Page 12 of Meet Cute Reboot

“That jerk? You’re going out with that jerk?”

“‘Going out’ implies a repeated pattern of activity, so no, it was just one date. One little livestreamed date on Instagram.”

Michael removes his hands from his pockets and steps toward me. “I would never do what he did to you, Cassie. I would nevercheaton you.” He puts his hand on my forearm.

I brush it away. No touchy-touchy with the ex. That rule is carved in granite.

“I know you wouldn’t. But our divorce—it wasn’t about that. You’re a nice guy. You’ve always been a nice guy. We just didn’t have a spark.”

“You and Luke have a spark?”

“It was just one date. Nothing serious. You should really subscribe to MatchAI. Cupid will hook you up with a nice girl.” I retreat through the doorway as I’m talking. “Cancel anytime. No cancellation fee.”

Michael lifts a hand toward me. “Cassie—”

“All right, nice talking to you. I need to go snap Nana’s beans.” I let the door fall closed, leaving him alone in the sanctuary.

That dejected look on his face. My heart aches. Not because I miss him, but because he misses me. I thought it was a clean break.

It was supposed to be a clean break.

I bust through the doors of the church and suck in the Charleston air.

Where was MatchAI when I needed it?

Chapter 5

Luke

I don’t know much about weeds. I’ve never had a proper lawn, never had to prune out the bad to make more room for the good.

I grew up in Chicago in a million-dollar brownstone. It sat shoulder to shoulder with a row of three-story, six-bedroom, four-bath behemoths, each on less than a tenth of an acre. My mom, for all her complaining about Dad’s fancy lawyer job, hired someone to tend to the meager backyard.

Joe Russo came every Saturday morning in the summer and mowed the little square of grass. If he ever pulled weeds from the flower beds, I never saw him do it. Not that I paid much attention. I did occasionally see him walking around with a plastic container on his hip that connected to a small hose that connected to a long metal tube. He sprayed a chemical that smelled like wet paper. Weedkiller. Our tiny backyard was always impeccable, no thanks to Mom or Dad.

In L.A., I opted for apartment living. I didn’t want the hassle of plumbing repairs, appliance maintenance, or lawn upkeep. Mybusiness was my life, and I didn’t want a house to distract me from it.

When I was looking for a house in Charleston, I knew I wanted a decent backyard, a place I could stretch my legs, spread out, dabble in plants and dirt. I scored this 1800s home with a little luck and an offer well above asking price. The moment I saw it, I knew it was the one.

I know as much about flowering plants as I do weeds, but my real estate agent mentioned antique camellias, native azaleas, hydrangeas, viburnum—all residents of my new yard. I’m intent on learning about the different species and studying their care, so they continue to flourish under my watchful eye.

Since much of my acre is grass, I’ll also have to figure out lawncare. I know based on general observation that dandelions, clover, crabgrass, and the like can quickly take over if no evasive measures are taken. I’ve resigned myself to calling in a professional for regular weed and feeds, but there’s one square of yard I plan on weeding myself. Starting today.

I pause beside the twelve-by-twelve square of raised garden beds, six beds total, and pull on a pair of suede gardening gloves that I bought at a little mom-and-pop hardware store. I bought suede because there are some thistles and thorns among the more benign weeds.

While the rest of my yard came well-manicured, this little garden is the opposite. It seems the previous owners had good intentions to grow fresh vegetables and herbs but lacked the follow-through. I could pull the beds out and throw down grass seed, but I’d rather try my hand at growing something wholesome and tasty, maybe tomatoes, basil, garlic, onions—all the makings of a killer pot of spaghetti sauce.

I bought a weeding tool at the mom-and-pop too. It didn’t come with an instruction manual, but I get the gist. Poke the tool near the root and pop out the weed. Easy enough.

I shut my eyes and imagine a simmering pot of spaghetti sauce, garden fresh. Cassie and me in the kitchen together. I’m stirring while she stands next to me in her bathrobe. She holds her hair back as she leans over and sucks in a lungful of aromatic steam.

“I never knew you could cook,” she says.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

Something like that. I’m not James Bond or a double agent with a dark history or anything. But Cassie and I have been apart for a long time. We have a lot of catching up to do.

All is not lost. Our dinner date didn’t end well, but I have another trick up my sleeve. One last attempt to reconnect with Cassie. If it doesn’t work, I’ll accept reality—that there’s no winning her back—and move on.