“But I did purchase them,” Fitz insists. “For right now. We planned our whole day around this. I promised her.”

I sigh in fake frustration. “It’s fine,” I say, enjoying the theatrics. “Let’s just go.” I step away from the counter.

Fitz leans in toward the woman. “Please. My girlfriend is going to be pissed if I screw this up. It’s her favorite work of architecture.” I’m thrown by how natural the label sounds. The word girlfriend feels right, the expected destination of the road we’ve been traveling from perfect strangers to whatever we are now. Fitz continues, lowering his voice. I’m only able to make out what he’s saying thanks to years of Marisa and me eavesdropping on our parents. “Between you and me, it’s been a rough few months. We’re facing a long-distance relationship in college. This”—he gestures in the direction of the house—“could make the difference for me. For us.”

He looks genuinely forlorn. I’m impressed with his performance—or perhaps he’s not acting. I wonder if he’s heard echoes of his words for the past few days. College. Distance.

“All right,” the woman says, sighing. She hands over two tickets, and Fitz looks enormously pleased with himself.

When he hurries back to me, he takes my hand without warning. I look down. “Nice cover story,” I say dryly.

“It felt appropriate.”

I shake my head, pretending I’m scornful instead of delighted. “She definitely wasn’t convinced. We’re way too platonic to pull it off.”

“Right,” he says. “Feel free to drop my hand anytime now.”

“I promise you, I will. When she’s not looking,” I fire back. “Wouldn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

I expect Fitz to reply with a joke. Instead, something complex comes over his face, and his lips part like he’s considering a question, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask it. The tour guide greets the group and ushers us in the direction of Fallingwater.

I want to know what he’s thinking, how the electric humor of before shifted inexplicably into whatever just entered his expression. But we’re silent while the tour guide introduces the house and Wright’s work. Before I have the chance to make good on my promise, Fitz drops my hand.

   Juniper

THE TOUR IS breathtaking. I walk up to Frank Lloyd Wright’s iconic house with Fitz and the tour group, which is almost entirely middle-aged people wearing bulky cameras around their necks. The home emerges from the trees like it was meant to be here. Snow-covered branches embrace the wide windows overlooking the trees and boulders, where the cream-colored walls fit in like pieces of the scenery. The structure sits on top of an icy stream, the levels of the house mirroring the waterfalls beneath them.

It’s not just beautiful. It’s the unique beauty of being in exactly the right place. This house could have been built in hundreds of forests, over hundreds of streams in the country, but Wright decided to design a masterwork on this one. This piece of Pennsylvania where it belongs. It reminds me of the schools we’ve passed through and what I’m hoping to find in them.

We tour the interior, stories of stone pillars and minimalist staircases. Every room feels sculpted, perfectly planned. We walk outside to view a staircase suspended over the icy water, and it’s one of those moments where the passion I have for architecture shifts from something I know about myself to something I feel with imperative. This is what I love.

I catch Fitz studying the shelves and wooden furniture, and I’m hit with enormous gratitude. Everything about this detour is better because he thought of it. He knew me. He did this for me. While we wander the second story, I notice myself admiring him as much as the architecture. His inquisitively pursed lips, his blue eyes and their unreadable intensity.

His hands. I’m done for.

He glances my way, his expression questioning, hopeful. I know he wants to know if I’m happy, if this place captivates me the way he intended. I give him a smile I hope says, It’s perfect. He returns the smile, and I recognize the gift he’s really giving me, even if he doesn’t know it himself. He understands the person I’m becoming. He understands not only who I am now, but who I want to be.

By the time the tour ends, his arm has wandered around my waist—a development to which I don’t object, letting my hip press to his. We grab lunch from the café and return to the car. We’re headed for Cucumber Falls, which the guide mentioned was a “romantic” destination ten minutes from Fallingwater. I jokingly suggested we go and then hid my delight when Fitz nodded decisively.

We park in the small lot in front of the trailhead and stroll down the path into the forest. Finding our way through the trees, we climb over rocks my boots don’t handle well, clambering down to the base of the waterfall. Because it’s winter and it’s snowing lightly, there isn’t anybody else on the trail. The forest is quiet except for the crunch of brush and ice under our feet.

Reaching the bottom, I come up beside Fitz in front of the frozen lake. It’s not large, the surface dark and glassy in the frigid day. The waterfall drops from the rocky ledge overhead into the water—or would drop if it weren’t frozen. Instead, it’s a wall of ice, suspended in perpetual descent. Icy rivulets ripple on its edges. Everything is coated in white powder.

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.

“Yeah,” Fitz agrees. I feel his shoulder brush mine.

I elbow him lightly. “Surely you have a better word to describe it.”

He grins. “Several, actually.”

“Tell me.”

He walks to the edge of the ice, eyes roaming the clearing. From how he’s intently studying the waterfall, the snow, everything, I know he’s taking the request seriously. I don’t ignore the genuine excitement I feel welling in me. This boy and his words. They’re irresistible.

“Riparian,” he finally says. “Being on the banks of a river. Quiescent. In a period of dormancy. Gelid. Extremely cold,” he continues.

His eyes shift to mine.

“Sublime,” he says.

I feel my breath hitch, the cold captured in my chest.

“Intimate,” he says, softer.

My heart thuds, deafening in the empty forest.

“Resplendent. Bewitching. Breathtaking,” Fitz concludes.

He watches me for a moment more.

“Juniper,” he says. “You’re looking at my lips again.”

“So?” My voice is breathy. I know without a hint of doubt it’s not the temperature or the resplendent natural beauty holding the air from my lungs. I’m guessing Fitz knows too. His eyes fix on my lips, and I wait. I wait. I wait.