“Hey.”
“Hi,” I answer back.
“You ready?”
I nod, and we make our way into the open-air lobby. The normally bare concrete floor is now marked with bright neon tape, indicating where visitors can stand while maintaining social distance. Evan shows the attendant the tickets he purchased before coming, and we’re handed an information booklet and put into a queue for entry.
Once it’s our turn, we’re ushered into a dimly lit room, where another attendant directs us to the first numbered display. After we check out a few displays, Evan taps me on the shoulder, gesturing toward a small alcove. We find two seats on a bench in the back and sit down as a short film plays on a projector. When the only other person inside walks out, Evan scoots closer.
“I’m glad you came.” His words are slow, hesitant. “Considering what happened the other day, I didn’t know if you…”
“Would want to meet up?”
He nods. Impulsively, perhaps spurred by the courage one only finds in darkness, I reach out and touch his forearm. He tenses, and I instantly regret it. I pull away and clasp my hands in my lap.
“I owe you an explanation for what happened the other day. It’s just kind of hard to put into words.”
“I’m a good listener,” he says with a gentle smile.
I heave a sigh. “Okay. My mom is very superstitious. Like, go-see-a-fortune-teller-every-week kind of superstitious. Every year, she makes me go with her to get a birthday fortune. This time, the fortune-teller said I might find…um, love.”
I pause, cheeks flaming. “But she also warned me that a winter horse would break my heart.”
Evan looks confused. “Your mom sent me away because I mentioned winter?”
“Yes.” I reach up with my free hand to fiddle with my earring. “Not that it justifies how she acted, but Mom thought she was protecting me.”
“Do you believe what the fortune-teller said?” he asks after a beat.
“I—” I take a deep breath. “No, I’m not like my mom. I’m not superstitious, but…”
“But?”
“No one wants to get their heart broken,” I admit.
“I don’t think anyone does,” he agrees softly.
I drum up the courage to look up at him. There’s a lot to decipher in those dark brown eyes, but the uncertainty I find in them mirrors my own. Evan looks away, brows furrowed as he swallows hard. His hand inches across the bench, pausing halfway in the space between us.
It’s an invitation, and just like when we were messaging, he’s waiting patiently for me to accept.
I place my hand in his and thread our fingers together. He smiles, and I do too. We stay like this for as long as we dare, savoring the moment before leaving behind the privacy of the alcove to explore the rest of the exhibit.
Standing before a replica display of King Tut’s tomb paintings, Evan suddenly turns to me with a frown.
“I still can’t believe your mom got upset over my family’s winter vacation.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that. It’s because you have a winter birthday.”
“Wait…that’s what you meant by a winter horse?”
I nod, and I’m stunned when he throws his head back and laughs. The museum attendant glares in our direction, and I poke Evan in the side.
“What’s so funny?”
“I wasn’t born in the winter,” he explains. “My birthday’s in July. The reason we celebrate during winter break is because that’s when my parents can take time off from work.”
“What?” I stare at him, incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I just risked being grounded for life to come here!”
“Oh, come on, it can’t really be that bad,” he counters. “I’m sure your mom will forgive you.”
“Says the guy she kicked out of our restaurant over a birthday.”
He bursts into laughter again. This time, the other visitors join in frowning at us. I give Evan a warning look, but all he does is lean closer.
“Does that mean you have to get home soon?”
I can hear the pout in his voice. I find myself smiling.
“If I’m getting grounded anyway, I might as well enjoy my last moments of freedom.”
Evan grins, the crinkle of his eyes enough to send my heart skittering. His hand tightens around mine.
“Then what are we waiting for?”
BILLIE VS. THE PLANTS
Normally, my therapist is pretty chill. Even when I tell her how cluttered and sad my brain is.
But not today.
Today, she recommended that I take up a new hobby, like juggling or hula hooping, or moving my favorite reading spot from my bedroom to the bay window in the living room. Anything to get me some fresh air and some of this “lovely spring sunshine we’ve been having,” she says.
So, here I am, pausing in the fourth-floor stairwell to catch my breath, lugging a crate full of tiny green herb starter plants that will be dead by the end of the week. Somehow, I’ve managed to nourish myself for sixteen years, and keep my cat Ruby alive for nine, but everything else that comes home with me dies. Especially plants.
They say plants can sense good people and thrive when they’re around them. Maybe deep down, I’m just not a good person. Maybe I just don’t deserve them.
No, Billie, I tell myself, hoisting the crate up into my arms and starting up the stairs again, stop that deprecating self-talk. What would Jordyn say?
Jordyn, my therapist, would probably say that it’s okay to catch myself talking down to myself, and that I can’t course-correct until I notice I’m off-course.
So here I go, up the stairs, quietly course-correcting.
I reach our apartment door, set the little plants down, and unlock it. Ruby meows at me from her favorite spot in the window, and as I heave the carton
