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“It’s mine for another eight months, remember?” Benji says.

The thistle paddock is one of the constant sources of contention between us.

To be fair, the conflict over the five-acre paddock isn’t just a Benji and me thing. It’s been going on for generations.

Back in the forties, some idiot city surveyor included the paddock on both our farm titles.

The mistake wasn’t discovered until thirty years later, and by then, the paddock had already passed through enough hands that unscrambling the mess would’ve needed King Solomon himself.

My grandfather and Old Jack Gange had knocked back a few beers at the pub before coming up with their solution, deciding to take turns using the paddock in two-year blocks. Simple as that.

“I wish you’d just let me buy it off you,” I mutter.

“But I so enjoy sharing custody of a paddock with you.” Benji’s eyes sparkle with his particular brand of mischief that makes my stomach do something uncomfortable. “In fact, I was thinking maybe we should renegotiate the deal and just split it by days of the week? You get Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I get Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. We can arm wrestle for Sundays.”

I roll my eyes because he’s just trying to wind me up. But I can’t help responding. “Pretty sure it’s a paddock, not a timeshare.”

His eyes continue to dance. “In fact, maybe we should consider other options for the paddock. We could do a joint tourist venture. Experience authentic rural New Zealand. Stand in a paddock that belongs to two men simultaneously.” His mouth quirks up. “We’d make a fortune.”

“There’s nothing in that paddock except thistles.”

“And the view of a purple gate. You can’t forget that,” he says helpfully.

This is why any conversation with Benji is so infuriating. I swear the blood pressure pills Doc Wilson prescribed me at my last checkup should come with a warning label that reads:May be ineffective against the annoying neighbor.

“That gate’s about as much of a tourist attraction as my compost heap,” I say.

He shakes his head at me. “Still think you’re missing out on the potential. We could be great business partners. You could do the practical stuff. I’ll handle the creative vision. Picture it:The Thistle Experience: Where Boundaries Blur.”

“The only thing blurring around here is your grip on reality,” I grumble.

Benji laughs, and the sound does something funny to my insides.

I struggle to come up with another topic of conversation.

“We need to talk about the creek boundary sometime. The bend is getting wider every season.”

“Nature doesn’t go in straight lines,” Benji says. He gives me a wink. “In fact, I don’t think anything worthwhile is completely straight.”

My throat goes dry. Something about the way he says those words makes me wonder if we’re talking about boundary lines at all.

After any conversation with Benji, I always spend the next day reviewing everything he said, turning his words over in my mind and silently crafting better comebacks.

I can’t think of a reply now, so I turn to go, then suddenly realize I’m still clutching the vegetables.

“Here,” I say, thrusting the cucumbers and lettuce at him.

Benji takes them off me, looking down at them with a soft smile.

I don’t know how to interpret that smile.

“Thanks,” he says, raising his green eyes to mine in that slow way of his, like he’s taking his time to memorize something important. “Your vegetable garden never disappoints.”

I grunt in reply before turning and striding off.

ChapterTwo

David