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