Alex’s living room is painted sea-glass green. It contains a dorm-style floor lamp he’s probably had for years, a dark gray sofa with the kind of soft, fragile fabric that, if you drag your fingernail across it, leaves a pale stripe. Scarlet pillows. An imitation leather chocolate-brown armchair, gently loved, with crayon markings on the stainless steel built-in cupholder. A round glass-top coffee table littered with AAA batteries, a screwdriver, and a toy race car that’s been taken apart. A cream-colored area rug with blue-and-copper patterns that I’ve seen on Amazon. Between the couch and a dog bed sits a pile of unpacked boxes with all-caps descriptors like MILES BABY STUFF and CHRISTMAS, and shelves he hasn’t hung yet.
My eyes sweep the terrain, waiting for a punch to strike when I least suspect—I don’t know where it could spring from, maybe a television with Nick Jr. left on, or a photograph of Alex embracing Miles’s mom on the mantel, verifying that it was always her, will always be her for him.
The kitchen is narrow, with pine floors, a white refrigerator, a clock shaped like a teapot on the wall. Simple yellow curtains above a small, empty double-bowl sink, clean dishes stacked neatly in the drainer beside it. He has a bouquet of spatulas and ladles in a flower vase, same as I do, and Miles’s artwork sticks to the fridge with alphabet magnets, a yellow sun in the corner of every picture. The Polaroid of me has made a return to the fridge, as well, spotted with water damage, corners curled. Dog bowls rest on a mat next to the back door, the other side of which I investigated when my sisters, niece, and I went on our snooping expedition.
It’s neat and homey and smells like hazelnut coffee. Like that tropical fabric softener he uses, too. If I face the hallway where three doors split off, I get a faint whiff of orchids from the door on the right. What a revelation, to be standing exactly in this spot, with the person I thought was forever lost to me. And his expression is serene, as if this is all quite normal rather than the phenomenon that it is.
This is what his house looks like on an average day. He didn’t know I’d end up here when he cleaned it earlier, which means he’s genuinely tidy. Responsible. If we lived together one day, I wouldn’t be the only one contributing to upkeep. I pin this piece of information to the top of his file.
Standing in this space, visually collecting all of the odds and ends of Alex’s everyday life, I become aware that I’ve been unconsciously expecting the layout of Spencer’s house, his colors and decorations, Adalyn’s toy bins. Now that I’m here, it’s so different in size, shape, color, smell, texture that Adalyn herself could appear and I would be able to handle it. There’s an air-conditioning unit in the living room window that rattles with a clatter like ice cubes are inside it, blowing frigid air—I’d forgotten how cold he likes it—and dog toys half jammed under the couch. A red plastic tub overloaded with toys. This is a new place where only new memories are permitted.
“I’m waiting on a mountain of tenters and hooks,” Alex remarks, setting plates on the kitchen table next to containers of lunchmeat sandwiches, macaroni salad, potato salad, and pink salad—wobbly pink strawberry Jell-O with Cool Whip—all of your basic salads. A Sunoco bag is half concealed behind a sugar canister.
I turn. “Hmm?”
“Your verdict on the house.” He hands me silverware. “What do you think?”
“It feels so much like you.” I can’t stop taking it all in. “It’s perfect.”
He smiles, gratified. “Are you a kitchen-table-eater or a couch-eater?” I ask, shifting awkwardly with my plate and glass of iced tea.
“Romina, what kind of host do you take me for? We eat food here.”
“Har har. You’ve got the dad jokes down pat.”
He grins. “C’mon, we eat on the couch.”
I hardly taste my food, I’m still so topsy-turvy from entering his fortress at last, finding it nothing like I expected, everything like I should have expected. I’m awash with a curious, impossible concoction of jumping-out-of-my-skin-antsy and bone-deep comfortable, like I’ve been here before. My heart peers around and says, I know this place.
Before I take a bite, I notice a shelf stocked with puzzles and have to jump up to inspect them. “Hey, I’ve got this one!” I tap the side of a cardboard box. “You have more puzzles than I do. Impressive.”
“I like the thousand-piece ones that are mostly sky and grass, for the challenge.”
“I have a Lisa Frank collection. Got them with Luna at Caesar Creek Flea Market.”
“I like flea markets. We’ll have to go sometime.”
I can’t force myself to sit back down. I’m taking inventory of Miles’s toys, what interests him—dogs, LEGO playsets, monster trucks, a toy shopping cart with its basket full of dented plastic food. I think of a Fisher-Price child-size kitchen set in the thrift store window, and mentally insert it in the empty space along one kitchen wall, below a calendar scribbled with upcoming activities. With all that toy food, I bet Miles would like a place to cook it. My magic senses a strong, steady thrum: This is where love lives.
“You’re a wonderful father,” I say, pensive.
He’s surprised by this comment but pleased. “Thank you. I’m definitely not perfect, but I do my best.”
If Alex were any other man, I would save this line of questioning until we’d been together for six months or longer. But I need answers now. I’m not getting any deeper until I know. I try to adopt a casual tone. “We’ve talked a little about family life, what we envision. But I think we need to speak clearly so that there’s no room for confusion. Do you want more kids?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I’d like to have about two more.”
“Or three?”
He laughs. “Maybe. Depends on where I’m living someday, the size of the house.”
I wander to a window, chewing the inside of my cheek. “Where might this imaginary someday house be? In Moonville?”
Arms wrap around my waist, a chin settling on top of my head. “Do you know the place out past the old tobacco barn where all the yellow trees grow, and the road is shaped like an S?” He traces the letter into my back.
“Yes.” I shiver. He presses against me, lips to my neck, stubble a light scrape. My eyelids drift shut.
“There.”
I almost stop breathing. “Are there any houses over there?”
“One that I know of. It’s a little small, but I could build on. Give it dormers, French doors, lots of natural light.”
I can picture myself out there where the road twists into an S, weaving between yellow trees with my bucket of chicken feed, silkies at my heels. I can visualize a garden that stretches on and on, rosebushes twined around apple trees, honeysuckle climbing birdhouses, bird feeders and witch bells dangling from ancient sugar maples. Alex and I biking through the woods, taking our kids camping, kayaking on Raccoon Creek. Winding down at night with a cup of tea, murmuring softly about our day over a puzzle. Losing at Scrabble. Winning at Monopoly, then indulging him when he insists on a rematch. Hanging a charm bag from his rearview mirror so that my protection follows Alex wherever the road goes. Celebrating many more Beltanes to come, around a bonfire, with Luna, Ash, and Zelda. Kristin, Daniel, Trevor. Miles. And other faces I haven’t met, their identities scattered among the stars.
Someday, when I am a mother again, I want to have a partner who instills in our children that they can do anything, be whoever they want to be. So that they can go out into the world and make it their own, and whenever they come home to us, they will know—I can open up this door and walk right into love. I will walk into acceptance, unconditional support. I know my parents love me for me, whoever I am. Our home will be the place you go to be wrapped up in a radiant love that never ends. We’ll watch them grow up together, becoming whoever they’re meant to be. Guiding them along the way but not trying to force them in any particular direction. Kind, silly, empathetic humans who I hope will light candles in every window on the Snow Moon, carrying on the traditions I learned from my grandmother.
His mouth travels to my ear. He whispers, “What do you think?”
“I think it sounds like you reached into my head and looked at my dreams.” I turn toward him. “What do you think?”
“I think . . . come here.” He walks backward, dropping into a chair. I move to sit beside him, but he grabs me around the middle and seats me on his lap instead.
“Well, I never,” I say.
He plays with my hair, smoothing it back, spiraling it around his hand. I wonder what it’s like for him to watch me walk through his house, touching his belongings. “Well, you should.” He skims a thumb along the corner of my mouth. “Right here? One of my favorite places on Earth. Your smile just tears me apart, you know.”
I smile again and tear him apart some more.
He sifts his hands through my hair. “I like how, whatever the color, your hair twists out at the ends, and you’ve got this cute rumple up here.” He touches a dent in the hair at my crown, then the wayward ends flipped out and inward. “How your eyes sparkle when I touch you.”
“Yours turn black,” I observe. “There’s always been this magnetic energy about you that drives me wild. It’s like you know everybody’s secrets, like you’re going places, on a journey we all want to be part of.”
The corners around his eyes crinkle. His voice cracks just a bit when he says, “Really?”
“And this dimple?” I kiss it, the curve deepening. “When you hit me with that smile?” Hand over my heart. “Makes me die. You showed up after all these years, and I can’t handle it, how you’ve only gotten more attractive. You’re so direct, too.”
“And you like it?”
“It’s my kryptonite.”
“You’re shyer,” he remarks. “Quieter. But you have that lightning, I’ve still never seen anything like it in anybody else. All I want is for you to zap me and let me in, so that I can be your goner.”
I lay a hand against his chest. “Zap.”
I know that emotion in his eyes when he slowly tugs me forward, hands linking in mine, to kiss him. It makes my body turn to liquid.
Our faces are a hair’s breadth away. “I want you,” I murmur, my lips ghosting across his. “Here. Tonight.”
His eyelids, heavy with lust, spring back open. Alert.
I kiss his neck, delight in how he arches against me. I tug his earlobe between my teeth, then work my way to his mouth, where he’s waiting, kissing me hot and deep. “I saw what else you bought at the gas station, Alex King,” I whisper raggedly, “and it wasn’t just Milky Ways.” His breath hitches; I feel him go hard beneath me. “Take me to your bed.”
“It’s fine, honestly. I don’t mind.”
“I do.” He yanks his shirt over his head on his way into the hall. “I only get one first time with you. I’m not bringing the hot, sweaty, gross day I’ve had along with us.” He pats his cheeks. “Oughta shave, too.”
“Don’t you dare.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You like the five-o’clock shadow?”
I spread my arms along the back of his couch, chin lowered to my chest. I better appear as seductive externally as this looks inside my head. “Yes.”
“I’ll be five minutes. Make yourself, ah . . .” He thumbs open the button of his jeans, tossing a glance around as though trying to take the measure of his place through my eyes. “At home. And Romina?”
I pop up from the sofa. “Yes?”
He almost smiles. Fights it back. “Please don’t disappear.”
I stare after him as he enters the bathroom, closing the door behind himself.
I’m stuck on a high, jittery frequency. I bounce like a rubber ball, because holy shit, he just gets better every day, for some reason he wants to be with me, and I have to do something to make this more special. I need ambiance.
Candles!
I scrounge up a few that he apparently ordered online from The Magick Happens and scurry into the bedroom. As suspected, his bedroom lies behind the orchid door. It’s simple; most of his decoration efforts have concentrated on higher-traffic areas like the kitchen and living room.
Everywhere is airy and inviting except for the bedroom, which he’s fashioned into a cave with the darkest textiles invented. Heavy blackout curtains. A thick midnight comforter and charcoal sheets. Soft-as-clouds, cool pillows, and dark gray walls. The temperature in here is colder than anywhere else in the house, with a large metal floor fan left running. This room is all business, designed for deep sleep rather than aesthetic. Even his bedside light is the softest of shimmers, throwing a halo over a voluptuous navy headboard.
He’s already got a candle on the dresser, pillar lopsided and half melted. Make Her Yours, the tag reads. I am feeling like an awfully powerful witch, to have braided up this die-hard skeptic into so many knots that he’s resorted to using candle magic.
“Silly Alex,” I murmur under my breath. “She already is, you goose.”
I light that one first, then spread the others across every available surface. Is there time to run to my garden for rose petals? I check the clock. Four minutes down, one to go. Wildflowers and pretty weeds, it is.
I bolt outside, screen door banging behind me, and whoop at my luck—Alex hasn’t mowed in a few days. I pluck every wild violet in his front yard and dash back to the bedroom, strewing them over the bed in the shape of a heart. Speaking of hearts, mine is a rocket ticking down to launch, sweat beading on my collarbones, my upper lip. I wipe it on my shirt, checking my reflection in a hallway mirror. I wish I’d worn my lacy red bralette, but at least my underwear’s cute.
I gnaw on my lip. This shirt has too many buttons.
I’d envisioned slowly lifting my shirt over my head, shaking out my hair, while Alex watches. To make it easier, I begin the laborious process of unbuttoning. But that makes me look too desperate, maybe? And he might want to undress me instead. I hop around, rebuttoning. Then I seize the small box from the Moonville Market bag on the kitchen counter so that condoms won’t be far away when we need them, and while I’m in the kitchen, I grab the Alexa, too. I’m plugging it into the outlet next to Alex’s bed when he slinks into the room in a billowing steam of Irish Spring.
“That was seven minutes,” I reproach. “And what’s this business?” I gesture to his T-shirt and basketball shorts. “You’re fully dressed. I was hoping you’d walk out here naked.”
“We’re starting from the beginning. We have all night.” He stops, dread lacing his tone. “Don’t we? Or were you wanting to leave . . . after?” He tries to sound casual about it, like whatever I want is cool with him, but I know better.
“You got a spare toothbrush?”
“I have a super pack you can choose from.”
“Then we’re good.” I swallow, trying not to fidget. I forget how to use my arms—keep them pinned to my side? Maybe that’s too severe. I cross them over my chest, but that looks defensive, like I don’t want to be ravished. And I definitely want to be ravished. I settle for clasping my hands behind my back, which has the added bonus of pushing my chest out. Perfect.
I’m beginning to wish we’d kept our fire going in the kitchen. Pressing pause has led to me overthinking, which isn’t an issue we ran into that night in the field.
I wait for him to approach, but now he seems nervous, gaze roving over my body, probably daunted that I’m wearing a garment with so many buttons. He sits down on the bed without glancing at it and smears purple petals all over.
I try to brush the petals away, but end up tearing them, so they roll into tiny pellets. “Ugh, it’s making a mess. Sorry.”
“Are you kidding? This is adorable. I’m all about it.”
I smack my forehead. “And you have pollen allergies! I completely forgot.”
“Nah, I take meds, it’s fine.”
We face each other.
“Okay.” He smiles slowly. “I’m going to kiss you now.”
“Good.” I shake out my hands. “Let’s do this.”
He has to stop so that he can laugh at my solemnity, trying to regain seriousness. But the second before his mouth descends on mine, I inexplicably burst into giggles. He leans back. “What?”
“I’m fine, I promise. Kiss me.” I sit up on my knees, moving to slide across his lap, but accidentally knee him in the groin.
He hisses through his teeth.
“No! Oh, no! I’m so sorry!”
“I think I’m going to throw up.” He closes his eyes.
“What can I do? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Do you want an ice pack? Heating pad? I don’t know which one helps!”
“I’m okay, just give me a minute. Why are we so bad at this?” He moans. “It’s like the first time we kissed, when you—”
“Don’t remind me. I forbid you.”
“—kept your lips fused shut and your eyes wide open.”
“Sto-o-o-op.”
“It was hilarious.”
I slug his arm gently. “Let me show you that I’m much better at kissing now. How’s your dick? Still wanna throw up? Wow, the effect I have on men is poetry.”
“I can play through the pain, maybe.”
“Is that how it works?”
“No.” But he cages my face in his hands and presses his lips to mine, anyway. I inch closer, positioned awkwardly, and make very certain I do not stick my knee anywhere sensitive as I hover over his lap. I run my palms over his stubble, down his chest. While I don’t feel a reaction in his shorts, he’s undeniably into this. His hands vanish under my shirt, gliding up. Oh, yes. This is happening.
“Alexa,” I call out. “Turn on Marvin Gaye.”
The black circle lights up with a ring of brilliant blue. “Heard It Through the Grapevine” swells from the speaker.
Alex stops kissing my shoulder, shadow of a beard abrading me when he turns his face toward the Alexa. I can tell he’s trying not to laugh.
Obviously, I’d meant for a more carnal song to serenade us. Technology requires too much hand-holding. “Alexa, play ‘Let’s Get It On,’ ” I revise.
Okay, it responds in robotic monotone. Turning on “Let’s Get It On” Radio on Pandora. A second later, Otis Redding is crooning “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.”
“Goddamn it!” I yell. “That’s not what I said.”
Alex’s chest is shaking. I push two fingers into his stomach. “Don’t laugh! You’re still turned on.”
He begins to sing along with Otis. “I’ll have to add this to the playlist now. You give me no choice.”
“Alexa, next,” I say firmly.
The next song is also not what I asked for. “Ain’t too proud to plea-ead, baby, baby!” Alex belts out. “Please don’t leave me—Hey! I was listening to that.” I’d lowered the volume. “How you gonna turn down The Temptations? Have you no taste?”
I blow out a breath. “This is a disaster.”
Alex rolls on top of me in one quick motion.
“Whoa.” My eyes fly wide open, arms splayed above me on the blanket. “Hello.”
“Just like that,” he says teasingly, trailing a finger down my bottom lip, the arch of my throat, between my breasts. He flicks open a button on my shirt. “That’s what your face looked like when I first tried to kiss you.”
I paw his hand away. “You’re so mean.”
“Still the most amazing kiss I’d ever had, at that point.” It was his first.
I try to tickle him, but he seizes my arm.
He raises my shirt at a leisurely pace, exposing my stomach. His lips whisper soft kisses below my ribs, around my navel, fingers playing with the waistband of my shorts. Lowering them centimeter by centimeter. Yes, I think ardently, heat pooling between my thighs. Then my stomach growls, directly against his mouth.
He lays his cheek against my stomach and the blaze between us dies at once, plumes of smoke curling up into the ceiling. “Romina.”
“Keep going or I’ll combust.”
“But you’re hungry.”
“Hungry for sex.”
“You didn’t eat much, did you? I noticed you didn’t touch your sandwich. I was going to ask if I could have it, but then you distracted me with all your seductive puzzle talk.” He stands up, an impenetrable wall against my (loud, colorful) protests. “All night, remember? We have all night, and once we get started I want to continue for a good while. C’mon, flower girl, let’s get some food in you.”
“I want something else in me,” I mutter, but reluctantly allow myself to be wrenched off the bed. He wraps around me from behind and sways us to whatever song he’s still listening to in his head.
“What if we spend all night laughing and getting your dick stepped on and we never do it?”
“I promise you’ll come before the sun does.” He kisses the nape of my neck. “Promise.”
