potting soil. Elise stood close beside me, and our reflection in the scratched metal doors looked familiar and new in ways I did not yet know how to hold together. Her hand stayed in mine all the way up.
At the greenhouse entrance, the host recognized her.
“Elise! Happy birthday. You brought your best friend.”
I felt her fingers tighten once.
“My date,” she said.
The correction was quiet, ordinary, and so much more than a label that I almost forgot to greet the host. Elise glanced at me, perhaps
