Текст книги "How to Repair a Mechanical Heart "

Автор книги: J. Lillis

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Three

I don’t want Abel to find me. Not yet. I duck down a corridor, slip into a quiet stairwell.

I don’t think people ever get un-screwed-up.

My heart pummels so hard I expect to hear an echo.

I don’t think you’re ready for a relationship.

I lean over the railing. My head swarms. I wish I was good at dismissing people. I could be like Nat: What a bitch. Screw her. Who does she think she is?

I don’t have any answers.

My phone goes off. I jump. HOME CALLING.

I sink down on the steps and pick it up, not thinking it through. All I’m thinking is yes, please, I need home.

“Thank God,” Mom says. “Brandon, we were worried!”

“You haven’t called for days,” Dad snaps. “We just get one email, four words long‌—‌”

I feel like crying. “I’m sorry.”

“You could’ve been kidnapped. Maybe someone was impersonating you. How would we know?”

“Did you really think‌—‌”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter! The point is, you made your mother lose sleep.”

“You’ve just been having fun with Becky, right, Brandon?” Mom says. “That’s all.”

I drop my head on the concrete step behind me. “Yeah,” I get out. “It’s been really great.”

“That’s so wonderful. See, Greg?”

“Did you take her out for that dinner?” Dad harrumphs.

“No, but I will.” I close my eyes. “Maybe tonight. I think tonight we will.”

“Okay. All right,” Dad says. I sense the anger funneling out of him and for now that’s enough, making him okay with me again. “I told you, I’ll pay for it.”

“Sure.”

“Wherever you two want to go.”

“I appreciate it. Thanks.” I’m a total chickenshit in real life.

“Brandon?” says Mom.

“Yep.”

“Are you all right, sweetie? You sound‌—‌far away.”

“I am far away.”

“I know this is such a‌…‌confusing time for you, but‌—‌”

You have no idea. “I’m great, Mom. Don’t worry, okay?” She sounds so sad. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

“Maybe you’ll come to the St. Matt’s Funfair on the Fourth?”

“‌…‌Sure.” No. No.

“You’re a good kid, Brandon,” Dad says.

I’m not stupid. I hear how he says it: like a command, not a compliment. But his words work on me, independent of the tone, and I want it all back again. I want to be the good kid. I want to be the kid who never made them worry, the one who was safe in his bed while Nat was off at Rocky Horror throwing toast and making out with A.J. Brody. I want to believe what they believe, to feel Mom’s smiling eyes on me while I strum “Be Not Afraid” at the Folk Mass, to ask Dad for advice when he stops by my room to say goodnight. Except now my problem is I’m afraid I’m going to break my boyfriend’s heart. And even if I got brave enough to ask, I don’t think he’d sit down on my bed and ruffle my hair. He’d just turn off the light and walk away.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Our clothes tumble together in a dented old dryer at the Compass Creek Campground laundry room. Abel and I sit on molded plastic seats the color of pea soup and watch. I spot my Castaway Planet shirt and keep my eyes on that, watching it get tossed and battered and tossed again.

Nothing’s changed.

I tell myself that, over and over. Nothing’s changed. I’m here in a laundry room doing a quick load of darks with my boyfriend, and then we’re going to take a walk in the woods and play WordWhap with Bec and have late-night cherry Pop-Tarts in bed like we’ve done every night since Long Beach. I tell myself that, and then Michelle Arnott’s face pops up and I start breathing faster, bracing myself for all the other bad things to come back. It’s like that scene in the cave when Cadmus lit a match and the crystal spiders all started crawling out of secret dark places, hissing closer and closer.

I joggle Plastic Sim in my hand, lose myself in the machine’s warm mechanical hum. I want to disappear into Sim again. I want the simple ease of clean robot fantasies that fade out with kissing and don’t come with a crapload of complications.

“Brandon,” Abel says. “You sneaky bitch.”

“What?”

“You’re having a relapse.”

“Huh?”

“It all makes sense!” He waggles a finger at me like I’m a Scooby-Doo villain. “You were like a billion miles away at the go-kart track.”

“Sorry.”

“And I made you my world-famous kitchen-sink nachos and you completely failed to rhapsodize.”

“World-famous?”

“Well. Susannah likes them.”

I force a shrug. “Too spicy.”

“Surprise surprise.”

Five seats over, some grizzly guy in camo pants is chomping a chalupa and waiting for his afghan to dry. He gave us this look when we walked in. I think back to three or four years ago, when Dad’s remote stopped at Project Runway for five seconds. “What they do is their business,” he’d grumbled. “But why are they all so loud about it?”

“I’m okay,” I lie. “No relapse.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“What’d what’s-her-face say to you at the hotel? Just tell me.”

“I don’t want to.” I slouch down in my seat. “I just want to forget her.”

He cracks into a two-pack of snack cakes. “It’s almost kind of funny. If you think about it. Cupcake?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t change anything.”

“Right! I know.”

“Like, have you ever seen Dumbo?”

“Uh‌…‌yeah. Ages ago.”

“Remember when he thought he could fly because he was holding the magic feather, and then one day he loses the feather and‌—‌what happens?”

“He panics.”

“You would remember that. He flies anyway, dumbass.”

“Right. The gritty realism of Disney.”

“Don’t be cynical. It’s ugly on you.” He pokes my belly button. I poke him back and then he’s tickling my ribs, swooping in to nibble a kiss on my neck.

“Abel‌—‌” I murmur.

“What?”

“That guy’s giving us looks.”

“So? He’s probably jealous.”

“He looks like a gun nut or something.”

“Oh, they’re all secretly closeted. Haven’t you heard?” He studies the guy’s profile and leans close to me, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. “Twenty years may have passed, but still he longs for Joe, his truck-driving partner with the sexy sideburns and the shapely‌—‌”

I smack him. “Sto-op.”

“He still remembers that fateful night‌…‌hauling a truckload of tennis balls through Tuscaloosa‌…‌”

“Oh my God.”

“The tape deck was playing‌—‌help me, Bran.”

I roll my eyes. “Journey’s Greatest Hits.”

“Brilliant.” He grins and slides a hand up my thigh. I feel my muscles loosen a little. “Joe’s face in the silvery moonlight had never looked so enticing‌…‌they sang ‘Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ together, their voices entwining in unexpected harmony.”

“They pulled over at a rest stop.”

“Yes. Hot.” He nests his chin on my shoulder. “For twenty stolen minutes, under the stars in a dense patch of forest, they‌—‌”

“Twenty minutes?”

“No?”

I’m grinning now. “You’re, ah, selling their passion short.”

“You’re right. For shame.” He nips my ear. “For forty-five stolen minutes, they unlocked the secrets of each other‌…‌their cares melting away as they whispered‌—‌”

“Take it somewhere else.”

I jump. Camo Pants is right in front of us. He’s chewing on a toothpick and standing like the football players at school did before a big game: fists on waist, legs planted far apart. I go cold.

Abel smiles, still in fic-land. “Sorry. Did you say something?”

“Yep. I said, take it somewhere else.”

Abel flutters his lashes. “Like where?”

“Anywhere I don’t have to see it.”

Shut up. Please shut up, I message Abel, thinking of the call to my parents: “I’m so sorry. Your son was shot to death in a campground laundry room.” But the guy’s done for now. He clomps off to the soda machine, shooting a glare over his shoulder.

Abel snorts and swallows a giggle. I let out the breath I’d been holding.

“What a goon.” Abel elbows me.

“Uh-huh.”

“Hey.”

“What.”

“I want to take you on a date,” he says. “Like a cheesy old-school restaurant date.”

My heart’s still hammering. “When?”

“When we’re back on the road, like in Nebraska or Iowa. Some weirdo small town where we’ll never ever be again. We’ll find someplace good.” He hooks his fingers through mine. “Say yes.”

“Okay‌…‌”

“How come you always do that?” he grins.

“Do what?”

“Squeeze my hand twice? It’s cute.”

“Oh‌…‌” Camo Pants bangs out of the laundry room, the rusty bells slapping the glass door. “It’s dumb.”

“There’s a story? Tell me!”

I keep my eyes on the door. He’ll come back any minute with a rifle, the same battered .223 Remington he just used to shoot up coyotes in the Utah backwoods. “Mom used to do that when I was a kid,” I tell Abel. “Sort of a tradition. She said it was like‌—‌” Footsteps scuffle, metal rattles outside.

“Like what?”

It’s just an old lady with a shopping cart. “‌…‌It was our secret code for ‘I love you.’ That way we could say it any time, even when we couldn’t talk. Like in the middle of church or whatever.”

“That’s intensely sweet.”

“Yeah.”

“A good kind of secret.”

You can’t keep secrets from God, guys. He knows everything.

“Bran?”

He sees everything.

“You okay? What’s wrong?”

I stab my nails into my palm. The Father Mike stuff won’t come back.

I won’t let it.

“You’ve got cream on your cheek,” I tell him.

“Geez. Don’t scare me like that.” He wipes it off and forces a laugh. “It’s like you were past-tense Brandon for a minute.”

I get up and start raking our warm dry clothes out of the dented machine, just to shield my face from his field of vision. I don’t want Abel to know that maybe there is no past-tense Brandon after all. Only present imperfect. And if I’m not extra-careful now, he’s going to ruin everything.

***

CHURCH OF ABANDON ROLL CALL!!

retro robot:

helloooooo? who’s still here? anyone? **tumbleweeds**

amity crashful:

I am!

sorcha doo:

me.

whispering!sage:

me too but tbh, at this point I’m just kinda killing time until the Castaway Planet premiere. I mean after the hey_mamacita thing‌…‌

a_rose_knows:

I know, and plus abandon fic is redundant now. like why am I writing you sex scenes when you’re doing it for real as I type?

sorcha doo:

except rosey your scenes are probably better lol

amity crashful:

I have to admit they were 10000x sexier when they were tragic and unrequited. ugh! WTF is wrong with me? this is why all my relationships are doomed.

lone detective:

Well, not to worry. IF they’re actually together, they’ll be broken up soon. Not that any of you will care by then.

sorcha doo:

detective will you shut it! why are you still around??

lone detective:

Oh, for the most entertaining part of fandom. Fiddling while Rome burns.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Our first date.” Abel clutches my hand in the Tuscan-tiled waiting cove, bouncing on the heels of his dirty white wingtips. “This is so fun!”

God wouldn’t call this a date.

The Olive Grotto in Layton, Nebraska is the kind of place where teenagers go for fancy pre-prom dinners, where men take their wives to celebrate anniversaries and surprise them with heart-shaped gold necklaces they saw on TV. It is not the kind of place where two teenage boys walk into the lobby holding hands, unless it’s Halloween and one of them is snickering in unconvincing drag.

The hostess has a snappy blond ponytail and quick, efficient hands. She snatches two menus from the pocket on the side of her podium and says “’Kay. You can follow me.” She takes off fast, like she’s trying to lose us or something. Abel’s nodding to the waiters and humming that old song about your personal Jesus but I’m taking it all in, and I see how people are looking at his neon polo shirt and skinny white tie and I notice where she seats us. In the corner, with three empty tables between us and everyone else.

I open the menu and start flipping pages.

“What’s with the face?” Abel says.

“The hostess,” I lie. “Just‌…‌reminds me of someone.”

“I know, right? She’s such a type. Overgrown pageant kid.” He cups a hand to his mouth. “Ten to one her parents aren’t entirely convinced the earth is round.”

“Heh.”

“Oh good gravy Brandon will you look at that giant fake wine bottle?” He points to a decorative bottle-vase on the opposite wall with two orange poppies stuck inside. “We must have it!”

“Uh-huh.”

“We can take it to college. We’ll share custody.”

“You can’t take the decorations, dummy.”

“Oh yeah?” He takes out a five-dollar bill and brandishes it, doing a sleazy eyebrow-wiggle. “My friend Mr. Lincoln says otherwise.”

I snort a little. He cracks up. Loud.

“I’m so glad you wanted to come here.” Abel reaches out and grabs both my hands. My eyes dart around.

“It’ll be fun,” I say lamely.

“Yes! Thank you. I hate when people are snobby about the Olive Grotto. My dad has this one surgeon friend, he’s like the world’s foremost expert on being a douchenozzle, and he’s always like ‘the Olive Grotto is the Spam of Tuscan cuisine’ and I’m like dude, cram it, ‘cause sometimes you want to stuff your damn self with chicken parm bruschetta, you know?”

I nod. I wish he’d talk quieter. “The breadsticks are good too.”

“They are godlike.”

You know what isn’t Godlike?

“What would Cadmus order here?” I blurt.

“Ooh! Excellent question.” He scans the menu. “I think he’s a straight-up lasagna guy. Maybe some short ribs.”

“Mm.”

“And for Sim‌…‌he’d go clean and simple, if he ate at all. Some grilled lemon chicken‌…‌?”

Across the room, a gray-haired guy with jowls and a bald-eagle t-shirt is staring at us. He turns away when he sees me looking. Whispers to his wife.

“All right.” Abel slaps the menu shut. “What’s wrong?”

Be honest. Tell him this is a mistake.

“I’m having a‌…‌” I hate this a lot. “You know.”

“A baby?” His eyes go tender in a cartoony way. “Awwww, honey. It’s just like that mpreg where Cadmus tells Sim he’s expecting twins and‌—‌”

I wave away the joke. “A relapse. You were right.”

“Oh.” I see panic cross his face. “Oh. God. Is it because I sang ‘Personal Jesus’?”

“No. No.”

“It was the dollar store, wasn’t it?”

“Huh?”

“Back there, back there! When I made Spongebob eat the nun figurine?”

“No. It wasn’t that‌—‌”

“God, I’m an idiot! I knew I should’ve‌—‌”

“It’s not your fault, okay? Relax.”

He sits up straight, nodding fast. “Okay. Okay, then. I don’t want this to turn bad. What can I do?”

“I‌—‌nothing, really. Nothing.”

He blinks at me. “Please don’t break up with me at the Olive Grotto.”

“I’m not breaking up with you!”

“Well, I have to do something. I’m your boyfriend, right?”

The way he says that is so sweet I feel like crying. What can I tell him that doesn’t sound deeply insane? Well, things just haven’t been the same since I found out hey_mamacita is a screwed-up kid instead of a divinely inspired matchmaking warrior.

Abel folds his hands. “So‌—‌I guess, talk to me.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Tell me exactly what happens. Do you hear that Father Mike’s voice in your head or something?”

“I don’t actually hear it.” I shoot him a dark look. “I’m not crazy.”

“No, I didn’t mean‌…‌” He sighs. “Shit. Sorry. I’m just trying to understand.”

“I know.” I reach across the table, stroke his arm. “It’s more like I remember things he said before. Or I imagine what he would say, if he saw me.”

“But you said you don’t believe that stuff anymore, right? Like, it’s a sin or whatever.”

“My brain doesn’t. No.”

“But your heart‌…‌?”

“No, my heart pretty much approves, too.” I give him a faint smile and squeeze his hand.

“So what’s the problem, then?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“You’ll think it’s weird.”

“What, like, did you see Jesus in your pancakes this morning?”

“Okay.”

“Did an angel appear to you in the iHop bathroom?”

“See.”

“Repennnt! Mortify your flesssssh! Order the Smokehouse Combooooo!”

“You’re getting all judgy.”

“I’m getting judgy? I don’t judge anyone!”

“You get judgy about religion.”

“So? I think I’m entitled.”

“So it’s complicated for me.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” He twists his mouth and tilts back in his chair. “So here’s what I don’t get. You met with Father Mike that one time, and he gave you that stupid Step On the Brakes book and quoted the Bible at you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So why didn’t you fight him?”

“What, like‌…‌” I make a fist, mime a punch.

“No, goofass. Why didn’t you argue with him? Tell him you didn’t believe God was really like that? And don’t say you were scared, because I know you have balls. I’ve seen them. In action.”

I shrug, blushing. “I don’t know. It’s like, how do you argue with Leviticus?”

“I do. So do tons of people, right? Aren’t there gay theology people? Those churches with rainbow flags and shit?”

“Yeahhh, but‌…‌” I rub at a water splotch with my thumb. “He’d just tell me they were wrong.”

“Which would be his opinion.”

“Right, but‌—‌”

“And why is his opinion more valid than yours?”

He’s hiding a trap in a stupid question. I roll my eyes. Pass.

“I’ll tell you why.” He points at me with his fork. “Because you’ve been conned into thinking anything that makes you too happy is some kind of sin.”

“Oh, okay.” I kick at the table leg. “I guess I’m stupid, then.”

“No! Not at all. That’s just what organized religion does, Bran. I’ve seen it before.”

Mom serving stew at Our Daily Bread. Candlelit “O Holy Night” at Christmas Eve Mass. “That’s not all it is.”

“Well, that seems to be the key feature.”

“You just know about the bad parts. You’ve never seen the good stuff.”

“Oh, well, pardon me, Mr. Sudden Random Piety.” He’s shredding a napkin. Angry eyebrows. “You tell me one good thing about it, then. Tell me what’s so awesome, huh? The guilt and shame? The weird OCD rituals? The no-condom rule? The priests who‌—‌”

“Stop! That’s cheap.”

“Facts are cheap?”

“People do great things because of religion, too.”

“Uh-huh. Like Bec can’t do charity work because she’s an atheist?”

“I’m not saying‌—‌”

“In fact, it means more because they’re not just doing it to get to heaven. Next!”

“Well,” I squirm. “The sacraments, I guess‌…‌and like, the sense of community.”

“Aha. Okay. Sure.” He taps his chin and squints. “Whispering your sins in a little closet‌…‌eating a flat tasteless cookie once a week‌—‌”

“All right.” It’s stuff I think myself, but when he says it I hate him for it.

“‌—‌The sublime joys of singing hymns with folks who think you’re earmarked for eternal doom. Now it makes sense.”

“You’re just being shitty now.”

“I’m trying to understand‌—‌”

“Well, you never will!” I shoot back. People glance over. “You never will, because you didn’t grow up in it.”

“Yeah, thank fuck for that.” He mashes the napkin shreds into a ball. “My parents weren’t sadists.”

My mind tangles up with sweet memories. Mom adjusting my pipe-cleaner whiskers on the tiger costume she stayed up all night sewing. Dad narrating backyard batting practice: Number 44, Brandon Page, steps up to the plate in the bottom of the ninth‌…‌

“Don’t talk about my parents,” I say, evenly.

Abel blushes.

“I’m sorry. I am.” He picks at the spotless tablecloth. “I’m sorry, Brandon, I just‌—‌I’ve been burned by this. Like, seriously.”

“I know.”

“We’ll talk later. I’ll play nice.”

“Kay.”

“I want to have a good dinner. Okay? Can we do that?”

I nod.

“Sure. We can.”

***

We can’t.

The lasagna tastes like a tire and he stabs at his lobster tortellini the whole time and the conversation starts and stalls. On the cab ride back to the campground, you can feel a fight brewing thick in the air, like that time Dad spilled Mom’s embarrassing aerobics-class story at her high school reunion and the whole ride home was a tense tick-down to her explosion.

Bec’s curled up on the vinyl couch, watching TV with her phone at her ear.

“Heyyyy, kids,” she sings. “How was it?”

“Perfect.” Abel keeps his back to her, grabs a carton of milk from the fridge and takes a few glugs. I force a smile. It’s dark; she can’t tell.

“I’m watching an old X-Files with Dave.” She points to her phone. “Wanna join? It’s the one with the killer cockroaches.”

“Nah, I’m tired.” Abel slams the fridge. He sears me with a look. “Let’s go to bed, Brandon.”

Bec grins. “I’m turning this up, then.” She cranks the volume.

Abel shuts the bedroom door behind us. He strips off his tie.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?”

“Shouldn’t we like‌—‌talk more?”

“I don’t dwell on bad things. I just make them better.” He tips his chin at me. “C’mere.”

I look at the floor. He steps close. His hand hooks the back of my neck and he pulls my mouth to his before I can even take a breath. After a second he senses I’m suffocating; his lips soften and migrate to more innocent places.

It’s cruel to you both. Keeping this going.

He drops cute desperate kisses on my nose, my eyelids, my cheeks.

Pull away now. You know you’re going to.

“Abel.”

“What?”

I toy with a button on his polo shirt. “I just‌…‌Maybe we should‌—‌”

“She can’t hear us. She’s in Daveland.”

“No, like‌—‌” I duck the kiss he’s about to plant on my neck. “Maybe we should hold off. Just for a while.”

A light snaps off inside him. I watch hurt morph into disgust on his face, like he’s just caught me sacrificing kittens in the bathroom.

“Damn,” he says.

“Not forever! You know? I just think maybe we did this too fast.”

He shakes his head and shoves my hands away. “You said you were fine with it, Brandon. I asked you like, every step of the way, and‌—‌”

“I know. I know.”

“How could you let this ruin things?”

“It’s not a choice. It’s in me. I can’t just make it go away.”

He wraps his white tie around and around his hand. “So‌—‌what? We’re just friends now?”

“No‌…‌no.”

“Should I like, get written permission to touch you, or‌—‌”

“Stop. Abel.”

“What? I want to know! What happens now?”

“I don’t know!” My arms make this desperate wriggly gesture that’s completely offensive, like I’m trying to slough off something gross. “Can we just‌—‌hold off on the physical stuff? For now? And then I can work through things, and maybe later‌…‌”

“I can’t believe this,” he says softly. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with me.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, clearly you don’t want me to touch you anymore, so that’s kind of what happens, darling. By default.”

He huddles on the edge of the bed with his back to me. I try to find something smart to say, some bull’s-eye quip that’ll turn this whole conversation around.

I hear a little sniffle.

Oh. Crap.

“Abel‌—‌”

“It’s okay. It’s fine. You can’t help this, I know. It’s just the way you are.” He’s speaking slowly and carefully, like he’s reading off cue cards. “I mean, it’s my fault, really. I’ve been through this before. I’m so stupid, I just jump in with both feet every time‌…‌”

I kneel in front of him. “I like that about you.”

“I wanted it to be true. I liked you for so long.” He scrubs tears away with his fist and tries to smile, which makes me feel worse. “You just didn’t seem interested and it was all Fake Zander and whatever, and I was with that dumbass Kade and then‌—‌”

“It was true.” I correct myself: “It is.”

I touch his arm. He reaches out for me, but he pulls me close too hard and fast and I feel all my muscles go stiff.

He lets go of me. Stands up.

His face erases all emotion, like Sim’s face when he’s in the charging dock. Then it hardens.

He pulls his big black bag out from under the bed and tosses it on the comforter.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving, Bran.” He says it with a simple ease that hurts much worse than bitterness.

“How‌—‌?”

“There are these magic things called buses.”

I close my eyes. This isn’t happening.

“I can’t do this again,” he shrugs. “Sorry. I can’t get all moony and ID-bracelet-y over you, and then get a call from you at two in the morning after some college retreat made you have a backwards epiphany and now you think you’re in love with some cute little Polly Pocket who can’t wait to pop out your cute Catholic babies. And don’t try to tell me that’s not extremely likely, because guys like you are a fucking minefield, and I was dumb to pretend I didn’t know it.”

“Abel‌…‌”

“Be logical!” He’s shoving clothes in his bag. “What happens if I stay? More awkwardness. More fights. We break up and we can’t even be friends anymore because we let things get ugly, and then I end up crying for days and calling up my exes and eating Nutella right out of the jar.” He throws his bag on the bed and yanks at the zipper. “So we make a clean break now, and this way I get to keep my dignity, right, and you get lots of time or space or whatever the hell you need to figure things out, or not figure things out, whatever works for you. Sound good?”

He grabs the bag. I know exactly what I need now. I need a Speech that Changes Everything. Like Cadmus’ quotable “Today, We Survive” speech in the pilot, or the tearful speech Abel gives me in whispering!sage’s “One Day More,” where we make up in a hospital bed before I lapse into a coma. I catch myself thinking What would hey_mamacita write?

Beware of false prophets, Brandon.

Just let him‌—‌

“No. Don’t go.” It’s all I can get out. “Please.”

“Put up a fight, then,” he says. “Convince me. Tell me exactly how it won’t end horribly.”

All the words I’ve ever learned scuttle out of my head. If I had more time I could call them back, arrange them in just the right order. But I know without looking him in the eye that I’ve already paused too long, and he’s not going to wait.

He hoists the bag over his shoulder.

“Have fun at the Baltimore con,” he says. “Tell Lenny Bray I said hi.”

***

He’s gone.

He can’t be, though.

He left Plastic Cadmus behind, face down on the Whitetail Wildlife bedspread.

He left his Sim shirt from the ball dangling damp from the doorknob and the spicy-sweet smell of his cinnamon soap hanging in the air.

He left me standing by the bed with his last kiss still fresh on my cheek and a hundred better things to say.

So I wait, because I know he’s coming back. I stand right here in the spot where he left me, rocking gently on my heels. I’ll be patient. He went for a long walk to clear his head, took a detour to a diner to sulk at a cup of black coffee, and when he’s done making me sorry, making me want him back so much that nothing else matters, the Sunseeker door will creak open again and there he’ll be.

I wait.

And wait.

Knock knock on the bedroom door; it slits open.

“Brandon?”

Bec.