A bewildered Trevor and a smug, pleased-with-himself Alex follow me into the carriage house; I just know that if I turn around and peer at the upper windows of The Magick Happens, I’ll see my sister and niece with their noses pressed to glass, cackling gleefully. Right after I texted Trevor to tell him what was happening, I texted Luna, and she had the brilliant idea to run over to Trevor’s with her spare key and grab some of his stuff to stash in my house. The problem is that Alex beat her here, so now she can’t plant Trevor’s belongings where they’ll look natural.
Alex stands in the middle of the room, my lumpy, modestly sized bed perfectly visible from the squashy yellow couch where he will be taking up space uninvited. He appraises my red cabinets, the tiny round dining table with mismatched chairs, the soothing parchment-colored walls with framed botanical posters. Pictures of El Paso, New Orleans, and Minneapolis that Zelda’s sent swarming the fridge. A zillion pots bursting with greenery. Turquoise throw pillows. A stack of tabbed, highlighted books on the limited counterspace, devoted to garden witchcraft. He can’t tamp down his curiosity, nosing inside my fridge and freezer to see what I’ve got in there (vegetables and soups, mainly).
“Make yourself at home,” I tell Alex nervously, rubbing my arms to flatten the goosebumps (which are caused by the rain and nothing else). It’s The Twilight Zone in here. He doesn’t acknowledge me, conducting an investigation of my nightstand, my board game shelf, even my chargers. When he swans out of the bathroom, half of his mouth is ticked up into a smile that thinks it knows something.
I can’t stand it.
In recent years, I have transformed myself into a character from a Little Golden Book, a country mouse in a flower bonnet who drinks dew from acorn cups, enveloped in my cozy comforts. Which is precisely how I like it.
But Alex’s loaded silences, his probing stare, his smirk, the way he ends certain sentences with an aggravating upward inflection, just sets me the hell off. And that soft creature who’s burrowed deep down into a basket of fluffy sun-warmed clover pops her head up like an angry meerkat.
“What?” I snap.
He shakes his head, still smiling. “Nothing. Not a thing, Romina Romina. You’ve got a beautiful place here.”
My hands curl. “Yes, I do. We do. Trevor and I.”
He juts a thumb at the bathroom door. “Mind if I use your shower? It’s been a long day.”
I mutter my permission, even though I’ve been looking forward to showering myself. As soon as he closes the door behind him, I seize the front of Trevor’s shirt. “This is a nightmare. Wake me up.”
He lightly slaps my cheek.
“Damn.” I rub my skin. “Didn’t work.”
“Try me.”
I slap him.
“Nothing.” He checks himself out in a hexagonal mirror. “Nice slap, though.”
I turn in anxious circles, hands wringing. “What do we do?”
“We make popcorn, obviously! It’s a slumber party. And you’re in for a rough one, sugarbobs. I snore.”
“I already knew that. Hey, what kind of shampoo do you use?”
He doesn’t bat an eye at the non sequitur. “Ro, I’m relieved you finally asked. I use PK’s Perfectly Bright shampoo. Say goodbye to brass forever—this is going to change your life. We’re talking shine that lights you up like the angel you’re meant to be.”
“Not an angel,” I reply reflexively. “Get on the other side of the bed. I told him you sleep on the left.” I pause. “Wait. Maybe I said you sleep on the right side. Bah! I can’t remember.” And Alex will definitely remember. I loathe his computer brain.
“Correction: I sleep in the middle.”
“How about we wait for the lights to turn off, and then you move,” I suggest. “You can starfish all you like on the floor.”
“Listen, you might be the love of my life for the week, but I’m no gentleman. This fine ass sleeps on memory foam only.” He presses hard into the mattress. “Hm. Memory foam topper on junky old springs. I’m going to have the full peasant experience, I see.”
“I’m not sleeping on the floor.”
“Did I ask you to?” Trevor climbs under the covers, wriggling to make room for me. “Grow up, Ro.”
“Fine, but if I wake up in the middle of the night to discover you gazing soulfully into my eyes, I’ll go get Snapdragon and let him sleep in here, on your face. He’ll suffocate you to death with his love.”
“What a simple-minded little button! Thinking I’d be gazing at your eyes.”
I zero in on his dirty shirt touching my sheets. “Get out of my bed with those outside clothes, you monster.”
“It’s my bed, too.”
“Trevor!”
“You’re always excluding me from this relationship. We should consult a couple’s counselor.” He ducks to miss my assailing pillow.
“Speaking of relationship troubles,” I tell him. “You were being awfully friendly with Teyonna today. Should I be jealous?”
“Oh, absolutely you should. She’s so hot, I can’t stand it. Did you see those shorts? Holy shiiiiiit. When she bent over, I almost passed out.”
I snort-laugh. “You’re a weak man.”
“No argument there. But, like, on top of that, she’s still the nicest person on Earth. I can’t think straight when I’m talking to her, all that’s going through my mind is hoping I don’t sound like an idiot. But then again, whenever I say idiotic things it makes her laugh, so.” He releases a groaning sigh.
I glance at the bathroom door, from which an odd electric noise buzzes. “Jeez, what’s taking him so long?”
“You know.” Trevor waggles his eyebrows, miming a jerking-off hand motion, and this time my pillow connects with his face. He hops up, reheating yesterday’s tomato soup. “Damn, I could go for some raspberry silk pie right now.”
I’m exhausted. It’s been the longest day in history, my bones are heavy from walking all over town, I’ve discovered about a dozen new muscles, and they all hurt. I want to wash this day off me before the hot water runs out.
“Hurry up,” I call to Alex, knocking.
“Room for two in here,” he calls back.
“Ew.”
The door swings open; I stumble back, hitting the wall. “Ew?” he repeats, voice deep. Closes in on me. “Ew. Really.” He’s in soft gray sweatpants, rolling a fresh shirt over his head. There are tiny stray hairs clinging to his neck, and I realize what that buzzing noise had been. He trimmed his hair again. It’s now one quarter of a millimeter shorter.
“You did that on purpose,” I say, poking my tongue against my cheek so that I don’t laugh.
“Did what?”
“Made your hair even shorter just because I mentioned it was a crime to cut it.”
He skates a hand over his scalp. “You and my hair. Leave it alone, woman. Trevor has long hair. Go run your fingers through it.”
“I will.” I slide past him into the bathroom, coughing on the hot, humid cloud of various bodywashes from my predecessor. Look at him pretending he didn’t do this to make a statement. Oh, yes, he just had to bring a razor over to my house and trim off a microscopic sum of hair. What an urgent priority.
“Your fingers won’t be able to get past all the hairspray,” he throws over his shoulder.
“He washes it out at night. Which is when we do it, anyway! Sex, I mean.”
I pause; it’s a short-lived death. Behind him, Trevor buries his head in a pillow. Ten years from now, Trevor will still be haunting me with that line. We do all our sex at night! After I wash out my hairspray!
The complete shower experience goes like this: I stand under a pour of lukewarm water, eyes squeezed shut, knowing that the last person to stand in this spot was Alex. An unclothed, wet Alex. Who is about to spend the night in my house.
Breathing my oxygen. Smushing his face against my couch pillows. Wrapping my shaggy blanket with the strawberry print around his shoulders. I’ve rubbed blessed thistle into my furniture (protection against evil), so we’ll be testing the limits of its power tonight.
At some point I accept that avoiding the intruder is fruitless, so I reenter the real world to find Alex relaxing on my couch, one ankle resting atop his knee, arms stretched comfortably along the back. He surveys my home with primal satisfaction. This is fine. This is totally a normal and okay thing to happen.
“Finally,” Trevor grouses, heading into the bathroom.
“You could’ve showered together,” Alex points out.
I’m running a brush through my hair as he watches, the ends dripping onto my burnt-orange caftan. “I don’t trust you in here unsupervised. You might be a thief, for all I know.”
“True. I see all sorts of things I’d like to steal.” He regards me closely. “It’s good manners to offer the bed to your guest, you know.”
“I must not have good manners, then.”
“Your couch is on the smaller side.” He plumps one of my throw pillows dubiously, as if unsure whether it will support his huge, arrogant head. What’s gotten into him lately? When seeing each other again for the first time, he was friendly, warm. Then in a snap he became aloof, surly. Now, he’s not only cocky but annoying.
“You are more than welcome to sleep in the chicken coop.”
He hums under his breath. “The couch will do, I suppose. We’ll renegotiate for the bed tomorrow.”
Tomorrow?
Oh, jeez, I think he intends to stay here until the wedding’s over.
“Chickens as pets,” he muses, getting up and wandering over to my cabinets. He starts opening them, poking around. “Is that allowed? You’d think there’d be codes about that. Livestock within city limits, et cetera.”
“My chickens aren’t livestock, they’re family. What are you doing? What are you looking for?”
“I’ll know it when I find it.” He glances at my counter, then does a double take, swiping my small suede notebook from the top of the pile.
I lurch forward. “Give me that!”
“Why? What is it?” He spins so that he can snoop through my notebook, holding it aloft. “Is it a diary?”
“Stop it right now. Give me that or my very sexy boyfriend is going to fight you.”
Trevor exits the bathroom in my baby blue terry-cloth robe, a dark mood, and I suspect, nothing else. I can guess the source of his aggravation: my cheap array of hair and skin products. He’s constantly bragging about the fifty-dollar moisturizer he uses.
“Romina,” he calls, sulking. “Where is that waterproof wall mount shower phone holder I bought you for Christmas? I was going to listen to Sleepytime FM, and the acoustics of leaving my phone on the sink are atrocious.”
I clap a hand over my forehead, a headache beginning to pulsate. My phone rings.
I glare at both of them, swiping across my screen to answer. “Yes?”
“Hey, how are thiiiings.” Zelda’s joy radiates. “Are you going to sleep between them and be a Romina sandwich? Sounds cozy.”
“No, thank you for asking,” I respond through clenched teeth. “I don’t need any ice cream.”
Trevor gasps. “I do! I want some! Is that Luna? Tell her I want peanut butter chocolate.”
“This is hilarious.” My sister’s gloating is surely payback for the bumper magnet I slapped onto her camper van the last time I visited: HONK IF YOU LOVE ASS. Also, she evilly enjoys other people’s discomfort. “I would hate to be you!”
“Feeling’s mutual, pal. That ocean air has made you salty.”
“Ocean?” Trevor halts in the act of pulling on a pair of my fuzzy socks. “Is that Zelda? How is she going to get us ice cream?”
“What’s Alex wearing?” she teases. “What are you wearing?”
“Why?” I ask. “Are you hitting on me?” Alex and Trevor both swing weirded-out looks in my direction. “I’ll call you back.”
“Chrysanthemums and purple roses to nurture a love pegged at first sight,” Alex reads aloud. “Sunflowers to signify you wish for a long relationship with your present significant other. Liatris for when you want to try to make a troubled relationship work. Hm. Strange diary you’ve got here.”
“Trevor, are you going to accept this?” I wheel on him. “You’re taller than Alex, go get my book.”
Trevor, who’s lying in my bed, shows me his hands, gold polka-dot polish drying on his nails. “Babe. Look at me. I can’t do anything, or it’ll smear.”
Alex flips several pages. Clears his throat. “Cyclamen and butterfly weed help drive away an unwanted admirer. Well, that’s not very nice. Just use your words.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”
“You shouldn’t. Ferns encourage your one true love’s secret feelings to come to light. Oooh, sexy. And sneaky. Is that why you’ve got a fern tattoo?”
“No, I—”
“White clover,” he trails on merrily, “will bring your face to the mind of your OOA . . . Your OOA?”
“Object of affections,” I growl.
“Your OOA,” he continues, insisting on pronouncing the acronym ooo-ah, “over and over, so that they can only think of you. Yellow hyacinth wards off jealousy when your OOA might share their heart with another. Mock orange declares that you know someone is trying to deceive you.” A loaded pause. “Interesting!”
“I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I am.” He stretches out on the couch, holding my notebook over his face. “Quiz time! What do variegated tulips communicate?”
“I’m not playing this game.”
He makes a buzzing Ehhh! noise. “Come on, Romina, you should know this one.” He flashes a grin. “It declares to your OOA that you find their eyes beautifully bewitching. Okay, next question. What’s viscaria for?”
“I hope it’s for you shutting up.”
The group chat on my phone is going wild without me.
Zelda: LOOK AT THE PHOTO OF THIS SNACK. Kristin posted him on Facebook
Luna: You’re not allowed to call our sister’s ex-bf a snack
Luna: We’re still mad at him, remember!
Zelda: I know, but he’s hot. I remember when he was twee. He is twee no longer
I turn my phone on silent, climbing into bed. I roll onto my side facing the fan, drawing the quilt up to my chin, and switch off the overhead light.
Alex automatically turns on a lamp beside the couch, continuing to read. I huff loudly. He huffs back.
Even with the loud whir of the fan close by, riffling pages of a shopping list magnetized to the fridge, and the faraway chirrup of crickets, all I hear is Alex’s breathing. I sit up on my elbows, watching his eyes quickly scanning the contents of my notebook. I hate that his memory is so strong that he’ll be able to instantly recall everything he’s reading. Nearly three years as a flora fortunist, and I still regularly have to look up meanings.
Trevor’s snores rip through the air.
“Dear god,” Alex mutters. I cover my smile with one hand.
“Regretting staying the night with us yet?” I ask.
“Not at all. It’s been quite enlightening. Out of curiosity, how can you be so confident that the people who came up with the language of flowers knew what they were talking about?”
“How can I know they didn’t?” I get up and unplug his lamp from the wall.
He taps the flashlight function on his phone, aiming it at my face. I shield my eyes from the harsh blue-white star. “That’s your argument?”
“I’m not arguing.”
“I am.”
“Then argue with yourself.”
He returns to his reading. I can see, by the glow of his phone, a furrow between his eyebrows. Alex is all about facts and reason, which travel downstream while the supernatural tends to flow upriver. I can hear his mental processor hissing like water droplets on a hot stove.
“Hm,” he says quietly. “Fine, I will.”
I know I won’t be getting any sleep tonight. Burned into my eyelids is that picture Zelda was ogling. Alex sent it to his mom directly after we took it, posing in front of the Moonville tunnel with his arm draped casually around my shoulders. My body unconsciously turned in toward his like Ash’s pair of cuddling stuffed monkeys with magnets in their arms. I wince thinking about it.
I pull my phone back out just to study the picture again, staring until Alex’s eyes become two shadowy pinpoints, features distorted into unrecognizability. I can’t get over how different he’s become, yet how familiar, and way more beautiful than he has any right to be. I frown at my appearance on the screen, upper arms squishier now.
Well, of course you’re going to look different now, I tell myself. You were a teenager. I refuse to feel self-conscious about aging, metabolism slowing down. Change is movement, as my therapist tells me, and the inverse is stasis. I’m evolving because I’m alive.
I save the picture to my phone, knowing I’ll hate myself for it tomorrow. I try to quiet my breathing so that Alex won’t hear it, so that he’ll think I’m asleep, while I stare wide-eyed at nothing and grip my blanket so tight that my fingers lose sensation. When I close my eyes, I rewind back to that moment in the woods: Alex’s tense shoulders, his wolfish gleam. Greed and want and an ache pounding deep within me. Rain sliding over skin. We’d be a lot further ahead right now if you’d just been honest.
But when my eyes reopen, everything but the here and now melts away, and my senses cast out to find Alex, lingering over every inch of him. It’s as if I’m homesick for a person lying fifteen feet away.
Out of anyone I could possibly feel this way about, why did it have to be him?