His face comes into focus now, in front of a familiar stained ceiling. Somehow, I ended up on the floor, my head in his lap, his hands on the back of my neck. In his eyes, I see a look I’ve never seen, not in him, not in anyone. It’s a recipe of fierceness, fire, and loyalty.
“I knew it,” he whispers, shaking his head. “When you called him Poncho Man, I fucking knew it.”
Beck holds me like that on the floor well into the night. We don’t talk. We don’t need to. Sleep is close, and I’m okay with that. Because among the not-knowing of sleep, I’ll know Beck. At some point, he carries me to bed and lies down next to me. It isn’t weird, though maybe it should be; it isn’t wrong, though it definitely could be. I curl up next to him, put my head on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around me, and I swear we were once a single unit, a supercontinent divided millions of years ago—like my fifth-grade science project—now reunited into some kaleidoscopic New Pangaea.
“I’m Madagascar,” I say, sleepily.
“You’re what?”
“I’m Madagascar. And you’re Africa.”
He squeezes my shoulder, and—I think he gets it. I bet he does.
I AM WOKEN by the sharp edges of my brain, a thought more persistent than sleep. “Beck,” I whisper. I have no idea what time it is, or how long we’ve been asleep like this. The TV is still on. The curtains are dark. “Beck. You awake?”
I feel his breath catch in his chest as he clears his throat. “Yeah.”
For a moment, I am acutely aware of my youth, and the recklessness that comes with it. I am aware of the darkness, and of every possibility it offers. I am aware of our comfortable nearness, of his scent, of us being with. But my sharp edges are more persistent than the recklessness of youth, the possibilities of darkness, even Beck’s comfortable nearness. “I thought you left me.”
“What?”
“Earlier, when I came out of the shower. You were gone. You and Walt. I thought you left me.”
It’s quiet. Just when I’m beginning to wonder if he fell back asleep, he answers. “We wouldn’t leave you, Mim. Not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“Like—high and dry.” He clears his throat again. “At the very least, you’d get a liquid good-bye.”
And that’s when I know what this is. Or rather, what it’s not. I remember our conversation from last night, out under the stars, in the back of Uncle Phil, and I know. “This isn’t a crush, you know.” I say it with my head in his arm—I want him to physically feel my words.
“I know,” he says.
“It isn’t.”
“I know.”
Tell him, Mary.
It’s deep and real and fucking old-school. It’s a fortress of passion, a crash—a fatal collision of neurons and electrons and fibers, my circus of oddities coming together as one, imploding in a fiery blaze. It’s . . . I-don’t-know-what . . . my collection of shiny.
It’s love.
I don’t say any of this, but not because I’m afraid. Wrapped up in Beck, I might never know fear again. I don’t say it because I don’t have to. Beck sees what it is.
I feel his weight shift on the bed; he rolls sideways, toward me, his face hovering over mine. We stare at each other for a second, silent, unmoving. I drink his green eyes, shiner and all. I drink his sharp nose, his jaw covered in desert-island stubble. I drink his eyebrows, thick and just the right amount of wild.
And I sense the move before it comes.
Beck leans in, slowly, and kisses my forehead. It isn’t brief, but it’s gentle, and full of sadness and gladness and everything in between. The sensation of his stubble lingers long after his lips are gone. His breath is robust and pleasant, how I imagine a ski lodge might smell, or a late-night jazz club. And just as I’m wondering how it would smell-taste-feel to have his lips pressed against my own, to feel his weight on top of me, to forever reunite Madagascar with Africa—he whispers the answer to last night’s question.
“I’m too old for you, Mim.”
Another kiss on the forehead, lighter this time, and he’s gone. He pushes himself off the bed. In the semidarkness, I watch him step over to the couch and lie down. That’s that. Game over. My fortress of passion crumbles around me, the most ruined of ruins.
And then, with nothing but two soft words from across a stained room, Beck rebuilds it. “For now.”
35
Olfactory Lane
September 5—morning
Dear Isabel,
In my very first letter to you, I declared myself incapable of fluff. And it’s true. On a typical day, you might even say I’m unfluffable. (Oh God, will you please?) But I’m not quite myself this morning, which is to say I’m feeling spry. Peppy. Full of morning-person stuff, and yes, even a little fluff. So, taking advantage of this rare a.m. energy, I reread some of my previous letters, and would like to, hereforthwith, attach a few amendments. I hope you don’t mind. Actually . . .