Slush Puddle Confessions

March is a liar. Everyone knows this, but every year we fall for it anyway.

The sun is out. It is aggressively bright, practically screaming down from a hard blue sky. It hits the puddles on the cracked asphalt of the community garden parking lot and bounces straight into my retinas, making my eyes water. It looks like spring. It looks like the kind of day where you should be drinking iced coffee and wearing a light denim jacket.

But the air? The air is a knife.

It is thirty-eight degrees, feeling like twenty because of a wind that keeps whipping off the nearby river. The light is a glitch. It promises warmth, but the shadows are freezing. If you step out of the direct sun, the temperature drops ten degrees instantly. It’s that weird, unpredictable season where the world hasn't decided what rules it wants to follow yet.

I am standing in front of Plot 12. It is a sad little rectangle of dirt surrounded by rotting pine planks that I inherited from a guy named Gary, who abandoned it mid-July last year because of 'bad vibes.' I don't know what Gary’s problem was, but right now, the vibes are mostly just frozen.

Half of the plot is still covered in a crust of dirty, hard-packed snow. The other half is a sludge of freezing mud that smells strongly of wet dead leaves and city grit. I shove my hands deeper into the pockets of my oversized coat. My fingers are already numb. I shift my weight from foot to foot, my heavy boots squelching slightly in the wet grass outside the wooden frame of the bed.

"You're out of your mind," I mutter to myself, staring at the frozen dirt.

I hear the crunch of boots on the gravel path behind me. I don't turn around. I know the cadence of those footsteps.

"I know I'm late," Tyler's voice rings out, cutting through the low hum of traffic from the street. "But in my defense, the L train is basically a myth at this point, and the barista at the coffee shop looked at me like I had personally ruined her life when I asked for oat milk."

I turn around. Tyler is walking down the narrow dirt path between the garden plots. He is wearing a vintage corduroy jacket that is entirely inappropriate for the weather, a faded gray hoodie underneath, and a dark green beanie pulled down over his messy brown hair. He is carrying two paper coffee cups that look like they are already failing structurally. Dark liquid is seeping through the bottom seam of the one in his left hand.

My stomach does a fast, stupid flip. I immediately mentally suppress it.

"You're twelve minutes late," I say, keeping my voice perfectly flat. "I am freezing to death. I am actively experiencing frostbite."

"You're being dramatic," he says, stopping next to me and holding out the non-leaking cup. "Here. Consume the bean water. It will warm your cold, dead heart."

I take the cup. The cardboard is hot against my freezing fingers. It feels amazing. I take a sip. It's black coffee, bitter and strong, exactly how I need it right now.

"Did you get the seeds?" I ask, wrapping both hands around the cup to siphon as much heat from it as possible.

Tyler gestures vaguely to the pockets of his corduroy jacket. "I am carrying the future of this garden on my person. I have seeds. I have vision. I have a mild caffeine tremor."

I look back at Plot 12. "Tyler, look at it. We can't plant anything today. The ground is literally cement. I don't know why we thought the first Saturday of March was a good idea."

He steps up next to me. His shoulder brushes against mine. It’s a tiny point of contact, but it sends a sharp jolt through my arm that has nothing to do with the cold. He is too close. He is always too close.

"Deb, you lack faith," he says, staring at the sad patch of dirty snow. "This is prime real estate. We just have to show the dirt who's boss. We have to turn it. We have to aerate it."

"Aerate it?" I laugh, a sharp, cynical sound. "With what? A jackhammer?"

"With the tools in the shed," he says, pointing toward the rusting metal structure at the far end of the garden. "Go unlock it. I'll guard the plot."

"Guard it from what? The frost?"

"Just go get the shovel, Debbie."

I roll my eyes, but I walk toward the shed. The ground is uneven, a mix of frozen mud ruts and slick patches of melting ice. The bright sun is glaring off every wet surface, making me squint. I reach the shed and pull the heavy ring of keys from my pocket. The lock is old and rusted. I have to jam the key in and jiggle it violently for thirty seconds before the mechanism finally clicks.

I pull the metal doors open. It smells like gasoline, old dust, and damp metal. I grab the heavy steel spade with the splintered wooden handle and a smaller hand trowel that looks like it has survived a war.

When I get back to Plot 12, Tyler has finished his coffee and is staring intently at the frozen earth.

"Okay," he says, clapping his hands together. "Let's get into it."

I hand him the heavy spade. "Knock yourself out."

He steps onto the edge of the wooden planter box, balancing for a second, then steps down into the dirt. His boot sinks about half an inch into the wet surface mud, then hits the frozen layer underneath with a solid thud.

He raises the spade and drives it down.

CLANG.

The metal hits the frozen earth and bounces off. The shockwave travels straight up the wooden handle. Tyler drops the spade instantly, shaking his hands out with a sharp hiss of pain.

"Holy crap," he says, grabbing his right wrist. "That hurt."

I try not to laugh, but a snort escapes my nose. "I told you. It's cement."

"It's hostile, is what it is," he mutters, picking up the spade again. "We just need to find a soft spot. Where the sun has been hitting it."

He moves to the far left corner of the bed, where the glaring sun has melted the snow completely. He tries again. This time, the spade breaks through the crust. He pushes down with his boot, forcing the blade into the dark, wet soil. He levers it back, turning over a massive, heavy clod of freezing mud.

"See?" he says, looking at me with a triumphant grin. "Progress."

I sigh and kneel down on the grass path outside the bed. I take the trowel and start hacking at the frozen weeds along the edge. The physical labor is brutal. My hands ache within two minutes. The wind keeps biting at the back of my neck. But as we work, a weird rhythm settles over us.

We don't talk for a long time. There is just the sound of metal scraping against rocks, the heavy thud of the spade, and our breathing. The physical effort starts to generate heat. My face feels flushed. I unzip my heavy coat a few inches.

I look over at Tyler. He has taken off his beanie and tossed it onto the grass. His hair is sticking up in weird angles. He is focused, his jaw set, his breath pluming in the cold air as he turns over the heavy, wet earth. He looks good. He always looks good, which is incredibly annoying.

We’ve been dancing around this weird tension for six months. We are friends. We hang out. We complain about our jobs. We text each other stupid memes at two in the morning. But lately, there is this heavy, unspoken static between us. Every time he looks at me for a second too long, every time his hand brushes mine when he hands me a coffee, the static flares up. I keep ignoring it. I am deeply terrified of ruining whatever it is we have. I am a pragmatic person. I don't take risks with things that are working.

"Okay," Tyler says, leaning on the handle of the spade and wiping his forehead with the back of his dirty glove. "The bed is turned. It's ugly, but it's turned. Let's plant."

I sit back on my heels. My knees are soaked from kneeling on the wet grass. The cold is seeping through my jeans.

"We aren't planting today, Tyler."

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out three small paper packets. He holds them up like they are winning lottery tickets.

"Sweet peas," he says. "They are practically begging to go into the dirt."

I stand up, brushing the wet dirt off my knees. "The ground is thirty degrees. If you put those seeds in there, they will freeze and die. We prep today. We plant in two weeks."

"The packet says 'plant as soon as the soil can be worked,'" he argues, pointing at the tiny print. "We just worked the soil. Ergo, we plant."

"The packet implies a normal spring," I counter, stepping closer to him. "Not this weird frozen wasteland. I brought radishes. If you absolutely need to plant something, we plant radishes. They grow fast. They are tough."

Tyler looks at me like I just insulted his mother. "Radishes?"

"Yes, radishes."

"Radishes taste like angry water, Deb."

"You taste like angry water."

"Good one. Really sharp comeback." He shakes his head. "I am not dedicating Plot 12 to angry water. We are planting the sweet peas. They are elegant. They climb. They have a floral scent."

"They will die!" I yell, throwing my hands up. "You are going to commit botanical murder because you're impatient."

"I'm not impatient, I'm optimistic!" he yells back, stepping toward me. The space between us shrinks. "You have a serious problem with optimism, you know that? You always assume the worst."

"I assume reality!"

We are standing at the edge of the wooden planter, arguing over seeds, but we aren't talking about seeds. The subtext is so loud it's practically deafening. He is talking about my refusal to take a chance. I am talking about his tendency to jump into things without thinking. The static between us is practically sparking.

"Just give me the sweet peas," I say, holding out my hand.

"No," he says, clutching the packets to his chest.

"Tyler, give me the seeds."

"No. I'm going to plant them right now. Right in the middle of the plot. I'm going to show you."

He turns away from me, moving toward the far side of the raised bed. But he doesn't walk around the dirt path like a normal person. He decides to cut across the narrow gap between Plot 12 and Plot 13.

The problem is, the gap is currently blocked by a massive, gray, dirty snowbank left over from the plows clearing the parking lot last week.

"Tyler, don't walk over there," I say, my voice dropping back to a normal volume. "It's a mess."

"I'm going to jump it," he says, eyeing the snowbank.

"You are wearing corduroy and flat-soled boots. Do not jump the snowbank."

"Watch me," he says, total main character energy radiating off him in the most obnoxious way possible.

"Tyler, don't. Seriously."

He ignores me. He takes two steps back, bends his knees, and launches himself forward.

It happens in slow motion.

He clears the top of the snowbank easily. His form is actually surprisingly good. But he doesn't account for the landing zone.

On the other side of the snowbank, in the deep shadow where the sun hasn't hit all morning, a massive puddle of melted snow from yesterday has refrozen overnight into a thick, smooth sheet of black ice. And sitting right on top of that black ice is an inch of brown, freezing slush.

Tyler's right boot hits the slush.

Physics takes over instantly.

There is no traction. The flat sole of his boot slides forward on the wet ice with zero resistance. Both of his feet fly up into the air. His arms flail wildly, tossing the seed packets into the wind.

His body goes completely horizontal.

"Oh my—" I start to say.

THUD.

It is a heavy, wet, sickening sound. Tyler hits the ground flat on his back.

SPLASH.

A massive wave of brown mud, freezing water, and dirty slush erupts outward, spraying all over the side of the wooden planter and splashing my boots.

For three full seconds, there is absolute silence in the garden.

Tyler is lying flat on his back in the middle of a massive puddle of freezing mud. His arms are splayed out. The water is deep enough that it is completely soaking through his jacket, his hoodie, and his jeans.

The bright glitch of the sun glares down on the terrible scene.

My brain entirely short-circuits. I freeze, standing on the grass, my hands hovering in the air.

"Tyler?" I say. My voice sounds small.

He doesn't move.

Panic spikes hard in my chest. I drop the trowel. I scramble around the edge of the planter, my boots slipping slightly on the slick mud.

"Tyler, hey!" I reach the edge of the puddle.

He slowly, painfully, lifts his head out of the slush. The back of his beanie is soaked with brown water. A large clump of wet dead leaves is stuck to his left shoulder. His face is splattered with mud.

He lets his head fall back into the slush with a soft splash. He groans. It is a long, pathetic sound.

"Are you dead?" I ask, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"My pride is," he mutters, staring straight up at the bright blue sky. "I think my spine is, too."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "You are such an idiot. I told you not to jump."

"The ice was hidden, Deb. It was a trap. The garden is out to get me."

"Get up. You're lying in freezing water. You're going to get hypothermia."

I step carefully into the shallow edge of the puddle. The water instantly seeps into the laces of my boots. It is shockingly cold. I lean over and grab his right arm, pulling on his ruined jacket.

"Come on, up," I say.

He tries to sit up, but his boots slip on the black ice underneath the slush. He falls back down, splashing water onto my jeans.

"I can't get traction," he says, shivering. The cold is hitting him fast. His teeth are actually chattering.

"Give me both your hands," I demand.

He lifts his hands. His gloves are coated in thick, brown mud. I don't care. I grab his wrists, gripping the heavy, wet fabric of his jacket.

"On three," I say. "One. Two. Three."

I pull backward with all my weight. He pushes up with his legs.

For a second, it works. He comes up off the ground. But he is heavy, and the mud is slick, and my boots are standing on wet grass.

As I pull him up, my heel slips backward.

I lose my balance. I stumble forward to stop myself from falling backward, and Tyler overcompensates, lunging forward to catch me.

We crash together.

I don't fall, but I am suddenly standing directly in the middle of the freezing puddle, knee-deep in slush. Tyler is on his feet, but his arms are wrapped tightly around my waist to keep us both upright. My hands are still gripping his wrists, now pressed against his chest.

We stop moving.

We are completely tangled up.

He is soaked. I can feel the freezing cold radiating off his wet clothes, but underneath it, I can feel the solid, heavy heat of his body. His chest is heaving against my hands. We are breathing hard, the white plumes of our breath mixing in the cold air between us.

He is looking down at me. We are inches apart.

I can see the exact pattern of the mud splatters on his cheek. I can see a tiny cut on his chin where he must have scraped it on a piece of ice. I can see the dark ring around his pupils because the sunlight is hitting his face directly.

The static isn't just sparking anymore. It is a deafening roar in my ears.

I should step back. I need to step back.

But I don't.

"You're covered in mud," I whisper. My voice is shaky.

"I know," he says. His voice is rough, lower than normal.

"Your jacket is ruined."

"I know."

He doesn't let go of my waist. In fact, his grip tightens slightly. His hands are freezing cold against my sides, but it feels electric.

"Tyler, let go. We need to get out of the puddle."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

He swallows hard. He looks away for a split second, looking at the dead frozen plants in the next plot, and then he looks right back into my eyes.

"Because I'm down bad for you, Deb."

He just blurts it out. No preamble. No smooth transition. Just throws it out into the freezing air like a brick.

My brain completely stops functioning. The cognitive static takes over. I just stare at him.

"What?"

"I'm completely down bad," he says, his words coming out in a fast, rushed burst. His teeth are chattering slightly, which makes it even more pathetic and real. "It's awful. You're mean to me, and you're stubborn, and you refuse to believe in sweet peas, and I just want to buy you seeds and stand in freezing mud with you. I've been trying to figure out how to say it for three months, and I figured maybe not right after I wiped out on black ice, but honestly, this is probably the most accurate representation of what it feels like."

I am paralyzed. The cold water is soaking through my jeans, numbing my calves. The wind is biting my face. But all I can feel is the frantic, hammering rhythm of my own heart.

He likes me.

He actually likes me.

The terror I usually feel at this realization is gone. It is completely gone, replaced by something so bright and weird and heavy that I don't know what to do with my hands.

He is looking at me, waiting for a response. He looks terrified. He looks cold. He looks ridiculous.

I laugh.

It is involuntary. A sharp, loud, sudden sound that cuts through the quiet garden.

Tyler blinks, his expression dropping into total confusion. "Are you... are you laughing at me?"

"Yes," I say, laughing harder. "You are an idiot."

I let go of his wrists. I drop my hands completely.

Because his balance is entirely dependent on me holding onto him, the sudden loss of tension causes him to sway backward.

"Hey!" he yells, his arms flailing again.

He falls backward, landing right back in the same spot in the freezing mud puddle with another massive splash.

"Debbie!" he groans, lying flat on his back again, looking up at me with utter betrayal. "What the hell? I just poured my heart out to you."

I look down at him. I look at my boots, currently submerged in brown water. I look at the bright, glitchy sun.

I bend my knees.

And I sit down.

I sit straight down into the puddle, right next to him.

The freezing water instantly soaks through my jeans, hitting my skin like an electric shock. The mud squelches up around my thighs. It is shockingly, horribly cold. It is a terrible decision.

Tyler rolls his head to the side, staring at me like I have lost my mind.

"What are you doing?" he asks, completely bewildered.

I look at him. My teeth are starting to chatter. I pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around my muddy legs.

"I like you too, you moron," I say.

Tyler stares at me. A slow, massive grin breaks across his face, cracking the dried mud on his cheek.

"Yeah?" he says softly.

"Yeah," I say, shivering violently. "But if we don't get out of this puddle in the next ten seconds, we are going to die here, and Brenda from the garden committee will just use our bodies as compost."

Tyler laughs, sitting up. He reaches out, his muddy glove grabbing my equally muddy hand. We sit there for a second longer in the freezing slush. It is messy. It is uncomfortable. It is perfect.

But as we finally scrambled out of the puddle, shivering and laughing, the bright sun suddenly snapped off, swallowed by a thick, fast-moving wall of dark gray clouds. The wind picked up instantly, dropping the temperature another ten degrees, and the mud around our boots began to freeze solid again, a cold reminder that spring hadn't actually won yet.