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It was impossible for Hart to accept that he was back here again.

Earlier, this grass had been bent beneath the heavy soles of loafers and flats, worn by people who had come to pay their respects. But Hart stayed long enough for the grass, now free of interlopers, to slowly yawn out toward the sun again. The lawn was the only living thing around here. Even the flowers clutched in Hart’s hand were slowly dying. People had looked at him funny when he first got here with them. But the Benary’s Giant Lime zinnias were Rose’s favorite. Zinnia season was pretty much over, and these were the last of them, cut from the Abundance Garden this morning. They were big and bright as tennis balls. But in a place like this, surrounded by black clothes and gray stone, they must’ve looked too much like a party. They garnered the type of glares that sneered, He chose those flowers for his own girlfriend’s funeral?

But none of these people really knew Rose. They all held white or bloodred roses, individually wrapped in stiff cellophane cones. The kind of roses you got at a pharmacy as a last-minute Valentine’s Day gift. Hart wanted to yell that Rose hated those roses. Their entire class from Meadow Falls High had shown up, but they weren’t Rose’s friends. And Hart harbored guilt about that. He knew the reason Rose hadn’t hung out with too many people outside of school was because she’d spent all her time with him.

Hart felt guilty constantly, every minute. Guilt mixed with shame, a debilitating cocktail doused onto a rag, shoved into the back of his throat to keep him from yelling out. Right now it was pulled over his eyes to keep him from meeting the accusing stares arrow-flung in his direction. Guilt and shame made up the toxic formula that kept Hart in a subdued state, unable to quietly sob like Mr. and Mrs. Pauly in the front; unable to do anything but sit for hours, cross-legged on the grass, long after all the mourners had gone back to their lives.

The day Rose sped away in her car, Hart wanted to go after her. Their fight had left him feeling hopeless and terrified and desperate, but he’d had enough presence of mind not to jump into his car and chase after her. What good would that do? She’d see him in her rearview and probably speed away faster. And he couldn’t call her, either. The last thing Hart wanted was for Rose to check her phone while she was behind the wheel, or chuck it out the window. All he could do was pace, and think, and come up with a plan for how to make things right. Because what Hart wanted to say to Rose—what he needed her to understand—was that it had all been real for him.

He’d handled the truth about the Wish Garden in the worst possible way. In the heat of the moment, against the ropes of Rose’s spiraling accusations—of course he’d said all the wrong things. Learning about the wishes the garden granted was overwhelming. Hart knew that firsthand. But it was all too much to explain in one go. Every rule, every fact, every bit of unexplainable power connected to the Wish Garden was an anvil, and the last thing Hart wanted was to have Rose collapse beneath the weight.

But after plowing the earth with all the pacing he’d been doing that day, Hart needed to go after her and explain. He needed to tell Rose that he hadn’t created her—that wasn’t how the garden worked. He hadn’t manipulated their love, hadn’t forced her to love him back. Hart’s love for Rose was the truest thing in his life. And how she felt about him wasn’t something he could’ve even wished for. It wasn’t something the Wish Garden was capable of granting. Hart needed to explain it all to her. How it all worked, how the only thing the garden did was bring them together—expedited something that had always been destined for them. Hart needed Rose to know that it had all been real.

But he’d never get to tell her that.

By the time Hart got on the road that day, an ambulance and two patrol cars had sped right past him, sirens blaring. And he knew. Even before he got to the scene, he knew what had happened. When he finally got there, not even fully pulling over before lurching out of his car, an officer was already holding him back. Hart didn’t notice the hands on him. The only thing he could see was the mangled wreckage, and the only thing he could hear was a deafening roar, coming from deep within the hollow of his chest.

It took two officers to restrain Hart and eventually put him in the back of one of their cars just so that they could get any work done. He hadn’t stopped screaming since then. It was just that he was the only one who could hear it.

He finally stood now, leaving his flowers lying on the fresh earth. He felt old, the joints in his legs so cold and stiff that he needed a moment to get his blood flowing through them again. And as he stood there, he spotted Mr. Pauly. Hart had thought he’d gone. But he leaned against the hood of his car, arms folded over his chest and eyes anchored to the ground.

Hart knew a slew of facts about Rose’s dad that he kept in the back of his mind like index cards he might need to ace a test. He knew Mr. Pauly preferred to be called Jim. His favorite sport was baseball and his favorite snack at a game was vanilla ice cream. And he could spend an entire dinner bemoaning the state of the traditional publishing industry if you didn’t stop him. And yet, Hart couldn’t remember if they’d ever met in the recent months.

He took a tentative step, testing his legs and his nerves. And then another. Until they led him all the way to Rose’s father. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Hart said.

Mr. Pauly’s red-rimmed eyes scanned Hart, but he could just as well have been looking at a headstone for how vacant his expression was, and how hollow Hart’s words obviously rang.

“I’m—”

“I know who you are,” Mr. Pauly said.

Hart nodded. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. And I’m going to do whatever I can.”

Mr. Pauly’s faraway stare came into focus, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to do everything I can.” Hart swallowed. “To make things right.”

Tears that had been just below the surface moistened Mr. Pauly’s arid eyes, and his lips pursed as his jaw worked on something. Hart could practically see the lump forming, and Mr. Pauly trying to swallow it down like a bitter pill. “You’ve done enough,” Mr. Pauly said. He turned away from Hart and got into his car.

Hart watched Mr. Pauly drive away, that toxic rag of guilt and shame so big now it wrapped like a rope around his middle, taut, squeezing the breath out of him.

Rose had died and Hart felt like part of him had gone with her. But in her absence, he was filled with a new resolve—the only thing that could keep him going.

Hart could do something about this. He had one thing that no one else in the world had: the Wish Garden. And he was going to use it to get the love of his life back.