Happy? I guess—the vague panic I was feeling this morning aside—Iwashappy, now that I thought about it. I certainly didn’t feel sad, not like I had at the beginning of summer. I could barely remember what that Sophie looked like in the mirror anymore. “I am happy,” I replied, “but it’s not because of Oliver. However …” I added, coming over to sit down beside her, “I think he might not be theworstcrush to have. I mean, he’s no Myke with ay, but …”
She huffed a laugh. “It’s hard to beat Myke with ay.” And she sat back on her stool and looked out onto the garden, picking at her one broken nail. It was so rare to see her even the least bit discombobulated. She must havereallyhad it bad. “Really? Do you think … I mean—is it silly? Am I being silly?”
“No,” I replied, taking her hand and gently squeezing it. “Not at all. I think you two might be good for each other, actually.”
That surprised her. She blinked, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t gothatfar, Sunny. I just think maybe he’d be good at sex. I haven’t had sex insolong.”
If he was anything like his former best friend … “I fully support you finding out.”
She laughed. “You’resucha bad influence! He’s ouremployer’s nephew! I can’t do that. It’s, like, an HR nightmare.”
“Jules, only four of us work here—three, really—”
“You count,” she argued.
“Just for the summer,” I reminded her, something I’d been trying not to think about. “And anyway, I think it’s perfectly okay to have a crush on a really hot guy who might just be the nephew of our boss. Dating apps couldnever.”
She made a face. “I dunno. Like, back in New York, a dating app recommended me mybrotheronce. That was weird.”
“Okay, well, I stand corrected,” I said, suddenly losing much more faith in humanity than I had to begin with.
Her phone buzzed with another email, and she took a deep, steeling breath. “This party is either going to be the best thing I’ve ever planned . . . or a complete disaster. But the only way out is through.”
I repeated it. “The only way out is through. You got this.” I squeezed her hand reassuringly, but I was reminding myself, too.
The only way out is through.
Golden hour came in a sigh of orange, and the door stood where it had the first time I ever found it—in the Hedges. Vines had wrapped their way around the doorframe, heavy with buds ready to bloom. Honeysuckles. As though they had grown through time and space to reach me.
After I left Juliette (and used her balcony as a vantage point for searching), I had scoured every inch of the estate once more, retreading the ground I had for weeks, all the places where I’d climbed over walls, and I’d come up empty.
I wasn’t going to find it. If it even existed.
Which meant there was only one thing left to do.
I just had to keep him from finding the garden in the first place. I couldn’t stop him from coming with the letter—but in person? Maybe I could convince him then.
Ihadto convince him then.
Coming to that realization was like slowly turning over a heavy stone and seeing how clean it was underneath. Clean . . . and empty.
Because if I succeeded, then the Rus of the garden would never exist. And then maybe none of this ever happened?
I nearly staggered back with the impact of it.
The flowers, the willow, our chats, our kisses. The way I shared my heart, the way he bared his. Maybe neither of us would remember, or only I would? I wasn’t sure which was worse. Because I’d changed this summer in the garden, but imagining being the only one left to hold these memories hit a bruise deep in my heart.
To be alone with the joy and to feel the shape of its loss.
Like with Harrie.
I already knew that if I told him my new plan, he wouldn’t go for it. Knew there was no guarantee, even if I found him again after the bicentennial, that we could find our way to each other the way we had while he was trapped in that garden. That liminal time, it had changed us both too much.
But I was out of options, and out of time.
I won’t tell him, I decided as I reached for the handle, and pushed the old blue door open.
And I stepped into the Someday Garden, knowing it might just be the last time.
