Nightfall (Devil's Night #4) - Penelope Douglas Page 0,112

again, and I looked ahead, spotted Aydin, and stopped.

He sat in a pair of black pants and a white T-shirt like me, but his was filthy with dirt smudges as he leaned over the plant bed and cut something. His hair, usually slicked back, laid dry and haphazardly over his forehead and temples, and a light sheen of sweat covered his forearms.

I stared at him, unable to move, because I couldn’t remember why I’d come in here, but I knew it was a secret. I hadn’t wanted to run into anyone. I thought he was still asleep.

He glanced over, dropping whatever he’d cut into the bowl and reached over, cutting some more.

I shifted on my feet, ready to turn around. I couldn’t go to the shed now.

But instead, he called me over. “Come here.”

I looked up at him again, seeing him concentrate on his task, and I walked over to his side, doing as he said.

He picked a strawberry out of the bowl and handed it to me, leaves, stem, and all.

I shot him a suspicious look, but I took it. He’d just cut it. It was probably fine.

Sticking it between my teeth, I bit into the small thing, pressing the chunk between my tongue and the roof of my mouth, sucking on the juice. My mouth exploded, savoring the flavor.

I nodded, swallowing and nibbling on the rest.

“Good?” he asked.

“Yeah, it’s… sweet.”

It was surprising.

“Mmm…” he agreed, returning to his work. “Yes.”

I looked at the remnants, knowing that real strawberries were this small. His tiny garden had tomatoes, basil, peppers, lettuce… I wouldn’t think he’d be into this, but I guess now I knew who was taking care of the greenhouse.

“Strawberries used to be sweet when I was young,” I said. “I don’t know. They’re sour all the time now.”

“Commercial strawberries the last couple of decades are bred to be big and beautiful, but that’s it,” he said. “They taste bad. I can barely eat any produce in the States.”

I looked down at him. “You’re not from here?”

He turned his eyes on me, cocking an eyebrow.

“The US, I mean.”

Okay, yes. I assumed we were in the States, but we might not be.

He returned to his task. “I was born in Turkey,” he told me. “My family relocated when I was fifteen.”

So he was an immigrant. Was it hard for him, being different in school? Trying to fit in?

“Did you assimilate quickly?” I asked.

“Assuming I had any ease assimilating to anything to begin with?” he joked, amusement in his eyes.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled.

I could relate.

I was the only kid in school who didn’t celebrate Christmas. Who didn’t take part in the annual winter pageants or do Secret Santa on the swim team.

But if I could’ve faked it, I wouldn’t have. It wasn’t my style to fit in. Screw ’em.

“Did you assimilate to her?” I broached, almost whispering.

The woman he talked about at the pool showers. The one made for him.

He faltered and then stilled, a faraway look crossing his eyes.

I swallowed, but I smiled to myself. I’d found his weak spot.

“Still hearing noises?” he asked, ignoring my question.

“No.”

But I might know where they were coming from now.

I glanced at the phonograph near the windows, still playing Schubert.

“Why are you roaming?” he asked me.

I shot him a look, an excuse lost on my tongue.

But then I remembered.

“I, uh… I saw the garden shed,” I told him. “I thought I’d look for tools. Maybe a ladder. That panel is off its hinges.”

I pointed to the roof and the broken panel of glass.

But he didn’t look, just kept working as he cut and cleared weeds. “Come here,” he said and held out his arm, inviting me in.

I reared back a little, but then…something pushed me forward.

I inched in, and he circled my waist, pulling me down into his lap.

I protested, trying to stand back up, but he took my hands in his and pushed them forward, palms down into the plant bed and sliding them underneath the soil.

What the hell was he doing?

Turning my head, I looked at him as he squeezed my wrists, keeping my hands in the dirt. What…?

“What do you feel?” he asked.

I hesitated, speechless. What did he mean, ‘what do I feel’?

“Soil,” I said.

Obviously.

He cocked his head, looking unimpressed.

Did he really have to hold my hands down?

Sighing, I wiggled my fingers a little, indulging this as the crisp feel coated my skin.

Almost like planting your face in a fresh pillow.

“Cool earth,” I finally told him. “It’s soft with water.