Page 13 of Good Directions

4

ANTON

Mondays start too early.

Doesn’t matter what time it starts—it’s too early.

Especially on a mostly empty stomach. This morning’s overnight oats ain’t cutting it.

“Dr. Brown here yet?” I ask, walking into the ag lab and crashing into a chair in front of a microscope.

The chair rotates partially from the force of my landing, and I don’t fight it, letting it take me for a ride.

A last-minute addition to the greenhouse, the lab was built as a space for Cary and me to work on our own personal projects, separate from the big lab where most of the research and cultivars are done. It’s big enough for the two of us, and maybe a third person when required, stuffed to the gills with equipment, notebooks, and who knows what else. It also includes a Rube Goldberg I’ve been slowly adding to for years now. If it wasn’t for an exterior wall made from solar reflective glass, it would probably resemble a dungeon.

“I didn’t expect you until after Munch,” Cary responds, not only not answering my question, but not looking up from whatever it is he’s staring at on his laptop. He clicks away, hyperfocused on a set of results that will probably depress me when he shares them. With a flip of a switch, he sits bolt upright, twisting to face me, expression as still as a stone. “Did something happen? Are the trees okay?”

The most serious person I know, Cary Grant Adler is also the best damn horticulturist there is—flat out, no questions asked. The guy has a gift. The Adlers have worked alongside the Hayeses for years helping us with the precious three Ps, but Cary is by far the best of them. He’s also been by my side since we were toddlers, putting all that uptight energy to good use being the voice of reason every time I came up with a new way to poke at one of my siblings.

“Trees are fine,” I tell him, watching his body ease with that knowledge. It’s been a rough year thanks to that freeze, and we’ve lost more trees than we should have already this season. We know that even more are going to have to come out after the harvest is done too. “And I came over early, since you said your soil regeneration specialist would be here this morning. I’m surprised you’re not popping out of your girdle with excitement.”

The stone-still expression remains, my best friend unaffected by my teasing. “This is my excited face.”

Fair…

“Seriously, Anton, how are you not excited that a researcher from the state department specializing in soil regeneration wants to come use our fields to test out a theory and formula that has the potential to increase the life of a peach tree?”

Okay, there was a tinge of giddiness in his voice there. It’s subtle, the kind of thing only a best friend can hear, but it’s there.

“I’m so excited, and I just can’t hide it,” I exclaim, throwing my hands up. Impishness rises in me, and I know there is no holding it back. I morph my face into a worried look, sticking out my bottom lip and letting it quiver. “I’m excited…I’m so…so…”

“No Jessie Spano impression needed,” Cary cuts me off.

Damn it…

“You don’t want to be my Zack Morris?”

“You are Zack Morris.”

I tilt my head, unsure if that’s one that I’m willing to embrace. “I’d rather be Shawn Spencer from Psych. Charming, good-looking, and the brains of the operations.”

“That would make me Gus.” Cary pauses, as if he’s muddling over the possibility. “I’ll allow it. Because he’s the real brain behind the operation.”

Also fair.

I chuckle, glancing down at my phone, a hunger pang poking at me. Munch—my regularly scheduled Monday lunch meeting—is still hours away. I’m not sure I’m going to make it.

“What time were you expecting him? We don’t have a no-show on our hands, do we?”

Cary shakes his head. “No. Got an email this morning, something about car trouble and having to stop by Ken Noble’s before heading this way. Let me see…” He scrolls through what I presume is his email, muttering to himself. “Sawyer Brown…Sawyer Brown…”

“You got that many emails this morning?” I laugh.

“I deleted it, so now it’s mixed in with all the junk you signed me up for to increase the size of my peach.”

His deadpan side-eye cuts deep and I can’t hold back my laugh. Because that was one of my better moves. Right up there with the bright pink Speedo that is now framed on the wall.

“Don’t forget about the size of your zucchini.”