Page 102 of The Temptation of Truth

“Well, it was designed by a French painter, Jacques Majorelle, over the course of forty years. It was a lifelong passion project of his, with every single detail and plant being thoughtfully selected by him, but then he had to sell it in the 1950s. It was actually going to be bulldozed in the ‘80s, but then Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé bought it and restored it. Can you imagine? Botanical gardens designed by an artist and a fashion designer icon? It’s got these vibrant blue walls, and exquisite architectural details, and over two acres of exotic plants from all around the world. It’s supposed to be absolutely gorgeous.”

Mabel smirks and arches an eyebrow. “How many other gardens are on your list?”

“Only a few.” I fold my lips between my teeth to tame my smile and give her a shrug. “It’s not the whole list.”

“Liar.” She laughs. “Tell me.”

I scrunch my nose and purse my lips, hesitating briefly. “You sure?”

Her eyebrow arches again, higher this time, and I laugh out loud. Morning coffee and conversation in your pajamas. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Fun and light. No anxiety. No judgment. Justpeace.

“Okay,” I singsong playfully. “But remember, you asked for this.”

“I did. Now ramble about your gardens, plant nerd. I want to hear all about them.”

“Okay, so, there’s The Garden of Cosmic Speculation in Dunfries, Scotland. It’s like plants and science combined, and it’s only open to the public one day a year.”

“Cool name.”

“Right? Very cool name.”

“What else?”

“Well, there’s one at the base of Corcovado Mountain in Rio de Janeiro, and there are royal palms, and orchid houses, and giant Amazonian lilies, and even marmosets and parrots. Sometimes even toucans.”

“So, paradise. You’ve described paradise.”

“Exactly,” I say, nodding emphatically. “Exactly paradise. Then there’s the gardens atChâteau de Villandryin Loire Valley, France. It was built during the Renaissance, and it’s got these big, ornamental hornbeam hedge mazes. And, you know, if I make it to France?—”

“Whenyou make it to France,” Mabel interjects, her voice soft and encouraging, and I pause, words escaping me for a moment.

When.

When I make it.

She’s so certain that I amend my statement without questioning it.

“WhenI get there, I’ll have to see the Palace of Versailles gardens, too.”

“Of course. You can’t miss those. Do you have more?”

I laugh. “Mabel, there are like twenty places on this list, and I haven’t even scratched the surface.” I run my fingers over the letters on the page feeling the slight indentation from the pen and drop my voice lower. “It would take years to see them all.”

Years,andI haven’t even begun. I don’t know if I ever will.

Suddenly, the mood shifts, and I feel the grief start to creep in. It’s always there, just on the edges of my mind, waiting. I can fend it off for a while, sometimes for days or even weeks, but it always comes back. And now, with the haze lifting, the grief is even more painful, because reality is so much worse than I realized. My hand goes to my necklace on instinct, and I clutch the metal pendant, rubbing it with my thumb.

My parents and brother would be so disappointed in me. In what I’ve become. In what I’ve allowed to happen.

For my birthday one year, Paul bought me a world map and a tin of red thumbtacks. He said it was for documenting my travels. I don’t know where that map is now. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Brady trashed it with the rest of my things when I moved in with the Sinclairs.

Even the paper under my fingertips burns, and I have to fight off an overwhelming sense of shame. My mom loved my poetry. She saved all my notebooks filled with poems since kindergarten. Now I’ve been reduced to writing lists of places I’ll probably never see.

They’re gone. They’re dead. Their last memories of me were horrible, and even in their death, I’ve let them down. I’m trapped. I’m suffocating. I did this to myself.

I sigh and close my notebook. I have every intention of excusing myself, but then Mabel speaks up.

“You know there are a few botanical gardens near here, right?”