THE GIRL REMINDED HIM a little of his Beth. Direct but sweet. That, more than anything, is why he let them stay up on the roof. He knows perfectly well that the only view they’ll be looking at is each other. No harm in that, he thinks.
He and his Beth were the same way. And not just at the beginning of their marriage, but all throughout. They won the lottery with each other, they liked to say.
Beth died last year. Six months after they’d both retired. In fact, the cancer diagnosis came the day after retirement. They had so many plans. Alaskan cruise to see the aurora borealis (hers). Venice to drink grappa and see the canals (his).
That’s the thing that gets to Joe even now. All the plans they’d made. All the saving. All the waiting around for the perfect time.
And for what? For nothing.
The girl is right, of course. He shouldn’t smoke. After he lost Beth, he took himself out of retirement and took up smoking again. What did it matter if he worked himself to death? What did it matter if he smoked himself to death? There was nothing left to live for, nothing left to plan for.
He takes one last look at the girl and the boy before closing the door. They’re looking at each other like there’s nowhere else they’d rather be. He and his Beth were like that once.
Maybe he will give up smoking after all. Maybe he’ll make some new plans.
DANIEL WALKS TO THE EDGE of the roof and looks out at the city. His hair is loose and blowing in the breeze and he’s got his poet face on. The non-bruised side of his face smiles.
I go to him and slip my hand into his. “Aren’t you gonna write something down, poet boy?” I tease.
He smiles wider, but doesn’t turn to look at me. “It looks so different from up here, doesn’t it?” he asks.
What does he see when he looks out? I see miles of rooftops, most of them empty. A few of them are populated with long-abandoned things—nonworking HVAC units, broken office furniture. Some have gardens, and I wonder who tends them.
Daniel takes out his notebook now, and I move a little closer to the edge.
Before these buildings were buildings, they were just the skeletons of them. Before they were skeletons, they were crossbeams and girders. Metal and glass and concrete. And before that, they were construction plans. Before that, architectural plans. And before that, just an idea someone had for the making of a city.
Daniel puts away his notebook and pulls me back from the edge. He puts his hands on my waist.
“What do you even write in there?” I ask.
“Plans,” he says. His eyes are merry and staring at my lips and I’m having trouble thinking. I take a little step back but he follows, like we’re dancing.
“I—Jesus. Have you been this sexy the whole day?” I ask.
He laughs and blushes. “I’m glad you think I’m sexy.” His eyes are still on my lips.
“Is it gonna hurt if I kiss you?” I ask him.
“It’ll be a good pain.” He puts his other hand on my waist like he’s anchoring us. My heart just will not settle down. Kissing him can’t be as good as I remember. When we had our first kiss, I thought I was kissing him for the last time. I’m sure that made it more intense. This kiss will be more normal. No fireworks and chaos, just two people who like each other a lot, kissing.
I get on my tiptoes and move in even closer. Finally his eyes meet mine. He moves his hand from my waist and places it over my heart. It beats under his palm like it’s beating for him.
Our lips touch, and I try to keep my eyes open for as long as possible. I try not to succumb to the crazy entropy of this thing between us. I don’t understand it. Why this person? Why Daniel and not any of the boys before? What if we hadn’t met? Would I have had a perfectly ordinary day and not know that I was missing something?
I wrap my arms around his neck and lean into him, but I can’t get close enough. The restless, chaotic feeling is back. I want things that I can name, and some things that I can’t. I want this one moment to last forever, but I don’t want to miss all the other moments to come. I want our entire future together, but I want it here and now.
I’m slightly overwhelmed and break the kiss. “Go. Over. There,” I say, and punctuate each word with a kiss. I point to a spot far away from me, out of kissing range.
“Here?” he asks taking a single step back.
“At least five more.”
He grins at me, but complies.
“All our kisses aren’t going to be like that, are they?” I ask him.
“Like what?”
“You know. Insane.”
“I love how direct you are,” he says.
“Really? My mom says I go too far.”
“Maybe. I still love it, though.”
I lower my eyes and don’t respond. “How much time until your interview?” I ask.
“Forty minutes.”
“Got any more of those love questions for me?”
“You’re not in love with me yet?” His voice is filled with mock incredulity.
“Nope,” I say, and smile at him.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “We’ve got time.”
IT FEELS LIKE A MIRACLE that we get to sit here on this rooftop, like we’re part of a secret sky city. The sun is slowly retreating across the buildings, but it’s not dark yet. It will be soon, but for now there’s only an idea of darkness.
Natasha and I are sitting cross-legged against the wall next to the stairwell door. We’re holding hands, and she’s resting her head on my shoulder. Her hair is soft against the side of my face.
“Are you ready for the dinner guest question yet?” I ask.
“You mean who I’d invite?”
“Yup.”
“Ugh, no. You go first,” she says.
“Easy,” I say. “God.”
She raises her head from my shoulder to look at me. “You really believe in God?”
“I do.”
“One guy? In the sky? With superpowers?” Her disbelief isn’t mocking, just investigative.
“Not exactly like that,” I say.
“What, then?”
I squeeze her hand. “You know the way we feel right now? This connection between us that we don’t understand and we don’t want to let go of? That’s God.”
“Holy hell,” she exclaims. “You poet boys are dangerous.”
She pulls my hand into her lap and holds it with both of hers.
I tilt my head back and watch the sky, trying to pick shapes out of the clouds. “Here’s what I think,” I say. “I think we’re all connected, everyone on earth.”
She runs her fingertips over my knuckles. “Even the bad people?”
“Yes. But everyone has at least a little good in them.”
“Not true,” she says.
“Okay,” I concede. “But everyone has done at least one good thing in their lifetime. Do you agree with that?”
She thinks it over and then slowly nods.
I go on. “I think all the good parts of us are connected on some level. The part that shares the last double chocolate chip cookie or donates to charity or gives a dollar to a street musician or becomes a candy striper or cries at Apple commercials or says I love you or I forgive you. I think that’s God. God is the connection of the very best parts of us.”
“And you think that connection has a consciousness?” she asks.
“Yeah, and we call it God.”
She laughs a quiet laugh. “Are you always so—”
“Erudite?” I ask, interrupting.
She laughs louder now. “I was gonna say cheesy.”
“Yes. I’m known far and wide for my cheesiness.”
“I’m kidding,” she says, bumping her shoulder into mine. “I really like that you’ve thought about it.”
And I have too. This is not the first time I’ve had these thoughts, but it’s the first time I’ve really been able to articulate them. Something about being with her makes me my best self.
I pull her hand to my lips and kiss her fingers. “What about you?” I ask. “You don’t believe in God?”
“I like your idea of it. I definitely don’t believe in the fire and brimstone one.”