Page 23

23

She’d texted her dad her usual excuse—that she was spending the night at a friend’s house. By now he would’ve known that wasn’t the whole truth, but Mr. Pauly didn’t put up a fight.

The Hargrove house always stood quiet, but at two in the morning it somehow found a way to get impossibly quieter, so that Rose could hear the soft patter of her bare feet on the kitchen tiles, the hum of the fridge as she opened it. She picked up a dish, presumably prepared by the housekeeper, cling film covering pan-seared chicken breast and a side of green beans. It looked delicious, but Rose put it back. She wasn’t particularly hungry; she just couldn’t sleep.

The episode at the greenhouse had happened hours ago, but Rose couldn’t shake it. She’d never seen Hart like that, and the more she thought about it, the more she was convinced it wasn’t actually about the flowers. She shut the fridge door and walked down the dark hallway that led to the living room. She flipped the light switch on. Against the wall, a credenza held framed family photos. People from generations back in black-and-white and sepia tones, wearing dresses with petticoats and frills, and suits with watch chains looping into pockets. There were Heather and Hart as towheaded kids, playing in the garden. And a close-up photo of their mother, Cait: dark-haired, stunning, and with a smile that radiated warmth. Rose picked up the frame. Hart never talked about his mom, and Rose never pushed him to. But she got the feeling that in the greenhouse earlier, maybe he had.

Rose froze at the sound of the kitchen doors opening. Footsteps approached, and she let out a breath when she saw it was only Heather, wearing a sweatshirt and billowy pajama pants. Noticing Heather’s pajamas only made Rose hyperaware of what she herself was wearing—one of Hart’s T-shirts. She prayed Heather wouldn’t comment on it. But she didn’t. Heather only held out her palm and said, “Want some?”

In her hand were a lighter and a joint, spent near to the end. Rose shook her head. “I don’t do that.”

A faraway smile crept onto Heather’s face. “Right,” she said.

“I thought you vaped,” Rose said.

Heather pocketed the paraphernalia in her pajama pants, looking borderline disgusted. “Do you know how many vape cartridges get discarded every day? It’s terrible for the environment.”

Rose couldn’t hide her surprise. For the first time, she found a similarity between the Hargrove twins. Heather might not have had Hart’s penchant for gardening, but she clearly shared his love for the earth. Rose was surprised she was having a normal conversation with Heather at all. She seemed lucid—or at least more lucid than she ever had been—despite the fact that she’d clearly just been getting high. Maybe smoking—unlike with alcohol, or the pills Rose had seen her take—made Heather more chill. Or maybe it was just the late hour, the sleepy house, and how they were both tired. But Heather didn’t lash out or overreact even as she noticed the picture frame clutched in Rose’s hands.

“According to Hart, black-eyed Susans were my mom’s favorite flower.”

The air felt trapped in Rose’s lungs. The flowers that had died in the greenhouse. On some level, she must’ve known that. Even if she couldn’t have known Mrs. Hargrove’s connection to black-eyed Susans, Rose had still sensed that she was connected somehow. “Your mother was beautiful,” she said. “What was she like?”

A spark flickered behind Heather’s glazed eyes; something that could’ve been wistfulness just as easily as it could’ve been bitterness. She looked down and said, “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Rose didn’t know what to say to that, which was just as well, because Heather bounced to a new topic anyway. “Did Hart ever tell you about the dog we had when we were kids?”

Rose scanned the other picture frames, just in case there was a dog in there that she’d missed somehow. “Hart never mentioned a dog.”

“Nothing,” Heather said.

Just as she was starting to open up. “No, tell me,” Rose said.

Heather stared at her. “His name was Nothing.”

“Oh,” Rose said, feeling like an idiot. “Strange name for a dog.”

“He died,” Heather said.

Rose closed her eyes, skewered once again on the sharp end of a conversation with Heather. “I’m sorry.”

“Hart buried him by himself, just so I wouldn’t have to. So I’d never have that memory, of putting my puppy in the ground.”

Rose’s insides squeezed with sympathy, for Heather and for Hart, too. “Sounds like Hart.”

Heather nodded. “He’s always been taking care of me. Even though he’s younger than me by a whole minute. I should be the one taking care of him.” She looked at Rose, catching her gaze and holding it. “I’m trying to be better about that. About protecting him. Which is why I am the way I am… with you.”

Rose opened her mouth to say something, but she was caught off guard. It was a lot, learning all this new information—about the dog, about Heather’s reasoning behind her prickly attitude. Even the fact that she was being honest about it at all. “But I’m not—I’m not someone you have to protect him from,” Rose stammered. “I’m here for him. I want to take care of him, too.”

“I saw what happened today,” Heather said. “Out by the greenhouse. And I think it showed you—better than I can—how fragile he is. Still is.” She jutted her chin subtly, to the photo in Rose’s hand. “Since our mother died.”

“I know,” Rose said. “I know that.”

“I don’t think you do,” Heather said. “Grief will…” She held her hand up to the side of her head, like a sharp talon about to strike. “It’ll muddy up your mind. Make you not think straight. And it might not look like it to you, because your mind’s muddied up too, with your feelings for him. But right now, Hart is operating on nothing but grief. He’s crazy with it. I mean, I’m crazy with it, too. I just let it out in different ways.” Her hand fell to her side, where she felt lazily for the lighter in her pocket. “The Hart you know now is a shell of who he really is.”

The words sank through Rose, pinning her in place. Heather took the frame from Rose’s hand and set it back down. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she said, before heading for the stairs.

Rose carefully turned the knob to Hart’s door and tiptoed inside without making a sound. But it didn’t matter in the end. The blanket rose up on the bed, Hart lifting it, inviting Rose back in. She climbed inside and nuzzled into the warmth of him. It would always feel like home here, she knew. The bed and the blanket might change, but this was where Rose fit, with Hart’s arms around her middle, tangled up in him.

“Where were you?” he mumbled with eyes closed.

“In the kitchen. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” Hart said. “Not without you. Not anymore.”

Rose matched his tired smile because she knew he felt the same; that this was home for him, too. When she spoke next, it was in the way people did when they kneeled at the foot of their bed, hands clasped and voice hushed. Speaking your innermost thoughts into a void, but hoping someone heard you. “I was so drawn to you. Since the first moment I saw you. Like I already loved you.”

Hart grew more alert with every word, sleepy eyes going bright.

“What I feel with you,” Rose continued, “I’ve never felt it before. So, I don’t know if it’s normal.”

Hart shook his head softly against his pillow. “It isn’t normal,” he whispered. “It’s special.”

Rose nodded, agreeing and emboldened. “I get this feeling that I could be with you for a long time.” Even in this moment of intimacy, she curbed her words, pulling her vulnerable punches. But she needed to be honest, even if it made her sound ridiculous, like a naive kid confusing puppy love with the stars-aligning mythic stuff. Rose closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she locked her steady gaze on Hart, determined to say what she really meant. “I get this feeling that I will be with you forever.”

A second lapsed between them, but it was the most agonizing second of Rose’s life, waiting for him to say something. It felt like whatever he said next might be a dagger through her chest. Or the thing that brought her to life. Finally, he said, “I get that feeling, too.”

Rose exhaled. Her fingers found his waist beneath the blanket and she held on to him. “I want to know every part of you,” she whispered. “What makes you sad. Whatever darkness is in you. What you show me, and what you hide, too. I need you to know that.” And no matter how oversimplified and trite she knew it might sound, Rose said, “I love all of you.”

He didn’t say anything right away, but she hadn’t said all that in the hope that it would be reciprocated. She only said it so he would hear. She could see him taking it in, letting her words settle. And then, because he knew her so well, Hart answered a question she hadn’t even asked.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered, “I’ll take you to the center of the hedge maze.”