She scrunches her nose. “No, it smells like clams.”
“Old oranges, too, and sunshine, and the lint trap. See?” I push theclam farther toward her nose. She backs away, her face crumpling. “Stop it! You’re gross!”
I sway as all the ugly scents swoop in through my nose and pour down my cheeks like hot fire.
That was the day Mother explained to me how our noses differed from everyone else’s. The day she began to train me to objectify those emotions into scents, to protect myself the way a scientist can study diseases without getting infected. The day I began to wall myself into the brambles.
Tears prick my eyes, and as I look up into Court’s confused gaze, his face softens.
I inhale his scent for the third time, and this time I don’t let myself linger. My mind’s eye zooms out from the beach to the cliff overlooking the beach. The water was peacock blue, frothing into a crescent of sand. Marine scents hung in the ocean’s misty breath, which swirled all around me.
I remember where I was. “Playa del Rey.” I slowly release Court. “I need to go there.”
“Playa del Rey? In Las Ballenas?” He sounds short of breath, and his eyes look pinched, like he’s in pain. I think I catch the fleeting note of wisteria, but wistful notes have always been quick to hide.
“Yes. That’s where I’ll find the missing plant.”
“The missing plant. Right.” He sags against a tangle of branches. “That’s an hour from Santa Guadalupe in the other direction. Can you find it in the dark?”
It’s already late afternoon. “Yes, but”—I chew on my lip—“Mother’s supposed to call this evening. If she doesn’t reach me, she might worry.” She might even call the police. Plus, I need to get my plants home and properly stashed. “We can’t go until tomorrow. Is that okay?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. I’m distracted by his chin, rounded like a guitar pick. I distract myself by focusing on a cluster of dark berries above his head.
His mouth opens, soft as the petals of a sweet pea. I can’t stop staring, wondering how it would feel to kiss him. And the more I think about kissing him, the closer he comes to me. Or maybe I’m falling into him.
His physical proximity is screwing up my emotions, the way the Bermuda Triangle can make compasses malfunction. But I can’t add kissing to my rap sheet.Remember Aunt Bryony.No falling in love.
His face hovers just inches from mine, drawing me in like a bee to a patch of sweet Williams. I try to fight it, distract myself with the berries, but now it strikes me that the sprigs look rather like mistletoe.
I tear my eyes away from his mouth just as he catches my wrist.
I gasp. No one besides Mother and Kali ever touches me. It’s a strange sensation, the warmth of his hand on my skin. His fingertips slide to my grubby palm, then stop. Oh, sweet marjoram, I may never leave this tree again. As he holds my hand, we gaze ateach other, so close now that I feel his breath graze my forehead and the happiness scent of sugar maple tickles my nose.
I break into a sweat as a chilling realization settles on me. I’m already in love. I don’t know when it happened, but it happened. Invisible threads of attraction sewed him to me when I wasn’t watching, trapping me tight.That’swhy I feel so sick every time he’s near. I tug my hand away, and it’s as painful as ripping out my own heart.
The future of love depends on me remaining true to our purpose. If not me, then who else? Mother and I are the world’s last aromateurs.
My shoulders sag under the weight of my lineage. Perhaps this is why Mother let me go to school—because in the end, she knew I had no real choice. Like Ruth Meyer, the plants will haunt me if I leave them, and so in the garden I must stay.
I fumble around my bag for the BBG, nearly dropping the bottle in my agitation. I never had to respray before, but apparently, I didn’t do it right the first time.
“Mim?” Court whispers almost shyly.
“We should go now.” This is a business relationship, nothing more.
He winces, and the blue hydrangea of his disappointment is so strong, it almost makes me weep. I peer out at the now-empty garden, hoping he follows my gaze.
He does. I’m about to depress the pump of my bottle whenhis eyes snap back to me. I snatch my hand behind my back. Real smooth.
“What . . . ?” One eyebrow quirks. “Was that a perfume bottle?”
Guiltily, I open my hand. “Oh, this?”
“Yeah, that.” The gluey notes of confusion dribble out. “Did you spray something?”
I deflate. It’s not a secret. We just spray in secret to avoid awkward explanations. “It’s a special type of elixir.” I gesture with my free hand. “You touched me, so I have to disinfect you.”
“Or I’ll get lovesick?” A grin tugs at his mouth, but when I don’t change my expression, his own becomes serious. “Wait. You used it after the bee stung me. I remember now.” He rubs a hand over his mouth and chin. “How long does it take for that thing to work?”
