Saving Rain

by Kelsey Kingsley

“Wow.” I looked over my shoulder to see Ray standing on her porch in a fuzzy pink robe and matching slippers, a steaming cup of coffee clutched between her hands. “What?” I asked, my lips lifting into a hesitant smile. She studied me for a moment, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue. “It’s just not every day I get to stand outside on a beautiful spring day and see something that looks like”—she gestured toward me with the mug—“that.” I laughed, all too aware of the heat rising in my cheeks as I shook my head before returning my attention to the tiller in my hands, jabbing the blades into the ground, using my foot for leverage, and pressing on the handles to loosen the hardened soil. It was a small patch of land, roughly ten feet by ten feet, and the job of cultivating the soil would be done in no time. But it was hot for the beginning of May. The sun was beating down on me with its relentless rays, and even without my shirt, my back and brow glistened with sweat. It was uncomfortable—I had never been a fan of the heat—but at least Ray seemed to be enjoying the show. And even if her compliments made me blush—I just wasn’t used to being admired, I guessed—it was nice. “Have I ever told you that you have really nice arms?” she asked, and I glanced over my shoulder again to watch her slowly take a sip from her mug, her eyes never diverting from me and my apparently nice arms. “No, you’ve never mentioned that before,” I said. Resigned to the fact that I wouldn’t get muc...