“You got it.”
I leave her room wrapped up in thoughts about how careful I need to be when it comes to spending time with Mati—Audrey can’t find out. I can’t lose more time with my niece; since my brother died, I’ve felt a sense of duty to him, and to Janie. It’s my job to pass stories of Nick and his childhood antics to his daughter. I can’t fail him, and I can’t fail her.
I spend the rest of the evening on the sofa, editing images on my laptop. The photo I took of Mati this afternoon is sublime. I see him, all of him, with arresting clarity. It’s as if his essence, his aura, his soul, swirl in air around him, rendering the colors of the garden in the background bland. I want the world to see him this way: son, brother, writer, dreamer.
When Audrey comes through the door, she’s rumpled and weary. She drops her bag on the entryway table and scans the living room, like she expects me to have a troop of Afghan boys hiding behind curtains and inside cabinets.
“Everything go okay?” she asks, collapsing on the sofa.
“Awesome. There’s leftover pizza in the fridge, and tons of cookies on a plate in the microwave.” I pause, tempted to tell her about Nick and his cookie-dough overindulgence, too—it happened shortly before their time—but she looks so tired. I close my laptop and slide it into my bag, eager, suddenly, to be on my way. “Janie was an angel as usual. We watched The Little Mermaid.”
Aud slips her swollen feet out of her flats. “She loves that movie.”
“I know.”
Silence. She’s my closest friend, my sister, and she’ll barely meet my gaze.
“I should go.”
She nods, then stands to walk me out. At the door, she takes my hand and says, “Thanks for babysitting. I know things have been rough, but I’m happy to have you back.”
Happy in her delusion.
Still, it’s a step.
MATI
I love you for saying that is not
the same
as I love you.
This is what I tell myself as I sit through my parents’
evening conversation.
As I boil water for chai.
As I warm leftovers and eat, standing alone,
at the kitchen counter.
This is what I tell myself after I say my final prayer, as I try, and fail, to sleep.
Because …
What if it is the same?
I think she could love me, if circumstances were different.
But for us, love is perilous.
She will be okay if we are friendship.
If we are flirtation.
If we are romance in a fanciful turret, and long kisses on a cramped sofa.
She will be okay if the (bittersweet) feelings are mine alone.
I love her, I love her, I love her, but she does not
(cannot) love me back.
She will not be okay if her heart is vested.
It will doubtlessly be broken, and while I can endure the guilt that comes with courting her, if I hurt her, regret will bury me.
There is so much she will never (can never) know.
The promises I made before her will seem ill-conceived,
and my commitments
will hold no weight.
Centuries of tribal strife will end if I fulfill my duty,
but she will not see it that way— not if she is in love with me.
I leave my bed.
I dress.
I walk, stealthily,
out of the cottage.
I have to know for sure.
elise
I’m headed down the sidewalk, thinking of Janie and cookies, Mati and kisses, dandelions and shooting stars, when a tall, shadowed figure steps out from behind a stocky tree, right into my path. A shriek escapes my throat, and my hands fly up, curled into fists, a sudden surge of adrenaline demanding fight!
“Elise, it’s okay!”
Warm hands land on my arms. Draw me forward. Hold me against a solid chest.
Mati.
“I’m sorry,” he says, gentle words rustling my ponytail.
My arms loop instinctually around his middle, though my heart’s still hammering my ribs in a relentless attempt to escape. I take a shaky breath; his familiar scent eases my nerves enough to let me sputter, “God, Mati, you scared the shit out of me. What are you doing?”
“Waiting for you.” He edges back and presses a palm to my chest, just over my heart, letting his heat melt what’s left of my panic. “I’ve been here awhile. I knew Audrey would be coming home, and I didn’t want to upset her again.”
I look back at her cottage; the front lights are still on, shining through the sheer curtains that cover the arched windows. I reshoulder my bag and slip my hand into his. I lead him down the sidewalk, away from Aud’s and town, toward seclusion and safety. We walk to the beach, to the picnic table where, weeks ago, he left the note that changed everything.
We sit on the tabletop, bathed in moonlight, feet propped on the bench. The sky mirrors my ceiling at home, black and sprinkled with stars, like someone tossed a handful of silver glitter into the heavens. I can just make out the ocean’s restless waves against the sand below, but otherwise the night is hushed and still. I rest my head on Mati’s shoulder. “So why were you sneaking around like a creep?”
He laughs, soft and sonorous. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just—I needed to see you.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but why the urgency?”
“You said something before you left earlier. You probably don’t remember, but…”
Damn it. I’ve been hoping my declaration went over his head, that he heard it as an offhand comment, just one of those things Americans say. Obviously not.
I giggle, a nervous, giddy, mortified sound. “Oh. That.”
“Yes. That.”
“It just came out, Mati. Because that was nice, what you said—that we count. That we can’t be wrong. I was, like, moved. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“I’m not uncomfortable. I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“About whether you meant it.”
“Oh.”
“Elise. Did you mean it?”
“I…” Am at a complete loss for words.
Shit, shit, shit. I meant it. I love him, and it’s possible I have since we met here, at this beach, since that first time my heart reached for his. I’ve known with certainty since our night in the turret, but I can’t tell him—not when he’s regarding me with an air of utter terror.
“Either way,” he says, “I need to know how serious you were—are. How serious we are.”
“Mati…” Because, no, we can’t be serious, despite how I feel.
He breathes a sigh that sounds suspiciously like relief. “It’s okay. It was an expression, one I didn’t follow, and that’s good. Because even though I’m growing to love you with strength that scares me, it’s better if you do not fall so hard.”
I stare into his bottomless eyes. He stares back, unwavering. I need to say something; I need to respond with comparable compassion. I swallow. “Uh, how is that better?”
His mouth turns up in an endeared smile. God, he is far superior with words, and he knows it. “It is better,” he says patiently, “because when I leave, you won’t be so hurt.”
I feel weird, like I’ve plummeted into frigid water. My senses are slow, uncooperative, and my reactions are sluggish. My lungs feel heavy, underoxygenated, and the result is a rush of vertigo so powerful, I have to grab the edge of the table to remain upright.
I’ll be inconsolable when he goes. How does he not realize?
I forage for words—the right words—to make him understand. “Mati, when you leave, I will crumble.”
His head drops. “I hoped—”
“What? That I’d kiss you goodbye and go about my day? Do you not see the way I look at you, or feel the way I touch you? Do you not realize that I’m always trying to get as close to you as possible? That I’m constantly adjusting my Mati dial so I can stay tuned in to you through incessant static?”
He’s still looking at the ground when he mumbles, “It just—you feeling the way I feel … it seems too good to be real.”
“Well, it is real. I love you for saying what you said, and I love you.”