My Palms Are Sweating

The sun was a fist in the sky, beating down on the rows of wilting kale and the defiant, bushy basil. Jamie’s shirt, a faded band tee, was already pasted to his back, a damp flag against his skin. His hand, clammy and trembling slightly, gripped the watering can like a lifeline. Not because of the heat, no. Because Jay Banting was two rows over, meticulously plucking spent calendula blossoms, his movements economical and precise, utterly devoid of the clumsy desperation that was Jamie’s default state.

Jamie had volunteered for this, naturally. A 'summer initiative,' the university email had chirped. 'Connect with nature! Contribute to the community!' Jamie had seen ‘Jay Banting: Supervisor – Garden Project’ on the sign-up sheet and his internal monologue had immediately shouted, 'Connect with Jay! Contribute to his notice!'. A strategy, if one could call it that, built on proximity and sheer, unadulterated yearning. Now, however, the proximity was less a strategic advantage and more a direct, burning spotlight on his own inability to form coherent sentences in the presence of extreme handsomeness.

Jay straightened, a slow unfolding of lean muscle, pushing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, catching the light like a tiny, perfect diamond. Jamie’s breath hitched, a faint, embarrassing sound he hoped was drowned out by the buzzing of a particularly aggressive wasp. He wanted to offer Jay a drink, to wipe that single bead away, to… well, he stopped that thought right there. This was a public community garden, not the interior of his most fevered imaginings.

He needed to speak. To say something. Something intelligent, something that would demonstrate his keen interest in horticulture, or, failing that, his fundamental grasp of the English language. He scanned the nearest plant. Basil. Right. A safe bet. Everyone liked basil.

“The… the basil is… quite… pungent today,” Jamie managed, the words tumbling out like marbles across a wooden floor. His voice, usually a tenor, seemed to have dropped an octave and then fractured, producing a reedy, uncertain croak. He instantly regretted ‘pungent.’ It sounded like he was accusing the basil of some fragrant crime. He should have said ‘aromatic.’ Aromatic was good. Pungent was for old cheese.

Jay turned, his gaze settling on Jamie. It was a dark, steady stare, unblinking, that seemed to strip Jamie bare of all his carefully constructed nonchalance, exposing the frantic, simpering mess beneath. There was a faint curve to Jay’s lips, almost imperceptible, a ghost of a smile that Jamie immediately catastrophized. Was he laughing? At Jamie’s basil commentary? At Jamie’s very existence?

“Indeed,” Jay replied, his voice a low rumble, richer than Jamie expected from someone so effortlessly composed. “The heat intensifies its oils. A good sign, I think. Bodes well for pesto season.” His eyes, dark as polished river stones, lingered on Jamie’s face for a beat longer than strictly necessary, and Jamie’s cheeks, already flushed from the sun, burned a deeper, almost painful crimson.

Pesto. Jay was thinking about pesto. Jamie was thinking about Jay’s lips forming the word ‘pesto.’ The vast chasm of their respective internal landscapes yawned between them. Jamie knew he should respond, offer some witty rejoinder about his own culinary aspirations, or perhaps a lament about the exorbitant cost of pine nuts. Instead, he just nodded, too vigorously, like a bobblehead doll caught in an earthquake. He felt a bead of sweat, cold now, trickle down his spine.

“Right,” Jamie stammered, the watering can suddenly feeling impossibly heavy. He decided, in a flash of misplaced courage, to move closer. To demonstrate a shared interest in the aromatic basil. He took a step, then another, his worn sneakers scuffing against the dry earth. He wasn’t looking where he was going. He was looking at Jay’s hands, so capable, so strong, gently pruning a wilting leaf.

His foot caught on something – a rogue hose, a stubborn root, perhaps a misplaced garden gnome. He lurched forward, arms flailing, the watering can flying from his grasp. Water arced through the air, glinting in the sun, before splashing down, not on the basil, but directly onto Jay’s pristine, white cotton shirt. A dark, expanding splotch blossomed over his chest.

A strangled noise, somewhere between a gasp and a yelp, escaped Jamie’s throat. His eyes, wide with horror, snapped from the wet patch on Jay’s shirt to Jay’s face. The faint smile was gone, replaced by a neutral expression that Jamie found far more terrifying. Jay simply stared at the water, then back at Jamie, his brow uncreased.

“Oh, my. Goodness,” Jamie whispered, feeling the heat rise from his neck to his hairline. “I am so profoundly… mortified. My apologies. My deepest, most sincere apologies. I am a colossal idiot. I really am. My spatial awareness is… compromised. Consistently. Always.” He wanted the earth to swallow him whole, to become part of the very soil he was ostensibly tending.

Jay, without a word, reached out. Jamie braced himself for a reprimand, a stern lecture on garden etiquette, perhaps even a dismissal from the summer initiative. Instead, Jay’s fingers, surprisingly cool, brushed against Jamie’s arm, steadying him. He hadn’t even realized he was still swaying. The brief, unexpected touch sent a jolt, not unpleasant, through Jamie’s entire being, extinguishing the flame of his self-incrimination for a precious, dizzying second.

“No harm done, Jamie,” Jay said, his voice softer now, a little less resonant. He still had that steady gaze, but now it held something Jamie couldn’t quite decipher – concern? Curiosity? Or was it still amused pity? “Just water.” He glanced down at his shirt, then back at Jamie. “Though perhaps a change of clothes would be prudent for me.”

Jamie was still reeling from the touch. The way Jay had said his name. Jamie. A simple sound, yet Jay made it resonate. “Right. A change. Yes. Prudent. Absolutely. I have… a spare shirt. In my backpack. Though it’s probably also damp. From… general atmospheric humidity.” He gestured vaguely at the oppressive summer air, then mentally slapped himself. Damp? From general atmospheric humidity? This was not a conversation. This was a public dissection of his own ineptitude.

Jay, surprisingly, didn’t laugh. He didn’t even visibly react to Jamie’s latest linguistic disaster. He simply picked up the discarded watering can, his movements fluid. “I believe,” Jay stated, his gaze meeting Jamie’s again, steady and unwavering, “we were discussing basil. This particular patch could use a bit more pruning, I think. Would you care to assist?”

Assist. Jay Banting, the paragon of calm competence, was asking him, Jamie, the embodiment of gardening chaos, to assist? Jamie’s mind spun. This was a test. A trap. Or perhaps, just perhaps, an invitation. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt a peculiar mix of overwhelming mortification and a thrilling, absurd sense of hope. He looked at Jay, whose eyes were still fixed on him, an unspoken question in their depths.

“I… I would be honored,” Jamie managed, the words catching in his throat. “To assist. With the basil. My pruning technique is… developing. But enthusiastic. Very.” He knew he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. Jay’s lips curved again, a little more distinctly this time, and Jamie felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the summer sun.

Jay simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment, then turned back to the basil, his broad back a silent invitation. Jamie followed, a half-formed, terrible thought about the sweat on Jay’s neck already taking root. He knew, with a sinking certainty, that this would be a very long, very hot, and very embarrassing summer. But also, perhaps, something else entirely.

He watched Jay’s shoulders, the way his t-shirt clung slightly to the damp skin beneath. The faint scent of earth and something uniquely Jay—clean, slightly spicy, impossible to place—reached him. He inhaled deeply, trying to commit it to memory, then choked slightly on a stray basil leaf. Another layer of mortification. Another layer of the beautiful, terrible, undeniable pull.