The sight punches me in the gut.
Court Sawyer, his face stricken, is holding a cheeseburger.
Everything goes cold inside me. It’s like someone poured in ice cubes and shook me up, and I can hardly make sense of which way’s up. The door opens, but I push off, hurtling away like a meteor in search of her orbit.
My chest shakes when I inhale, and I press one arm into my stomach to cage my sob. Somehow, it hurts to breathe even worse than when I was underwater, drowning. If this is how love feels, it makes you wonder why everyone’s so obsessed with finding it. Maybe our elixirs should come with a warning label: product comes with serious risk of total meltdown.
I wanted him to get over me. I should be happy he moved on.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. It’s better this way. Relationships just distract us from our life’s work. Grandmother Narcissa only became great through devotion to her craft. Assuming I can get my nose back, think of all the matches I can make, undistracted by other people. Undistracted by the one commodity in which we trade.
My legs feel shaky and tired even before I get to Parrot Hill.
Should I tell Mother straight out, or come into it sideways once she’s had a chance to tell me about her trip?
As I round the curve toward the home stretch, a singularsight makes me slam on the brakes. A bamboo-green hybrid with a Honk If You Love Math bumper sticker sits in the driveway.
Mr. Frederics is here.
Mother already knows.
THIRTY-SIX
“LOOK ABOUT, THE HUMBLE EDELWEISS GROWING ON THE
MOUNTAINS HAVE BROKE THE ROCKS.”
—Limonia, Aromateur, 1598
MOTHER AND MR.Frederics sit outside the workshop under the nutmeg tree and its buddy, the ylang-ylang. Their backs are to me, with the tops of their heads peeking out above the shrub line. As I approach, Mother calls out my name without turning around. She can smell me from a hundred yards away.
Mother’s still in her traveling clothes—blue pullover, loose-fitting pants, and a scarf knitted by a client. She stands to give me a perfunctory hug, not smiling. Her nose wrinkles, catching a scent of something it doesn’t like. It could be a dozen things, Aunt Bryony, the stink of deception, unwashed hair. But a single word causes a chill to snake up my spine: “Blueberries.”
I forgot about that one. Of course she smells my heartbreak.
Mr. Frederics nods at me. “Afternoon, Mim.”
“Hi, Mr. Frederics.”
“Mr. Frederics was sharing with me something very interesting.” A muscle in her cheek twitches.
“Oh?” I sink onto the bench opposite them. My big eyes don’t fool Mother for a second.
Mr. Frederics laughs sheepishly. “Well, Sofia, Ms. DiCarlo, isn’t interested in me after all. You were there at the Puddle Jumpers event. I was trying to teach the children mathematics with the grapes. She told me to give it a rest, not everyone likes math. Imagine that.” He scoots back on our teakwood bench and matches his fingertips together. “Anyway, no matter. Turns out, I’m in love with someone else.”
Mother’s nostrils flare and she twists around and peers at our solid wooden gate. “Seems we have another visitor.”
Who does she smell?
“Hello?” calls the familiar voice of a former Miss California.
Mr. Frederics hops to his feet and shades his eyes. “It’s her. Now what could she be doing here? Allow me.” He starts toward the gate.
Mother fixes me with an unblinking stare. “How long was Bryony here?”
She smells the remains of my aunt’s presence. “Two days.”
“Why’d she come?”
