“Hopefully it actually tastes good,” I say as we follow the warm smell of the food out of the entryway and down the hall.
As we step into the kitchen, she takes in the carefully laid out table, the folded napkins, the candles I pulled from the top shelf of the hallway closet. Her hand reaches out to touch the flower-condiment plate, a smile finally appearing on her lips.
“Because each deserves its own space,” I say, and she blushes as we sit down.
There’s an awkward pause, a new tension between us. A warm electricity. Does she feel it too? I try to shake it off, keeping my voice light as I suggest we dig in.
I grab my hot dog and take a huge bite. That eases the tension a bit more, and soon Marley’s laughing and trying out all the different condiments in little bites.
Somehow her favorite, though, isn’t even a condiment at all.
“Just popcorn?” I ask, incredulous, as she carefully puts another piece on top of her hot dog and takes a bite. “Of all of these toppings, popcorn is your favorite?”
She shrugs playfully. “I must be part duck.”
I can’t help but smile at that. I spend the rest of dinner grossing her out with different condiment combinations, though my bacon, barbecue sauce, and shredded cheese is literal genius.
As our meal disappears, the conversation stalls. I pop my last fry into my mouth. Marley puts the last few bites of her hot dog aside. Both of us fall silent as the nervous energy we’ve been fighting off fills the room. I know Marley hasn’t shared her stories before, and I’ve sure as hell never shared my articles with anyone before.
Well, not in person.
But… I don’t think this is about the writing.
I clear my throat and stand to take the plates to the sink. From the corner of my eye, I see her fidget with her napkin, folding it and unfolding it.
I turn to watch her fingers twist the material.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
She looks up in a way that says, Abso-freaking-lutely.
“Good. Because I’m nervous,” I admit.
She seems surprised. “You are?”
“I am crazy nervous,” I say, studying her face, from the freckles on her nose to the fullness of her lips. Every feature somehow looks different in this new setting, sending my heart beating faster. “I mean, you’re here.”
“I make you nervous?” she asks as she looks down at her napkin. “I… really?”
I hesitate, knowing that I’m balancing on a ledge, one side the past, one side the future. I have to choose. “You make me…,” I start to say, and as I take a step closer to her, I decide to just say it. “You make me want more, and that makes me nervous.”
She looks up, her eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight, but she doesn’t say anything. Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut and let her enjoy her dinner.
“So, um,” I say, changing the subject. “How ’bout dessert?”
I get the ice cream out of the freezer, relieved to see Marley light up even more when she catches sight of the strawberry. Guessing people’s favorite ice cream flavors is a talent of mine, and Marley is definitely a strawberry lover.
We each fill a bowl, Marley laughing when I pile most of the gallon of chocolate into mine and steal a scoop of her strawberry to top it off. Then I lead us into the basement, the both of us sitting on opposite sides of the worn couch.
“You ready?” I ask her as I grab my wrinkled pile of articles off the dinged-up coffee table.
I’m not sure I’m ready, but she nods and puts the half-eaten bowl of ice cream down, nervously pulling her worn yellow notebook out of her bag. She hesitates before holding it out to me, crossing over some invisible line as she lets go of it.
I open to the first page. Her neat, even cursive pulls me in, making me forget she’s reading my articles as I’m instantly drawn closer to the hidden parts of her, the secret pieces of Marley that make their way into every single fairy tale.
One story is about identical twins feeding a gaggle of ducks at the pond. More and more ducks come, until they are both swept away, flying high above the pond and the park and the cemetery.
Another is about a young girl who plants pink flowers that won’t stop growing, until one day they turn into a whole person: a flower reflection of the girl.
Marley’s stories are so good they make me want to lean over and snatch my lame articles back from her.
“Marley,” I say. She peers at me over the top of one of the articles, her eyes wide, questioning. I hold up her notebook. “You have to share these with more people than just me. Kids would go crazy for these stories.”
She shimmies up on the couch, eager, her nervous energy bubbling over. “You really think so?”
I nod, looking down at the page in front of me, where there’s a doodle of the flower girl from her story. “Absolutely.”
“Yours are great too,” she says, holding up the article she’s reading. “I don’t even like sports, and you actually manage to make it interesting. These player profiles you did are my favorite. I feel like I really know Sam after reading this,” she adds, Sam’s black-and-white picture staring at me from the top of the pile. “You make them more than just stats. That’s what you should use for your internship application.”
I laugh, relieved that she doesn’t hate them. She’s silent for a long moment, staring at the yellow notebook in my hands.
“People will like them?” she asks softly.
Our eyes lock.
“They’re gonna love them,” I say, meaning it.
She looks past me to the French doors, the moonlight reflecting off the glass. “Do you want to go outside?” she asks as she tugs at her collar.
I know how she feels. The room seems to have contracted around us, filled to the brim with that still-unnamed feeling swirling between us.
“Sure,” I say, and I grab a thick, quilted blanket from my room.
We head to the backyard and lie down on the blanket, gazing up at the ceiling of stars. Her hand brushes lightly against mine, and the night comes alive. Everything brighter. Everything buzzing.