When Emma Met the Hot Gardener: Part 1

Welcome to The Meet Cute, a series of fictional rom com short stories. From a young age, I’ve dreamt of relationships like the ones I saw in my favorite movies. A love story like Sally Albright and Harry Burns, or Andy Anderson and Benjamin Barry, or Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy.

I want the kind of love that requires a man to run through the streets at midnight, or a field in the English countryside at dawn, to tell me he loves me.

A love like that has yet to find me, but I know it will. And in the mean time, I’m writing my own love stories. My own meet cutes.

These meet cutes are inspired by the intrusive thoughts I constantly have when I am out in the world.

When I pick up a library book, I think what if there is a cutie librarian working today and we fall in love?

When I go on a solo trip, I think what if my sweet Airbnb host introduces me to her single son and we fall in love?

The Meet Cute is a series inspired by loves stories out of my wildest dreams. So without further a do… When Emma Met the Hot Gardener.

It’s Sunday morning. Emma wakes up an hour before her alarm for the third day in a row, relishing in the feeling of finally being a morning person. She’s recovering from jet lag after her sister trip to Sweden, optimistic that this new internal alarm clock will stick. It won’t. It never does. Come Tuesday, she will be back to her old ways, snoozing her alarm until it’s nearly 9AM.

The sun is streaming in through the shutters of her Brooklyn apartment, a spacious Brownstone studio with 12-foot-ceilings and original woodwork. If you had told her when she first moved to the city that she would one day live in this apartment, she wouldn’t believe you. It’s her dream apartment. It’s anyone’s dream apartment, really. There’s a 125-year-old Pier Mirror, laundry in the basement, a front porch, and utilities are included. Her landlord is a kind woman who hires gardeners to maintain the patch of flowers out front. It’s peony season and Emma secretly clips a few from the bushes when nobody is looking. She’s come a long way from living with multiple roommates in South Williamsburg, in an apartment with so much water damage from the upstairs neighbors that moldy mushrooms started growing from the bathroom ceiling.

Today is the first day since getting back from her trip that Emma has had the energy to leave the house for anything besides groceries. And even that was a stretch. It took everything inside her not to order Sushi every night. Traveling fuels her, but also exhausts her. She’s the type of person who needs a vacation after a vacation.

Maggie and Lyla suggested brunch at a diner in the West Village, the one known for their massive three egg omelettes that come in the same stainless steal pan they were cooked in. Emma immediately agreed, practically frothing at the mouth at the idea of subpar drip coffee and pancakes. Anything but another Swedish cardamom bun.

“Come on. Time to get up,” Emma says to the sleeping cat curled between her feet. “Mommy needs to seize the day.” Leonard doesn’t budge. Instead, she delicately slides out from under the covers and leaves him to snooze for the rest of the day.

After a long shower, Emma throws on a simple outfit: baggy jeans, a white tank top, and an oversized green button-down she bought at a trendy boutique in Stockholm. It’s the most colorful article of clothing she’s ever worn, and the type of thing one would only buy when traveling abroad. When you’re brave and see yourself in a different light. It makes her blue eyes and short dark hair pop.

She quickly applies her makeup, a routine so paired-down she can fit every product she wears into the palm of her hand. Concealer stick, blush, eyebrow gel. Like most women in their 30s, Emma has finally accepted her natural skin. Accepted the fact that wearing SPF every day does, in fact, pay off. Just like her mother and every skincare influencer ever taught her.

At 9:38AM, Emma grabs her purse and her coveted library book about the woman who’s husband left her with no explanation after 20 years of marriage, and kisses her sleeping cat goodbye. She knows that leaving this early means she’s going to get to breakfast with a lot of time to spare because Maggie and Lyla are historically always late. They live a block away from each other in Greenpoint and told her to meet them at 10:30, but she knows that means closer to 11. She’s been friends with them for six years and knows how they operate. But the beauty in being early in New York City is that there is always a bench or a little table nearby. A place to take a moment to yourself. To read or to people watch.

The first Subway ride after a long trip away is always a shock to the system. The loud screeching, the smell of god knows what, the people listening to TikTok on full volume without headphones. Emma turns on the noise cancellation feature of her AirPods and plays the same song she’s been listening to on repeat since Wednesday, when she binged Off Campus in one go. Edge of the Earth by The Beaches. At this rate, it’s going to make in into the top five on her Spotify wrapped. It’s the type of song that makes you desperately wish you were in love. Or, not even in love. A crush would suffice. A foreign concept to Emma, who hasn’t had a crush in over four years.

It takes six listens of Edge of the Earth to get to West 4th Street. When Emma submerges from the grime and filth of one of New York’s gnarliest subway stations, it’s a gorgeous day. The sky is pure blue, the birds are chirping, and its eerily quiet. She’s glad to have left the house with time to spare. It’s early enough in the day that the village hasn’t been mobbed yet. It’s just a handful of locals, some out walking their dogs, some out walking with rolled yoga mats under their arms.

She spots a patch of cement across the street, one of those ones some mayor once built to give the community more gathering spaces. There are a handful of round metal tables, all directly in the sun. At one table is an old man feeding the birds. It isn’t until Emma is sitting down a few feet away that she realizes one of the pigeons is sitting on his knee. He’s hand-feeding it pieces of a pumpernickel bagel. Quite the dignified palate.

Emma whips out her library book and takes turns reading and people watching. She isn’t sure how much time passes, but eventually she hears the sound of Lyla and Maggie laughing and spots them before they spot her.

“Giirrrlllllssssss!” Emma sings loudly over the sound of street noise.

They both turn their heads to their right, spot the source of the sound, and wave like two crazy women. They hug and squeal, excited too each other for the first time in over two weeks. Lyla was in Greece, Emma was in Sweden, and Maggie was here in Brooklyn.

Sarah looks down at my book. “I just finished reading that.”

“You and the entire borough of Brooklyn. It took me months to get a copy from the library,” Emma responds, tucking the book back into her purse. “It’s making me feel slightly relieved I’m still single.”

The three of them make the short walk to the diner, continuing to talk about the tragic marriage that the memoir is centered around. Once seated in a cozy corner booth, they’re handed three laminated menus that are so large, the three women aren’t able to open them at the same time. But it doesn’t really matter. They all know what they want. Omelettes with various toppings and a pancake for the table. A waiter in a white button-down and a black tie comes over to fill their mugs with coffee and take their order.

Lyla orders her omelette with Swiss, mushrooms, and onions. Maggie orders hers with Mozzarella, spinach, and onions. And Emma orders hers with cheddar, broccoli, and bacon for me. Plus the buttermilk pancakes.

“A broccoli cheddar omelette is so genius mode,” Maggie says.

Time flies when these three are together. They talk about Maggie’s upcoming wedding and the highlights of Emma’s trip and Lyla’s new job in fashion. It feels like a scene from Sex and the City. A breakfast every young girl dreams of having one day, where her and her adult friends talk about sex and boys and weddings. Before they know it, it’s nearly 1PM.

“We gotta get the hell out of this dark diner before we waste the whole day in here,” Maggie proclaims.

“What do you gals want to do after this? Anything?” Emma asks while simultaneously trying to get the waiters attention so they can pay the bill.

Lyla needs pimple patches and sunscreen, so she suggests they go to the old pharmacy across the street. Maggie says she’ll join, but needs to head home at 2PM for her soon-to-be father-in-law's birthday party. Since the two of them are neighbors, Lyla says she’ll head home with her at the same time. That leaves Emma the rest of the day to herself.

Maggie successfully flags down the waiter, pays the bill, and vows to send a Venmo request later on. $37 each. The three of them make their way outside, and the stark contrast from diner fluorescents to broad daylight makes them all squint. The streets of the West Village are crowded now, and so is C.O. Bigelow. The iconic New York apothecary is a destination on the weekends for tourists and young girls looking to buy French skincare and tortoise headbands like Carolyn Bessette Kennedy once wore.

The three girls squeeze past the line of headband bandwagoners at the front counter and weave their way to the back. They each grab a basket and fill them with things they don’t need: Italian toothpaste, lip tint, mini hand sanitizer, fancy laundry detergent, non-toxic deodorant. Simple luxuries. They mosey around the aisles, squeezing between other groups of girlfriends doing the exact same thing. To have brunch and go shopping with your best friends is what life in the city is all about. It’s something every woman can agree on.

In a matter of 20 minutes, they’ve each spent well over $100. They file back onto the busy sidewalks with their little white shopping bags tied with a black ribbon.

“Em, what’re you gonna do? You wanna walk to the train with us?” Maggie asks.

Emma pauses to think. The thought of going back home is tempting. It’s the safe answer. But she’s already out, so she decides she might as well stay out.

“I’m just gonna walk. Maybe head to Washington Square Park or something.” Emma replies while putting on her sunglasses. The girls hug goodbye and go their separate ways. Maggie and Lyla uptown towards the L train, Emma west towards the park.

When Emma gets to the park, it’s anything but the vibe she is looking for. It’s like a zoo. Every bench is occupied. Every patch of grass too. Multiple jazz bands and DJs are playing music. A teenage boy on a skateboard speeds past Emma, almost knocking her to the ground. This state of overwhelm is the reason she wanted to stay home today. This city in the summer can just be too much. Too alive. What she needs is peace and quiet. To feel like she is back in Sweden. Where in the city can she feel that? To be amongst trees and flowers and chirping birds?

There is really only one answer when you’re downtown—Elizabeth Street Garden. The garden where Emma used to spend every lunch break back in her days as a barista in Nolita. Going there feels like stepping into a past life. She makes her way down MacDougal, then Houston to Greene to Prince. The sidewalks are packed with tourists walking slow as hell. Their hands full of shopping bags. Lines are formed around every corner for god knows what. Most likely a pop-up or fro-yo. It’s mayhem.

But eventually, Emma finds herself on Elizabeth Street. It’s instantly more quiet, more peaceful. There are trees overhead providing an umbrella of shade. The gates of the garden are wide open and people are strolling in and out at their leisure.

Elizabeth Street Garden is a winding maze of rose bushes, luscious trees, rusty iron benches, and ancient stone sculptures. Emma remembers someone once telling her that the statues were salvaged from New York City buildings that were about to be demolished. She doesn’t know if it’s true or not, but she likes to believe it. To believe that the lion statue under the oak tree is a distant relative of the lion statues at the public library. That the gargoyles once sat at the top of a historic skyscraper a century ago.

Emma crosses the threshold into the garden and is instantly teleported back in time to 2021. She spots the bench where she used to eat her $11 sushi lunch special, then a regular and his dog who used to come into the coffee shop. Oat flat white two sugars guy.

She takes a left, ducking into the secluded part of the garden to avoid making small talk. Who she doesn’t see is the hot gardener who runs the place. In the five years that Emma has lived in New York, a lot has changed. But the one constant in life has always been the tattooed, buff, bearded gardener who is here every single time she visits. Without fail. He walks around in dirty jeans, boots, and a Hanes ribbed tank top. Sometimes white, sometimes gray.

It’s busy here today. Nearly every bench and every table is filled with smiling New Yorkers enjoying the beautiful day. The only vacant chair in the whole garden is one near the roped off portion of the garden, where the volunteers keep their tools and equipment. Emma moves the chair a few feet to the right, opting for shade instead of sun. The SPF she put on this morning was surely wearing off by now.

Emma picks back up where she left off in her book and is deep into one of the last chapters when she’s interrupted.

“Excuse me?” She turns around and cranes her next upwards to see the hot gardener behind her. “You’re blocking this pathway and I need to use the wheelbarrow to move these flowers.”

Emma quickly stands up to get out of his way. Low and behold, she had indeed moved the chair directly in the middle of the dirt path that leads to and from the private corner of the garden. How the hell did she manage that?

In an attempt to quickly get out of his way, Emma trips over the leg of the chair, falls in the dirt, and sends her purse—and its entire contents—flying.

“Jesus christ,” Emma mutters under her breath while trying to get off the ground without getting any dirtier. She’s fantasized about speaking to this man for what, five years now? And this is the way she introduces herself?

“Shit, I am so sorry. Let me help you up,” The Hot Gardener extends his hand to help hoist Emma back onto her feet. While she dusts herself off, he proceeds to gather her belongings back together and places them gently on the chair.

“Sorry for scaring you like that,” the hot gardener says “I’m Miles.”

“And I’m going to crawl into a hole and die,” Emma mutters quickly under her breath.

“What?”

Shit. Did she just say that out loud? "I’m Emma.”

Miles is tall enough that Emma’s gaze lands squarely on his ridiculously toned biceps, which are glistening with sweat. She is in a haze. Absolutely dumbfounded by his beauty and the fact that she is finally talking to the hot gardener. Who has a name. Miles. Even his name is hot. She looks up to his gorgeous faces and follow his eyes, which are looking directly at her body. Is he checking me out? Emma thinks, but then she follows his gaze and realizes she’s covered in dirt.

“I feel like such a dick. Can I do anything? Maybe I can find some clean rags and we can try to get come of that dirt off?” Miles asks while running his hands through his hair.

“Don’t worry about it!” Emma says while reaching for her bag. The embarrassment of her first interaction with the hot gardener setting in. “These jeans are old and I don’t have any plans for the rest of the day. So it’s ok if I’m covered in dirt. Let me move this cursed chair and get out of your way finally.”

She grabs the chair and walks away, waving behind her and apologizing again. Mortified, she finds an empty table in a far off corner of the garden and tries to finish her book. But all she can focus on is Miles, who is now pushing a wheelbarrow full of dirt as promised. It looks heavy, but he moves it effortlessly through the garden to the exact corner where Emma just moved.

“Hey again,” Miles says. “Don’t worry, you’re not in my way. You just so happened to choose the one corner of the garden I have yet to tend to this season.”

Emma looks around and realizes she has, in fact, chosen the one area with no flowers. What is with her today?

Miles gets to work taking the plastic pots of flowers from the wheelbarrow and placing them in a line on the ground. And then he does something that is so sexy, it has to be a joke. He grabs the shovel that is leaning against the garden wall and starts digging holes in the ground a few feet apart.

Once there are enough wells in the ground for the pots of flowers, he grabs a bottle of water from the wheelbarrow and takes a long drink.

“Do you mind if I sit?” He asks Emma, gesturing to the open chair next to her.

Inside, Emma is screaming dear god yes please sit down I am begging you. Instead, she says “be my guest.”

He takes a seat and studies her for a second. “You look familiar. Are you a regular in the garden? Have we met before?”

“I’ve been coming here for years.” She tells him how she used to be a barista around the corner. How the garden became a sort of safe space from her throughout the years.

“Wait. I know you. You used to come a few times a week and sit on that bench over there?” He points to the exact bench she used to sit on every lunch break. “With sushi. And a book.”

“Wow. You have a good memory…” Emma says, trying to act as if this is not the most exciting moment in her entire life. The hot gardener was watching her the entire time she was watching him. And neither of them ever said anything…