Chapter Five — Things Worth Keeping (continued)

The fern had opinions about public transportation.

Every time Luna shifted its cardboard carrier, a damp frond escaped and slapped her across the chin. By the third attack, Asher was laughing too hard to offer assistance.

“Your plant hates me,” he said.

“It's assessing your character.”

“It just assaulted its legal guardian.”

“Temporary guardian. Don't get ambitious.”

They walked the last block toward the tram stop under a row of shop awnings. The greenhouse had closed more than an hour earlier, but they'd lingered afterward to help Marta stack chairs, then shared dumplings from a truck beside the yard. Now the street was cooling, the shops were going dark, and Asher had a jade plant tucked under one arm like a particularly small, disgruntled child.

A posted timetable gave them eight minutes until the second-to-last tram on Luna's branch. The last would come half an hour later.

Asher read the schedule, then glanced at the fern. “If we miss both, how long until that thing files a missing-person report?”

“She'll call Junia and have us declared incompetent.”

“Fair assessment.”

They settled on the bench. There was enough room between their carriers to fit one person, or perhaps a very judgmental third plant. Luna put her fern at her feet. Asher nestled the jade against the bench leg so its broken pot wouldn't tip.

His hand found hers without the negotiation it had once required.

“Your studio session?” she asked.

“Eleven-thirty. I'll go after your tram. Nico knows where I am.”

“You could leave now. I know the route.”

“I know.” His thumb moved once across her fingers. “I'm staying.”

She glanced at him. “Careful. That almost sounded sentimental.”

“I blame the plants. They make a man think about commitment.”

“We've had them three hours.”

“Three turbulent hours.”

He didn't let go. Neither did she.

A bus passed, its windows lit like little television screens. Luna watched a woman inside lean against someone sleeping on her shoulder. She thought of Marta asking how long they'd been together, and of the silence afterward. She still couldn't have given an answer that didn't feel borrowed from some relationship manual. But the stranger's question had made her pay attention to things she'd been doing without thinking: reaching for Asher, trusting him to show up, keeping his lantern because he'd made it for her.

“You were right earlier,” she said.

“Concerning what? I maintain a substantial list.”

“About not answering for both of us.” She watched him turn toward her. “I don't know what to call this yet.”

“Neither do I.”

“But I know I like it.”

He smiled. Not the dazzling smile he used when he'd won an argument. A smaller one, almost private.

“I like it too.”

The tram announced itself with a vibration in the rails. Its headlamps rounded the corner, reflecting off wet patches left by an afternoon street-cleaning truck. People rose from the far end of the shelter.

Luna tightened her grip on his hand. “That's mine.”

“I can see that.”

She looked at the tram, then at him, then down at the fern.

“Actually,” she said, sitting back, “it isn't.”

Asher watched the doors open. “No?”

“The next one's mine.”

“Your fern has persuaded you to defect?”

“I've decided it can survive thirty more minutes without a bathroom window.”

He didn't celebrate. He just leaned back beside her while the tram took on passengers, and when it pulled away, he looked openly, helplessly pleased.

“Don't get smug,” Luna warned.

“Working on it.”

“Try harder.”

They talked about the greenhouse and whether the jade should be named after a hostile landlord. Luna proposed Harold. Asher objected that Harold sounded like a plant that insisted on receipts. They settled on no name until the plant survived a week, which Luna described as a probationary period.

Then the conversation thinned. Not awkwardly. The city filled it with distant engines, a bicycle bell, and the rattle of a shopkeeper lowering a shutter.

Asher turned his hand palm-up on the bench. Luna slid hers into it and shifted closer, letting her shoulder settle against his. He was warm in the spring chill. His sleeve smelled faintly of soil and the soap from the greenhouse sink.

“Luna,” he said.

She raised her head.

He had looked at her mouth before. She'd noticed every time. Tonight he didn't hide it, and she didn't pretend not to understand. Her heartbeat picked up so sharply that she almost laughed at herself.

“You could kiss me,” she said, softly enough that the words nearly disappeared into the traffic.

Asher's gaze returned to her eyes. “I could.”

For a moment they stayed where they were, their faces close enough that she could count the darker lashes at the corners of his eyes. His free hand lifted, stopped short of her cheek, and waited. She leaned into his palm. He touched her gently, as though that small movement had answered something he wouldn't ask aloud.

Then a recorded voice behind them announced an approaching service change, loud enough to make both of them flinch. Luna jerked back and burst into startled laughter. Asher closed his eyes.

“I am going to have a personal conversation with that speaker,” he said.

“Add it to your collection of unreliable percussionists.”

He laughed, but his hand was still warm at her jaw. She kept her fingers curled around his wrist for another second before lowering them both.

“You don't have to make it happen before a tram,” she said.

“I wasn't looking at the timetable.”

“I know.” Her smile turned mischievous again. “I was.”

His answering look could have made her forget the entire transit system. Instead she leaned forward and rested her forehead briefly against his, an unhurried choice that made his breath catch.

“Sunday evening?” she asked when she drew back. “Dinner at my place. The fern will supervise.”

“You're inviting me into the jurisdiction of a hostile houseplant?”

“Don't make me regret it.”

“I'd like Sunday very much.”

“Bring dessert.”

“Lemon?”

“Now you're learning.”

When the final tram came, they stood together. Asher lifted the fern through the doorway while Luna found a safe place for the carrier beside her feet. The doors chimed. He stepped back onto the platform, jade in his arm, and she caught the rail with one hand.

“Goodnight, Asher.”

“Goodnight, Luna.”

There was no kiss to count, and no promise spoken beyond Sunday. But as the tram pulled away, Luna saw him standing beneath the station light with a broken pot and a smile he hadn't managed to put away.

She smiled back until the turn took him out of sight.