Come on, I was Samantha Horten, undefeated when it came to haggling at the market.

I couldn’t let this little thing beat me down.

All was equal in the face of love… right?

It was time that I met Terry in real life.

Yeah, that was right. We should meet.

Time to pull the curtains and see what he was really made of.

With that in mind, I had to swing into action.

I texted, “Are you asleep?”

Terry responded in no time, “Not yet. I was thinking about you.” He attached a head-rub emoji.

I messaged him, my fingers trembling slightly. “Um… I was just thinking… We’ve been dating for three months now. Maybe it’s time we met?” My heart was in my throat.

Terry replied with a string of exclamation marks.

He wrote, “Really, Sam? Are you finally agreeing to meeting?” He slapped an excited spinning emoji and a teary-eyed cat meme in between.

I replied, “Yes… Can we do it this weekend?”

Terry texted back, “Perfect! I’ll pick you up on the weekend. Send me your address.”

I messaged, “No, it’s okay. I’ll have your location, and I’ll make my way over.” It wasn’t as if I could show him where I lived. That’d be worse than being caught on video.”

Seconds later, an address popped up.

Terry wrote, “7 Maple Road, West Hills. Ring me when you arrive. I’ll come out to meet you.”

Maple Road in West Hills?

If I remembered correctly, it was the neighborhood for the ultra-rich.

I texted back, playing it cool, “Oh, West Hills. Got it.”

Setting the phone down, I slumped back into bed like a deflated balloon.

It was my cue to get a grip on myself. I couldn’t back down now. Oh, and I needed to get him a gift.

I couldn’t arrive empty-handed for sure.

The million-dollar question was what to give him.

I stared at the water spot on the ceiling while racking my brain.

Then, it struck me.

Farm-grown produce!

I could get him authentic local produce!

The produce was all-natural, pollution-free, green, organic, and still carrying a faint earthy scent of nostalgia.

It was the ultimate honest, simple, and down-to-earth gift.

The gift fit my bright, modest working girl persona. Sure, I must admit that I was barely keeping up with the act.

The idea seemed plausible the more I thought about it.

From under the bed, I pulled out two large sacks labelled “fertilizer”.

My mother brought these care packages home all the way from the countryside when she came to visit the last time.

One sack held potatoes, each one still dusted with fresh soil.

The other contained sweet potatoes that came straight from the ground.

“Beef stew with potatoes and roasted sweet potatoes. It’s simple, humble, and good for the soul. This should show how much I care!”

It was the first thing in the morning on a Saturday.

I put on my best outfit—a pair of washed-out jeans, a relatively new beige knit cardigan, and a pair of clean canvas shoes.

Standing at the mouth of the tight alleyway, I held two bulging fertilizer sacks, still smelling of earth, between me.

I whipped out my phone and opened the navigation app before punching in the mouthful of an address. “7 Maple Street, West Hills.”

Taking a deep breath, I trotted ahead on my journey with doomed determination.

It was a nightmare to take the bus during the morning rush.

My sacks of local produce were in everybody’s way, earning me eyerolls and disgruntled mumbles.

“Hey! Watch it! What is this so heavy?”

“Stop pushing! Go to the back! Go!”

“Are you seriously hauling sacks on the bus? Who does that anyway? Are you like, moving house?”

Keeping a smile on my face, I kept apologizing and moving out of the way.

This was all for love, or rather, truth. All I needed to do was suck it up.

The bus swayed back and forth. Just as I was nodding off, a notification came on my phone.

“You are approaching your destination at 7 Piggery, West Hills. Please be ready to disembark.”

I was taken aback.

7 Piggery?

I jolted awake, nearly falling out of my seat.

Clutching my phone, I stared at the screen with bulging eyes.

The GPS labelled my destination as a pigsty.

I wonder if my navigation system was glitching out.

Maybe Terry’s family was in the pig business.

It must be on a large scale to have its own address.

He could be the new-age swine prince.

I suppose that would make Terry more relatable next to a secret billionaire heir.

After all, farming, bringing home the bacon included, was the backbone of a strong economy.

I jumped into a rabbit hole of pig-farm heir romance fantasies.

The bus driver, his accent thick, called out, “The stop to the pig farm is here.”

Snapping out of dramas playing out in my mind, I scrambled out of the vehicle.

I looked around, dumbfounded.

Aside from a lonely bus stop sign, there was nothing else.

Dragging along two heavy sacks like a lost refugee, I stood in the middle of nowhere in a daze.

Just then, a black sports car pulled out right in front of me.

Lambo doors!

The door swung open vertically at the hinge.

Someone stepped out of the driver’s seat.

It wasn’t Terry, though.

A woman, possibly in her fifties, emerged with such grace.

“Hello there, are you Miss Samantha Horten?”

I was sweating out of my palms. “T-That’s me. Hello, ma’am! A-Are you in charge of the pigsty?”

The faint tremor in the elegant lady’s lips didn’t slip my notice when I mentioned whether she was responsible for the pig farm.

“Miss Horten, I believe you are mistaken. This is the estate on 7 Maple Street, West Hills.”

The car arrived at the stop.

The lady gave a nod. “Young Rigsby is expecting you. His instructions are to consult you in choosing the diamond ring for the engagement.”

Engagement? Diamond ring?

A vast, absurd sense of wealth disparity crashed down over me.

By my feet were two sacks of earthy and plain potatoes and sweet potatoes.

My eyes locked onto the inside of the iron gate.

A silhouette emerged from the estate.

It was Terry.

The face I’d come to know over months through the screen now stood under real sunlight. He was a lot more good-looking, defined, and… distant.

He approached with quick paces, the distance between us cutting short.

Then, the words just came out of my mouth. “U-Um… Ma’am! D-Do you think the potatoes are enough for stew?”