I buried my wishes and the things I’d believed under the growing mound of mulch that would feed the flowers. Something beautiful would come out of the shit I piled on top—that was just science. But that didn’t make it stink any less.

It wasn’t long before I was sweating, reveling in the ache of my shoulders and arms. When I finished mulching, it wasn’t enough to have burned off my thoughts. I needed to exhaust every ounce of energy I had, burn it down until I was empty. So I made my way down to storage, deciding I’d rearrange the heaviest stuff I could find.

Bags of dirt and mulch and fertilizer were piled haphazardly along one wall, and that seemed the best place to start. Silently, I got to work, picking up bags and dumping them with a slap onto each other. I had just moved forty bags to the middle of the room so I could start organizing them when I heard someone on the stairs.

Luke smiled to cover his worry, but I saw it all the same.

“Need some help?” he asked, nodding to the pile.

“I got it,” I answered, picking up a bag of dirt and slinging it over my shoulder, giving him my back, though I knew better than to hope he’d actually take the hint and leave.

He was quiet for the length of time it took me to drop the first bag with a satisfying thump.

“What happened?”

I turned, avoiding his eyes as I grabbed another bag and headed off again. “It’s over.” I couldn’t bring myself to say her name.

Unfortunately, Luke didn’t have that problem. “Lila? But I thought—”

Thunk went the bag. “Yeah, me too. But I was wrong.”

“About what, specifically?”

“Everything. All of it. I told you our differences mattered, and I was right.”

Thunk went another bag. I hadn’t stopped moving, hadn’t looked my brother in the eye. As resolute as I was, I was still hurt. I was still heartsick and lovesick and just fucking sick.

“What happened last night?”

I contemplated picking up two bags at a time just to punish myself but stuck with one. It’d take longer this way, and I wanted to kill all the time I could. Briefly, I recounted the night, leaving it cool and uncolored by how I felt. Because how I felt was too much to speak. Betrayed and unworthy. Resolved and despairing. Foolish and misguided by my own instinct, my own heart.

Luke listened silently, his face drawing tighter, though not with anger. With concern. When I finished, a pause stretched between us.

“Kash, I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Thunk. I swept the back of my hand across my forehead and grabbed another bag.

“God, what a mess. But I’ve got to say, I can’t imagine she meant to hurt you.”