“About what, then?” Tisha asks.

I cast a panicky glance at Nyota, who quickly holds out the magnet. “About this thing.”

“Oh, my.” Tisha lifts a hand to her chest. “Now that I’ve seen it, will I die in seven days?”

“Probably. Also, I was updating Maya on my vacation sex life, and how I had to stoop to downloading some weird Italian dating app.”

“You usually hunt among the wedding guests,” her sister points out.

“Hard pass. Axel is obviously an idiot. Paul shares genes with Axel, and I refuse to copulate with him under any circumstances, Hark is not my type—”

“Hark is totally your type.”

“—so unless you want me to seduce your nerdy boyfriend, I’m going to have to be proactive about this whole thing, and—”

“How was today?” Rue asks me, leaving Nyota and Tisha to bicker.

“Fun.” I smile. “I got you something at the market. Here, in the bag.” It’s a packet of seed mix—Sicilian wildflowers. “I checked. You can bring them to the US, just have to declare them.”

She smiles, wide, and the rarity of it makes my heart glow with warmth. “We should put it in the backyard. Next to the prickly pears.”

We. Rue always talks about Eli and her home like it’s mine, too.

“We should. And by we, I mean you’ll do the work, and I’ll stay away to avoid withering them with my aura. Do you think that if I ever move from Austin, the garden will finally feel safe?”

“What do you mean, if?”

“When,” I correct myself. “I mean, when.”

Rue cocks her head, a small frown on her forehead. I’m intensely relieved when Nyota screams, “She’s his step-what?”

Rue and I both turn.

“Stepmother,” Tisha is saying. “Did you really not know what?”

“Are you for real, now? As in, she was married to his dad? She’s his dad’s widow?” Whatever Tisha just told Nyota, it seems to have resuscitated her and imbued her with the energy to finally lift her head from the pillow. “Did you know, Maya?”

“Know what?”

“That Tamryn is Hark’s stepmother.”

“I…” I shake my head, disoriented. Remembering the way he disappeared into her room last night.

The groan Nyota lets out is nothing but appalled. “God. I can’t. I—she has to be around Hark’s age.”

“A few months younger,” I say reflexively, still reeling from the news. Because Conor has talked to me about Tamryn countless times. He just never used her name.

“Dude, this is what I hate about rich old white men.” Nyota sags forward. “They never fail to embody the stereotype, and they’re so damn boring. They have their little midlife crises, and do they decide to invest in sustainability projects? Do they publicly advocate for women’s reproductive rights? Nope, they get married to a girl who was barely potty trained by the time they’d embezzled their first million.” Her gaze sharpens. “It wasn’t a love match, was it?”

“I highly doubt it,” Tisha says.