I liked the way his floppy hair lay on his forehead. I liked the softness of his brown eyes.

His hand was reaching down toward mine, an invitation, and I touched him and felt strong fingers wrap around mine.

“Your hands are so cold,” he said.

“It’s okay,” I managed to choke out. “They always are.”

“Here.” He pressed my hands against the heat of his chest and covered them with his warm palms. I could feel his heartbeat as if I held his heart in my fingers.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

He smiled.

The air around us seemed to blur into something glittering and dreamlike.

“What I wanted you to hear in the song I played for you,” he said, in a voice as low as the murmuring of the leaves in the trees overhead, “is that it was about you. It was about the way you walk, and talk, and—”

Before he could finish the sentence, I had pulled my hands free and used them to bring his face down to meet mine. Our lips touched softly, as softly as a feather floating to meet the silent ground. And then they parted, and touched again, hesitantly—and then the kiss took flight and the dreamy air swirled in around us, enveloped us like a tornado.

Mutually dazed, we pulled apart. But his hands were wrapped around my lower back, just above my waist, and he didn’t let go.

I leaned toward his chest and laid my cheek against his shirt, breathing in the air around him. It was that boy smell, warm and spicy and clean and dirty at the same time. I wanted to memorize his scent and carry it around with me forever.

“Margot, Margot,” Barrett whispered, and I turned back to his lips.

We kissed for a few minutes while the daylight fluttered its eyelashes and finally sank away. The aroma of wet soil rose around us. I read somewhere once that the scent of a freshly mown lawn is actually the cut grass screaming for help, and I felt something deep inside my body screaming:

Help, help, help.

But what kind of help did I need?

This kind, I thought, pulling him closer.

We kissed for a little while longer, until it felt natural to stop, although our hands were clasped together and we stood maybe eight inches apart.

“Wow,” he said.

“Yeah,” I said.

His lips pressed against my hair.

“We should go inside,” I said.

He nodded, and we walked hand in hand to the entrance of the garden. We closed the gates, but when I went to turn the key, it wasn’t there.

“Weird,” Barrett said, and we both looked around. “Did you put it in your pocket?”

“These pants don’t have pockets,” I said, sliding my hands over the places where any normal human would have sewn pockets into their design. “I’m sure I left it in the lock.”