Not for a boy. Not for a lover.
She paused, looking at her hands.
Lily Lane was the kind of street that real estate agents called “charming” and delivery drivers called a nightmare. It was a narrow, one-lane ribbon of cracked asphalt, overhung with ancient willow oaks that blocked out the streetlamps. At the end of the lane, past the last house with its peeling white paint, sat a small, forgotten garden. aaliyah love lily lane