen?”

He scratched his jaw, half-grinning. “Met them at random. Liked what I saw. We talked, dated. Things moved along. Before I knew it, we were serious… then married.”

Delores tilted her head. “Isn’t that how most relationships start?”

“Sure,” he admitted. “But don’t you think that’s one reason the divorce rate’s so high?”

That earned her grin. She gave him a look—go on.

“I guess ‘fell out’ was an exaggeration,” he said. “It ended like most marriages. We grew apart. Wanted different things. The big common interests we thought we had? Not so solid once you’re living side by side for years.”

Delores nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s pretty much what happened with mine, too.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Some couples learn to live without the things they need. Others don’t.”

“Then what’s different with this girlfriend?” she pressed.

Andy’s gaze steadied. “This time I stopped leaving it up to chance—stopped letting attraction do all the picking. I made a list—traits I wanted in a partner. Promised myself I’d hold out until I found someone who matched, or close as I could get.”

Her curiosity sharpened. “What was on your list?”

“Honesty. Openness. Acceptance. Kindness. A sense of humor. Someone capable of loving without conditions, not just when it’s easy. Strong enough to stand beside me, not behind me.”

“No physical traits?”

“Oh, there were some.” He smirked, leaning in a little. “I’m a man. I like my women pretty and shapely, same as any other. My second wife was gorgeous. My third? Could’ve been a lingerie model.” He held her gaze, almost defiant.

Delores let out a laugh, hearty and unrestrained.

“But that didn’t make a difference in the end, did it?”

“Guess not,” she admitted, humor fading just enough to show she meant it.

Walk you out

At the end of the day, the air hung warm between them—the kind of warmth that made working together feel easy. Delores peeled off her gloves and tossed them onto the bench. “Well,” she sighed, “that’s enough playing in the dirt with you for one day.” She smiled. “My dog’s going to be pacing the floor.”

Andy hesitated, then slung his apron over the chair. “Hey… you want some company walking out? I parked on the far side.”

Her brows lifted—surprised—but after a beat, she nodded. “Sure. Why not.”

They fell into step, weaving through the greenhouse and out into the lot. The late sun stretched long shadows across the asphalt, glinting off rows of windshields.

At her car, Delores unlocked the door and dropped her bag onto the seat. Andy lingered—not crowding, not rushing off.

“Well,” she said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Andy smiled and opened his arms just enough to make it a question, not a demand. “Mind if I…?”

She chuckled softly and stepped in. His chest was solid and warm; his hand brushed the small of her back before he let her go.

“Drive safe,” he said.

“You too.” She slid into her seat, closing the door with a little smile she didn’t bother to hide.

***

That night, after dishes and a walk with the dog, Delores’s phone buzzed.

Andy: Thanks for walking out with me. 🤗

She smiled, thumbs hovering.

Delores: My pleasure.

She paused, backspaced, and typed again:

Delores: Anytime 🙂

She set the phone aside, her heart beating a little faster than usual, her smile easy and unguarded.

***

They slipped into a rhythm—working side by side for months now, trading jokes, falling quiet when words weren’t needed. Every so often, Andy would catch the memory of her blush and smile. And whenever he thought of the hug…

One Thursday they were closing up together again, motions practiced, companionable. Andy hated working Fridays without her, but he always made it through. They leaned on the benches at the back, dust on their sleeves and the smell of soil clinging to them. The greenhouse hummed with end-of-day stillness—fans ticking, glass cooling in the lowering sun. The talk wandered closer to truths neither usually shared.

Why They Work Here

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the tables. With the last pallets in place, the aisles settled into hush.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” he said, leaning a hip against the potting bench, tired-satisfied.

Delores set her watering can down with a clank. “Speak for yourself. I retired from that kind of heavy work ten years ago. Now I play in the dirt and tell David or Kevin where to put the bags.”

“Perks of seniority?”

“Perks of being nearly seventy,” she shot back with a grin. “Let the young ones haul, I’ll supervise.”

They laughed, and then Andy’s voice softened. “Honestly, I don’t mind the work. The money helps me chip away at a few things I let pile up.” A wry smirk. “Retirement arrived before I was ready. But it does feel good knowing it won’t be too long—a year, year and a half.”

Delores’s brows rose—curious, not judging. She leaned her hip to the bench, arms folding easy. “If we’re confessing—Social Security keeps the lights on, the 401(k) keeps me from panicking, but neither helps when the tires blow and the doctor bill hits the same week. So here I am, three days a week, just in case my roof decides to leak… again.”

“Again?” He gave her a crooked smile. “Damn.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And a girl’s gotta have beer money. I have priorities, you know.”

Andy laughed, low in his chest. “Now there’s the best reason.”

“Damn right,” she said, pushing off the bench. “I didn’t come this far in life to give up cold beer and a working car. Everything else, we figure out as we go.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“Not easy, no,” Delores said, amusement glinting. “But three days a week isn’t bad. And I like what I do.” Her mouth curved. “Besides—the company’s been better… lately.” She winked.

“Thank you,” he said, crooked smile. “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

A quiet settled between them, the kind that felt earned. Delores slipped off her gloves, dropped them on the bench, and shook her head, smiling to herself.

“You know when I really need that cold beer?” she said.

He looked up.

“When I’m on my couch staring straight down the hall at those stupid holes in the drywall. Doors slamming—every time one hit too hard it left a mark. I tried patching them, but honestly? They look worse now.”

Andy’s mouth quirked. “Drywall scars, huh? I’ve done my fair share of mud and tape. If you want them gone, I could come by one afternoon and fix them. Wouldn’t take long.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the easy offer. “You… really would?”

“Sure. Takes longer for the mud to dry than to slap it on.” He shrugged, casual but sincere.

Her smile softened, wry and a little self-conscious. “I might take you up on that. Because right now, every time I crack a beer, those walls seem to laugh at me.”

Andy chuckled. “Then let’s shut them up.”

***

That night, with her dog curled against her legs, Delores’s phone buzzed.

Andy: How am I supposed to get any work done tomorrow without you there telling me how to do it? Lol
…
Andy: Have a good weekend. See you next Wednesday.

She smiled, then typed:

Delores: You’ll manage. Barely. 😉 See ya then.

Week 2

2. Delores’s Story

He knew I could be impulsive

The afternoon lull had settled over the garden center, the kind where the sun slanted through the greenhouse glass and the air hung heavy with the smell of warm potting soil. Andy was breaking down empty cardboard boxes near the potting bench when Delores appeared with two mugs of coffee from the breakroom.

“Here,” she said, setting one in front of him. “I figured we’ve earned it.”

He nodded his thanks, brushing the dust from his hands before wrapping them around the cup. The heat seeped into his fingers, pleasant against the light ache from the morning’s work.

They drank in easy silence for a minute, watching a lone customer drift between rows of perennials.

“I think I told you that I’ve been married before—twice.” Her voice was quiet but steady, as if she’d been holding onto the thought until just now. “They were both cheating jerks. Did I tell you that my last husband cheated on me twice?”

Andy glanced at her, and shook his head. She was still watching the customer, not him.

“The first time,” she went on, “I forgave him. He said he was sorry, that it wouldn’t happen again. He swore up and down it was a mistake. And I believed him.” She took a slow sip of coffee.

Andy cut in gently. “Was this the one that had his own business?”

She gave a dry little laugh, one corner of her mouth lifting without humor. “Yes, he was in his element. Had his own consulting business—good at what he did too. He was a type A, bold, always in control. It was part of what I liked about him in the beginning. Confidence can be… very attractive.” She glanced at him then, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before looking away again.

“But that same confidence?” She shook her head. “It came with entitlement. He thought his needs—hell, his wants—should always be met. And in the beginning it was fun. He knew I could be impulsive.” She glanced at Andy, her cheeks coloring slightly. “The sex… it was a hell of a lot of fun.”

She turned her gaze back to the rows of plants, her thoughts clearly somewhere else. “Maybe he imagined it would always be that exciting. But we’d both been married before—we knew the honeymoon stage doesn’t last forever. Maybe he thought this time would be different. Why would it be?” She paused, then added, “I guess that was enough for him to start looking elsewhere. Chasing that high? Is that why he did it?” She let out a slow exhale. “I don’t know… doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”

Andy stayed quiet.