THIRTY-TWO

On Sunday morning, Angie does that thing she always does. She knocks on my door with the backs of her knuckles, tap-tap-tap, then opens it before I can answer.

“We’re leaving for church in ten minutes,” she says brightly. Then she freezes.

I sit up, chest bare, hair all rumpled, my mind swirling with memories of Cate and what she’d done and what I’d done and how I’d do anything to get my hands on a photo of my real mom.

Anything.

My hands.

I look down. My hands are working again.

Then I realize what Angie’s looking at.

It’s not me.

It’s Jenny. Beautiful Jenny who’s curled beside me, eyes shut tight, soft blond hair spilled across my pillow like a promise. She’s so beautiful that seeing her fills me with a twinge of melancholy. Like she’s too good for me or I’m not good enough, for her, both of which are true, I suppose.

I glance up at Angie.

“Shh!” I say in a tone dark enough to startle us both. “She’s sleeping.”

Angie frowns, lines forming on her otherwise perfect face, but she retreats and closes the door. Okay, she slams it.

Beside me, Jenny stirs and smiles as her eyes flutter open.

“Your mom’s going to hate me, isn’t she?”

“I won’t let anyone hate you,” I say.

Jenny stretches, arching her back in a way that enchants me. “How very chivalrous.”

“Is that so bad? Chivalry?”

“It’s only bad if the sole romantic gesture you have to offer is saving me.”

I’m not sure what Jenny means by this, but she’s smiling when she says it, which reassures me I haven’t done anything wrong.

“Your hands are all better,” she says.

“Yeah, they are.”

Jenny reaches out and rubs my fingers, like she did last night. Only I can feel it this time.

It still turns me on.

“Jenny,” I say hoarsely.

“Yeah?”

“I really like you. That’s not chivalry talking, either. I swear.”

“I like you, too,” she says, and then she kisses me.

Jenny kisses me.

I lean back and I let her. It’s transcendent, this kiss, this skin on skin, this her touching me touching her. After a while, I reach up to wrap my arms around her waist and we keep kissing and touching until we’re both breathing hard. Until waves of pleasure are pulsing through my body like sizzling streaks of fireworks rocketing through the new year’s sky. Until there’s nothing more I want than to be with her like this, right here, right now. For a long, long time. Forever, really.

I want to lose myself in this moment.

I want to forget

the empty ache where my mother should be,

my sister’s madness,

my own rotten feelings of guilt

my complicity

I want to forget it all.

But even in this most perfect of perfect moments,

I can’t.