Abe’s father answers the door. He isn’t in uniform but the cruiser sits in the driveway. His mustache is trimmed and even though he’s in civilian clothes his presence is impressive.
“Marion?” He gives me the cop squint.
“Hi, Mr. Doyle. I, um . . .” I cough and wipe my chin. “Is Abe home?”
He stares at me a second, like he’s trained to do that, to wait for a confession. I tuck my hair back and he straightens the left side of his mustache with his thumb.
“Abe’s up in his room,” he says, stepping back. “Would you like to come in?”
“No.” I ignore the warm lights of the hallway. I don’t want to remember Abe’s house from before, the sweet balsam of the wood furniture, or the flannel blanket over the love seat. I want this to reinvent myself.
“I can wait here,” I say. “If you don’t mind sending him down.”
He straightens the other side of his mustache.
“Are you all right?”
I look to the forest. Somewhere in the trees I can hear branches fencing with the wind, their thin gray fingers grasping against the air.
“Of course, sir,” I say, pulling away the strands of hair that stick to my face. “If this is a bad time I can—”
“No.” He checks his watch. “I’ll get him.” But he doesn’t move, eyeing me instead. “Please.” He motions to the hallway again. “You’re not wearing a coat.”
I look down and he’s right. My arms are covered in goose bumps and all I’m wearing is a thin T-shirt with no bra underneath. I pull my hair forward to cover my chest and step into the foyer.
“Thank you,” I say, and Mr. Doyle closes the door. The warmth covers my arms and I breathe in, remembering this house and its rustic smell of wool and soap.
“Would you like a hot drink?” he asks as I cross my arms.
“No, thank you, sir. I’ll wait here.”
“There’s hot tea in the kitchen.”
“I’m fine.”
He hesitates, looking me over again, before heading for the stairs.
“I’ll get Abe.”
I nod and wait, hearing his footsteps on the second landing. I imagine Abe up in his bedroom doing homework on his plaid comforter. The same comforter that lay under us two years ago when our relationship changed from apples and dandelion wishes to something more physical.
I can do this, be with Abe. I’m supposed to be with him. He was always the one. Everything will be different with him. It has to be.
The fireplace in the living room snaps, shooting a cough of ash against the grate. The warmth of Abe’s house is suffocating. What if being with Abe isn’t different? What if I really am this girl, lost and on fire, and full of darkness?
I hear footsteps on the floorboards above. What am I doing here? I can’t just show up on Abe’s doorstep and expect him to fall into my arms and want me. That’s insane.
I shouldn’t be here.
I turn and walk out the door.
I invite the invisibility and the wind as my hair tangles everywhere, over my face and neck. There’s wildness inside me, reckless as the cold outside.
“Marion, wait!”
Abe jogs out of his house as I unlatch my car door. He skips on one foot when he gets to the grass, his feet bare, responding to the ground that’s damp. After a moment, he gives up on keeping his feet dry, and speeds through the grass.
“What’s going on?” He puts a hand on my car. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m not here,” I say, letting the wind fray my hair. I stare at the woods beyond my car and think about climbing a tree, wrapping myself in its tar shadows and climbing up so high the thin branches won’t be able to hold me.
“You are here.” He frowns, and I notice his curls are wet, freshly showered.
“It’s nothing. I just—” Over his shoulder, Mr. Doyle is standing in the open doorway. Abe follows my gaze and waves off his father.
“It’s fine,” he hollers, but it takes a minute for Mr. Doyle to retreat into the glow of the house. “What’s wrong?” Abe rests a hand on my shoulder and I feel the warmth of him through my shirt.
“Why does something have to be wrong?” Wet pricks my eyes and I turn into the wind. He’s not allowed to see this broken part of me, it will ruin everything. His hand falters, a nervous finger fluttering at the hem of my skin.
“Okay, what’s not wrong?” He steps back and runs a hand through his hair. “What’s . . . what do you . . .” His arms drop to his sides. He looks at me—plainly.
Heat stretches through, under, and in, and I’m dizzy with it. I can do this. I can. Everything with Kurt is secrets and messiness, mud and shame, but with Abe, Abe will be lighter. Easier. Clean.
Abe won’t bring the creek water.
“Can we get out of here?” I ask, eyeing the windows. He looks over his shoulder and I step in close, wanting his nearness, wanting his heat and his smell of freshness and soap. When he turns back, he’s startled by how close I am.
“I, um . . .” His breath hits my lashes and he swallows. His eyes dip down my neck to the cotton that barely hides what’s beneath. “I might have to—”
“Get in,” I say, tugging open the car door and stepping away from him. His body follows me unconsciously.
“Wait, I should—” His eyes dart to the house.
“Get in.” I drop into the driver’s seat and turn the ignition.
“Hold on, let me—” He looks back, about to cross the lawn for permission.
“Abe.”
He looks at the seat beside me and shoots around the car, taking the passenger seat. His toes curl against the sand on the floor, his feet wet and bare. The dirt sticking.
“Where are we going?” he asks, and I pull into the road.
“You’ll see.”
I roll down my window and air rushes over me. Air rushes over my neck and under the cotton of my shirt. My hair whips around me like ocean waves crashing, and Abe smiles, getting wind drunk with me.
This is possible. I can feel it. It’s already lighter.
More joy. More surface. More wind.
I press my foot to the gas and drive us past the seashore, and the firefly fields, and the apple orchards—
To the forest—
To the turn where the trees part and the dirt road winds up to the ridge. To the place where people go, to do, what you do, in cars like this one.