We’d been steadily talking louder as we’d been walking, approaching the sound of the waterfall. The trail grew steeper and more crowded. We were not the only ones getting our tourism on. The falls appeared through the trees suddenly: a thin cascade into a small, deep, blue-green pool. It was moodier than Lovers’ Lagoon—more hidden in the rocks, too small to swim in, and difficult to get to—but it was such a gorgeous color that you could see how people might invent stories about it.

“Wow,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

“Seriously,” said Oliver.

We joined the line to scramble our way up close to the water’s edge, and once we were by the water, I dipped my fingers in: It was bracingly cold.

“So, what?” I said. “One sip from this, and you’re cured of your lovesickness?”

“Supposedly,” Oliver said, consulting his pamphlet again. “It’s so wild that people are that desperate to feel better that they’d come all this way.”

“Ridiculous,” I said, my voice small.

“Some serious magical thinking,” he said.

There it was again: that word, magic.

“You can see why people tell stories about it,” I said. “That kind of beauty. You have to say something about it. It does have power.”

Among the other tourists, we were sharing the spring with two families who’d hiked up with their preteen girls, and it didn’t take long for them to notice Oliver. They were several years younger than us—eleven, maybe, or twelve.

“Oliver,” I said in a low voice, “you’re being recognized.”

“Oh, really?”

He turned around and waved at the girls, who tittered shyly.

“Hey,” I said, going up to them. “Jammers?”

They nodded.

“He’s actually really nice,” I said, and then I turned back. “Oliver, come meet your fans.”

Oliver took some photos with them while I considered the water more. What would I call that color? Lovesick Blue. But it was greener than that. Lovesick Teal. But it didn’t come to me, and I wondered if nail polish perhaps wasn’t big enough. No nail polish name could possibly contain all the depth of that color.

“Oh, hey,” Oliver said, rejoining me and breaking my reverie. “I got you something.”

He handed me a pair of sunglasses with red-orange frames.

“They reminded me of the Cinderella dress that you refused to try on,” he said. “Do you think it’s Dressed to Krill?”

“Close,” I said. I held the sunglasses in my hand. Not only had Oliver Teller asked me out on a date, but he had gotten me something. They were lovely. Thoughtful.

“Thank you so much. That’s really, really nice of you,” I said. I slid them on, but something about the lenses changed the color of the water—turned it yellowish, sickly. I propped the glasses on my head. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” he said. “I wanted to.”