I was a girl who knew what she wanted and went out and got it. But when it came to Kash, I was as delicate as those seedlings, roots fresh and seeking purchase in uncertain ground. He was uncharted territory—why exactly, I couldn’t say. Not beyond the simple newness, the unexpected truth of him.

He stopped in front of the big table butted up against the end of the greenhouse, the same table he’d nearly nailed me on just a few weeks ago. Sitting on top was a variety of supplies, organized in neat, orderly rows—a plastic pot brimming with ivy, a tin of gravel, a pitcher of dirt, a pair of gloves, and a hand spade.

“I present to you one of the easiest plants to keep alive—pothos ivy.”

I leaned in, curious.

“This little guy can stay alive with minimal sunlight, although the more it gets, the more it grows. All you have to do is water it once a week. Wednesdays, if you can manage it.”

“Why Wednesdays?”

“So you don’t forget. Watering Wednesdays.”

“That might actually work.” I stepped closer, thumbing a waxy, spade-shaped leaf. “How much water?”

“More than a sip, less than a drenching.”

“I see it’s an exact science.”

He shrugged. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Says you,” I teased.

“That’s right, says me. If you can run the Felix wedding, you can keep ivy alive.”

Kash reached for an old, square tin covered in nouveau art. Swirls and swoops shaped like smoke built a frame around a beautiful girl sitting among lilies, brushing her long auburn hair. The details of the frame were shimmering gold, and written in a crisp deco font were the words Gilded Lily with the description of the face powder and manufacturer beneath.

He set it down without ceremony, reaching for the container of gravel, but I scooped the tin up, inspecting it with wide eyes.

“This is beautiful,” I breathed, turning it over in my hands, imagining the woman this had belonged to in some era long ago. “Where did it come from?”

“We have about a million of them in storage. This was probably one of my great-grandma’s, once upon a time.”

“Oh, it’s too valuable,” I insisted, shaking my head. “I can’t accept this.”

He snorted a laugh. “If you saw how many we had, you’d disagree. Trust me when I say you’d be doing me a favor. And anyway, she reminds me of you,” he said half to himself, eyes on the tin. “Her hair. The curve of her nose. The gilded lily—beautiful and perfect without any adornment but adorned all the same. Almost to frivolity.”

The feeling of rightness struck me again, a deep thrum that set an admission rising within me.

“Keep it,” he said. “It was meant to be yours.”

What about your heart? I thought. Was that meant to be mine too?