I used to believe that I’d picked up a magical flower as a girl like in “The Bird and the Flower,” a story from As Evening Falls. That the first boy I ever loved flew away with it, preventing me from giving it to its rightful owner. I thought he had cursed me. But I’m starting to wonder, as the weeks go by: Who else, in all the world, could I imagine gathering up my heart and giving it exactly what it needed?
Alex moves into my every waking thought and redecorates. He paints the walls summer-sky blue with rings of green-yellow, a reflection of his eyes. He furnishes it with pictures in large gold frames: the tiny dragon I added to his fairy garden to surprise Miles, which Alex said destroyed him emotionally; the two of us sitting on the curb, sharing a funnel cake; a picture he texted late one night, of the two of us dancing at the wedding. In it, my eyes are closed, and his are bright, glistening with unshed tears. He’s whispering in my ear. The radio station is RT and Me FM, and in the breaks between songs it plays recordings of his voice: I’m coming for you. I moved to Oreton because it hurt to breathe, being here. Why did you have to be so pretty? I dreamed this up. Fifty-one.
We’re inseparable for the two first weeks of June. Weekdays, we don’t go more than a day without seeing each other; weekends, we talk on the phone. It’s a careful peek into his life, listening to Miles and Bert Handsome in the background, the crickets that sing on both ends of the line. I leave surprises in his mailbox: a Rubik’s Cube, a book of riddles. Gifts that will please his busy hummingbird brain.
After he finds the book of riddles, he texts a picture of himself and Miles side by side, Alex filling in the answers. Miles is a portrait of his father in miniature, with an ad-libs book across his lap. Movie night?
Biting my lip, I reply: On Monday, maybe? I’ll look up showtimes.
I know he wasn’t talking about going to an actual theater. The idea of hanging out on his couch with him and Miles makes me panicky. What if Miles doesn’t like me?
If he notices I’m suggesting Monday because that’s when Miles will be at Kelsey’s, he doesn’t say anything. After we go to the movies the following Monday, he brings up plans to take Miles to Kings Island, an amusement park in Mason, and asks if I want to join them. I make an excuse, citing the night market.
Most of our dates are local adventures—bingo night at the town hall, watching a community play, rolling around on the trampoline that we bought at a yard sale. He pushes me on the tire swing in his backyard, chatting about work, both of us rapidly filling each other in on what we missed, until it’s so late that dew rises up the grass. Then we run to Pit Stop for Late Nite Sundaes—if you stop in at 8:59 p.m. exactly, you get an extra scoop of rainbow chocolate chip ice cream—which we lug back to my place to share with Luna, Zelda, and Aisling. We join my sisters on a tour of all the quilt barns in the county, and he buys me the softest blanket in the world at Bear Hollow Gifts N More.
We’ve been having so much fun together that I forget we were ever at odds.
“Come inside,” Alex murmurs against my jaw on a hot June evening, while we’re sitting on his porch swing. I’m straddling him, my mind consumed with kissing, never able to get enough. His hands are on my waist. Lighting up skin wherever his touch roams.
So consumed with kissing, in fact, that I hear myself say, “All right.”
He pulls away, dazed and happy. “Finally.”
“Wait.” My lust fog begins to dissipate. “No, I heard you wrong. Never mind.”
He strokes a lock of hair away from my face, expression meaningful. “Come on. Let me make you something to eat? We can put a movie on and then not watch any of it.”
I try for a smile. “It’s getting late. I think I should be heading home, actually.”
Alex watches me for a few moments, then slumps back. “The house doesn’t have asbestos.”
“I never . . . ? I never said it did?”
“Or lead paint.”
“Alex, I’m sure your house is lovely—”
“Then why? Don’t tell me it’s getting late, because you always come up with an excuse. You’ve been to my house twenty times but you’ve never once stepped foot inside my house. We don’t have to do anything physical in there, you know. But I moved here so we could be closer together, and it’s like . . . maybe you don’t want this as badly as I do. Or at least, that’s how it feels when you won’t even come inside to get a drink of water after admitting you’re thirsty.”
My stomach drops. I climb off of his lap, hugging myself. “I want to be with you, Alex. It’s not that I don’t want to do anything physical, either—I do—it’s just . . . It’s hard to explain.”
“Listen.” He takes my hand but doesn’t look at me.
Something between us shifts. A draft of cold air, and a deep, dark dread.
He’s breaking up with me, I think, abruptly light-headed. I need to escape. I have to run.
“I know you’re scared,” Alex says. “But I am, too. I’m scared that you’re not all-in. That you want me, but not the rest of the package. Which is Miles. He isn’t even here right now, but you still won’t step foot in my house. I’m not saying I want you to jump right into being his stepmom or anything, but if this is going to work out between us, you do have to develop a relationship with him at some point. It’s integral. We can’t really move forward without it.”
I glance at his front door, paralyzed with fear. I want so badly to say yes, but I’m not ready for whatever lies on the other side of that door, what comes after I begin to pour some of my life into his personal space.
“Remember what you said about spending time alone together first?” I remind him.
“We have. We are. But.” He scratches his jaw, still unable to make eye contact. It occurs to me that this probably makes him feel a little sick, like he worries he’s pressuring me when all he’s doing, really, is stating his needs. “I mean, look at it from my perspective. This is my son. He’s a huge part of my life, part of me. Don’t I need to make sure you’re compatible with that? That you want that?”
“I want it,” I say in a rush. “Oh gosh, Alex, please don’t think I don’t want Miles. I do. I wish I could fast-forward to a time when we’re all used to each other, when we already feel like a family and all of my worries are gone.”
“There’s only one way to get to that stage,” he tells me, gentle but firm. “Listen, I’m not trying to rush you.” I squeeze his fingers in acknowledgment, because I understand. I truly do. “But you and I? What we talked about, getting on solid ground before introducing Miles? Honey, we’re there. It’s time to take the next step. I don’t want anybody else, I want you.” I nod to indicate I feel the same. “I only want to make sure we’re both all-in. Are you all-in, Romina?” I hear the subtext. Are you going to hurt me?
Of course I’m all-in.
That’s what I tell him, even though I still don’t go in inside. After he drops me off at home, it’s what I repeat to myself, until the words lose meaning.
Alex and Miles are a package deal, like he said. I can embrace that he’s a father because he’s a good father, but getting close to an already established family is terrifying. There’s no pep talk on Earth to make it less so. There might not be room for a permanent third person in that unit, which can’t be confirmed until I make an attempt to ingratiate myself. I’ve been drawing that out to avoid the sting of potential failure, rejection. Maybe Alex and I are puzzle pieces that used to fit together easily but have now changed shape.
Thinking in circles, I pace.
And pace.
I can’t lose Alex, but I’m going to if I can’t find some courage. Even Alexander King, a god among men, isn’t going to be patient forever.
The following evening, I duck into Moonville Market to stock up on food from the deli, deciding I’ll drop it off at Alex’s. He’s been a busy bird on his rooftop perches this week, which worries me sick—all day, I visualize him falling off roofs, which he thinks is funny. “Romina, I’ve been doing this for years. I’m careful. Trust me.” I don’t tell him that I’ve been researching safety statistics and that every year, there are fifty fatalities in the roofing industry. I want to trap him in a plastic ball like Bubble Boy, but I make myself feel better by bringing him food when he’s too tired to cook a decent meal for himself.
The lot is deserted when I stroll out of the market with two bags looped over each arm. To my left, Moonville Market’s digital sign is a bright rectangle against the deepening twilight, images flashing from the time of day to the temperature to a pixelated turkey. THANK YOU FOR SHOPPING LOCAL. My gaze skates along the powerlines, the contrast of black wires against sunset’s fiery reds and purples, a sense of peace filling me all the way up. I can feel it in my bones, even if I cannot see it: a bird looping over my head, wings strong but tired, waiting for the invitation to land. A purple larkspur somehow still alive in its beak. This.
Yes.
It’s Midsummer’s Eve, a curious time-trap in which impossibilities bleed through layers of invisible planes into ours. When, if you lay your hand to the bark of a pitch pine, you can feel the revelry of elves and fairies within.
This is a night for magic. It crackles and hums all around me.
My gaze happens to fall upon a black truck at the Sunoco across the street. A man is facing away from me, hanging up a gas pump nozzle. My heart beats wildly in my throat, the future expanding before me like sunlight gilding the horizon, beginning on this day, at this hour, this minute. A future that depends on me summoning courage I don’t completely feel yet, but that I have to trust I’ll grow into. Because Alex has communicated clearly what he needs, and this relationship isn’t just about me and my needs.
I reach into my pocket for my phone, tap the screen a few times, then hold it against my ear.
At a certain point, holding back doesn’t merely protect me, it actively hurts him. When I bring that fact into the light, all of my concerns shrink to shadows. Because you know what?
He and I aren’t doing the hurting-each-other thing anymore.
We’re past that. If I believe that we belong together—and I do—then isn’t he the safest place for all my fears? Isn’t it safe to have faith that we will be okay?
I watch him look down at his hand, phone light illuminating a smile as he answers it.
“You again,” he says.
