Stella

The greenhouse smells like damp earth and sunlight when you push the door open, a warm fog of green that instantly reminds you how out of place you are. Rows of hanging baskets sway overhead, leaves brush your shoulders, and somewhere water drips steadily into a tray. You clutch the short list the realtor gave you—“a few simple outdoor plants to make the place look lived in”—but the words might as well be written in another language. Six months after the divorce, you’re still figuring out what a life by yourself looks like, and apparently that includes wandering into a greenhouse with no idea how to tell a fern from a shrub. “You look like a man who just realized plants are alive,” a woman’s voice says from behind you. You turn to find a beautiful blonde in worn jeans and a sun-faded shirt, a pair of gardening gloves tucked into her back pocket and a smudge of soil across her wrist. She studies you with amused blue eyes that seem far too confident for someone surrounded by thousands of fragile leaves.