Are You Mine

Chapter 23


Saige


Ending a relationship to avoid future pain does not hurt any less than I imagine the future pain would, but it’s done now. Fox has just left my apartment after telling me to throw away the graphic novel we’ve been working on. Even though he’s been working on it for years, he doesn’t even care about it anymore.

I think it was my refusal to tell him I loved him and my inability to choose him that pushed him over the edge. Fox can take a lot of emotional crap, but he’s not a doormat, so he left.

After he leaves—after I push him out, I cry and cry. I don’t remember the last time I cried like this. Probably my father’s funeral, but unlike with my dad or with my mom, I did this to myself.

It’s not like letting Fox follow his dreams meant we couldn’t be together. They aren’t mutually exclusive, but it’s too late to change it now. I spend the rest of the night as a sobbing mess and ignore everything beyond the small, miserable world of my sofa. My phone rings, but I don’t even bother to see who is calling.

In the morning, I roll off my sofa, shuffle into the kitchen, turn the coffeepot on, and return to the same spot once I have a steaming cup in my hands. I don’t know what to do with myself. It seems like since I did all this, I should at least be able to control my mind enough to get over the self-inflicted wound quickly.

Writing always helped me process heavy emotions in the past, so I write and write and write until I’m on the other side of thirty thousand words. When I reread what I’ve written, I find Fox. So I switch from prose to poetry, and at the end, I find Fox again. So I open another blank document and write some more.

By three in the afternoon, I’ve written more than I have in the past few years, and everything’s about Fox.

Always Fox.

My phone rings but because it’s Fox calling, I let it go to voicemail. It rings again, and I still don’t pick it up. I’m a horrible person, but what am I supposed to do? Try to get him to forgive me and forget I did all of this? It won’t stop him from leaving. It won’t stop me from hurting and feeling like. . .like what exactly?

Why am I so afraid to feel anything beyond quiet comfort?

Music plays when I check my voicemails; it doesn’t surprise me. Fox uses jokes to cut tension and music and art to convey his feelings. These songs are particularly painful. They speak of our situation as if the lyrics had been written for us. In them, he’s telling me all I have to do is ask him to not go again, and he’ll stay. He’ll change his goals for me because I’m more important to him than something he’s worked for years to accomplish. The second song is about how sad he’ll feel if I don’t ask him to stay again; how sad he’ll be if I let him leave like this.

And it hits me; what Myka said was true. I am the one doing the abandoning now. I’m the one making someone else feel the way I hate to feel. Even though he’s the one taking the flight to England, I’m the one leaving him.

But I’m too used to inaction to do anything, so I don’t call Fox back. I just listen to those two songs on my voicemail over and over again until it’s one day closer to the day he leaves.

***

“It’s like the lottery, Saige,” Myka says the day before Fox is scheduled to leave the country. “People don’t play because they’re absolutely certain they’re going to win the next drawing. Hell, most people play and expect not to win. It’s the hope that keeps them in it. That little ticket gives them hope that something better, something more is out there. But you had something more, something better, and you’re letting him go. There’s no hope in that.”

I’ve been lying on this sofa for hours. I only got up to let Myka in, and my only reason for wanting to get up now is to let her out. “There is hope for him.”

“How very selfless of you,” she says.

“It is selfless, thank you. Now he can move on to someone who isn’t so toxic and won’t—”

“Saige, I love you and all, but you’ve got to get rid of this toxicity thing. I know a ton of people who are more noxious than you. You’re a little abrasive, self-defeating, and lack skills in the ways of social interaction, but if I had to guess, those are some of the reasons Fox likes you so much. He doesn’t want perfection. He wants you, flaws and all.”

“I know you’re doing what a best friend should do, but can you just stop?”

“When you stop wallowing in self-pity and take action, I’ll stop.”

“I am acting,” I say as I sit up and wave my hands at my body. “This is me taking action.”

“Failing to act isn’t action. It’s—”

“Myka, seriously, just—”

“Fine, I’ll leave you alone, but after I leave, you’ll never get an ounce of sympathy about this situation from me. You did this, and you won’t fix it.”

She’s right. I know she’s right. I close my eyes and dig my fingers into them as if the pressure will take away the sharp teeth eating me away from within. “I don’t know how to fix it,” I say.

“Try sharing that poem you wrote with him.” When I open my eyes, I see Myka pointing to my laptop. She looks at me for a long moment before tilting her head to the side. “You always deny yourself happiness for the stupidest reasons. He likes you. You like him. Just let yourself have a little joy.”

Of course I have nothing to say to that. Happiness is a risk, and I’m not sure I want to give up the comfort I have, miserable or not, for just the chance of happiness.

Myka glances at her watch. “I have to go. Val and I are going into the city. Now that he’s going to go to NYU with us, he’ll need a place to stay, so we’re apartment shopping for him. I’m hoping we don’t find anything and we’ll just live together.”

“Aren’t you scared?” I ask.

“Of what? I’ve been to the city a million times.”

“Not of the city. Of being happy with Val and then one day having it all just disappear.”

Myka comes and sits down next to me. It feels awkward when she takes my hands in hers, but I like the connection, so I don’t pull away. “Happiness doesn’t just disappear, Saige. Sometimes it fades from view or diminishes when you’re not actively grateful for it, but it doesn’t just go away.”

She’s wrong, but then she still has both parents. She can still go home and laugh with them. They’re not just washed-out old memories of a life that once was.

I don’t voice any of this to her, but she guesses. “I know you don’t believe me. I’ve not lived the life you have, but I know if you boil away all the pain you let coat your existence, you’ll be left with the happiness and love you’ve been given your whole life. Change your mind. Decide to focus on all the happiness your parents gave you instead of what you’ve lost.”

“They haven’t—”

“Sure they have,” Myka says. “You just have to remember it.”

After she leaves, I remain on the couch. I don’t even bother to get up and lock the door. Instead, I try my best to do as she said. I attempt to remember the happiness my parents gave me. I supposed if someone asked if I would rather never have had parents, the answer would be no. I guess I’m glad I knew them and knew they loved me. Does having five years of a mother’s love outweigh the void her death caused for thirteen years? Does my memory of my father’s smile and the way he hugged me mute the pain of having that damn flag on my shelf?

When I was a little girl, I was always so excited to get a letter from my dad. My stomach would flutter and my heart would race. As soon as my grandmother told me I’d gotten a letter, I’d run around the house looking for it. I suppose it was a game I played with myself. I mean, I always knew it would be lying on the kitchen counter, but I always ran to my bedroom first, then scanned the living room, then the kitchen table.

Even now I can remember the sensation of ripping open that envelope and pulling out the folded piece of paper. The expectation was overwhelming. He’d always write me a letter, but whenever he could, he’d send me a drawing. I never knew if the envelope contained a little piece of creativity; a little piece of who my father was beyond words written on a page, sanitized for the eyes of a young girl.

Once, he drew a picture of children, another time, it was of his bunk, but my favorite of all was a sketch he did of our family. At the time, even though I was young, I knew it was a representation of how he still thought of us. I was lying on the ground, with the biggest smile ever, while my mother held my shirt with one hand and tickled my belly with the other. My dad drew himself at my feet, holding one foot by the ankle and tickling it.

When I saw it, I laughed and cried at the same time, then ran to my room to tuck the drawing under my pillow.

I don’t remember what happened to that picture. I don’t think it was lost or ruined, but I can’t remember what I did with it when I moved out of Gramma’s.

I look around, thinking of all the places it could be. All of the sudden, I’m up on my feet, moving fast through my apartment, opening cabinets and drawers and pulling out the contents. It takes a half hour to find a stack of old notebooks at the bottom of the blue trunk that had belonged to my mother. Sandwiched between two notebooks is the picture my father drew.

The tears come, but just like when I was a child, they’re followed by laughter as I imagine myself being tickled by my parents. We had been a family. They had loved me, and we’d been happy together. I wouldn’t trade that knowledge for anything.

I sit there at the base of my closet with paper, old toys, and clothes all around me until I hear, “Saige?” My grandmother stands in the doorway. “I knocked, but—” Her eyes grow large as she takes in my room. I’m sure the living room is in the same state of disarray. “What’s going on?”

So I tell her. I tell her about breaking up with Fox and Myka’s words about happiness and deciding to focus on that, and when I’m finished, Gramma carefully makes her way to me by stepping over items. She holds out a hand and helps me up.

I show her the drawing, and she gets this expression on her face that’s only part smile. The other part is sadness.

“How do you balance it?” I ask when I’m standing straight.

“Balance what?”

“The love and the pain. The happiness and the sorrow.”

“It was hard in the beginning, but one day I just woke up and decided every time I felt horrible for not having your mother any more, I would remember how lucky I was to have her in the first place. So many people don’t even get the years with their children I was given. Your question is the answer. You balance the pain and sorrow with the love and happiness. When it hurts, you remember, purposefully remember, the good times.”

My grandmother has tears in her eyes. I’ve never felt closer to her. She squeezes my hand. “I’ve brought something for you.” Gramma leads me out into the kitchen and lying on the counter is a journal. “I found it,” she says.

I take the small book and sit down at the table. The cover is a soft fabric, but before I can open it, my grandmother’s voice stops me. “Did I ever tell you about how your dad proposed to your mom?”

“No,” I say.

“She broke up with him their senior year of college. He’d already signed the papers to join the Marines and loving a military man frightened your mother. Like I’ve said, she was a free spirit. She decided to spend the summer in Italy in a cultural program she’d wanted to participate in since she was in high school, so she arranged to get her finals out of the way early to begin her time there as soon as possible. Your dad was always a by-the-books kind of man. He was an artist, but he drew inside the lines, if you understand what I mean, but despite knowing he had finals in a week and knowing that a poor performance on those tests could adversely affect his future, he borrowed money from friends, bought a ticket to Italy, and proposed to your mother on the beaches of the Mediterranean.”

I don’t know what I feel as my mind supplies images of what their proposal must’ve looked like, but as I think about the depth of love my father must have felt to risk everything and change his straight and narrow ways to find her, a little tickle within my belly starts to rise. Soon, my whole body shakes with excitement, anticipation, and nervousness. “Wow,” I say in a whisper.

“Toward the end of the journal, she writes about it,” Gramma says as she takes a step toward the hall. “It’s late, Saige. I should go, and you look as though you need some sleep.” She stops, then walks to me and gives me a kiss on the top of my head. “Your mother ran away from the idea of loving a man who could be sent anywhere in the world at any time, but this man, who she thought would never bend his own rules of conduct, chased her across the world, declared his love for her, and didn’t let her get away. You’re a bit of your mother and a bit of your father. Perhaps if you love Fox, you won’t let him get away either.”

I spend hours after my grandmother leaves hesitating about opening the cover of my mom’s journal. Finally, when it’s the early hours of the next day, I lift the fabric cover and scan through the first page. I don’t read anything yet. I just soak in the handwriting. It looks like mine, but there are more loops and bigger flourishes. Even without reading the words, I can tell my mother was a happy person.

The first page starts at the beginning of my parents’ relationship. It’s like she met him and decided right then and there she needed to record it. I met a cute guy today. He was playing hacky sack with a couple other guys, and the sack went a bit higher in the air than it was supposed to. He started racing backward and tripped over my feet. The sack landed on my shoulder. When I tried to give it back to him and see if he was okay—he was flat out on his back with his legs over mine—he gave me the best smile I’ve ever seen. He said, “I’ve known all my life that I’d fall hard for a beautiful girl, I just didn’t know it’d be quite so literal or so hard.”

Finally, after reading about the ups and downs of opening herself up to another human being, about my mother’s nervousness when thinking of the future, about the romantic things my father did for her, I read about her journey to Italy. And here I am on the beach surrounded by pale sand and the bluest water I’ve ever seen, and all I can think about is him, how badly I want to be with him, how painful it is when he’s not around, how he makes me a better person, how I make him a better person. Surrounded by all this beauty—such a beautiful new experience—all I can think about is the beautiful thing I have back home. Or had. Had is probably more appropriate since we’re not together anymore.

The next entry is dated the next month. I’m getting married! Right when I was sitting on that beach, thinking of him, wanting him, regretting my decision, I looked around and there he was! I had no idea how he found me halfway around the world and in the middle of a country neither of us knew, but he did it.

He broke all of his rules and found me.

For a moment, I can’t breathe as I imagine my father’s hard investigative work. He had to find out where in Italy she went, figure out where she was staying, and then figure out she was on the beach that day. I wish he’d written his side down, but I’m so grateful for my mother’s journal.

I clutch it to me, and as if by osmosis, I experience a surge of courage and clarity of mind. Fox would go across the world to find me. That means something. That’s the love my father had for my mother. That’s the love that gave them so much happiness. Even if their end was tragic, their beginning and middle had to be worth it. It had to be.

When I can move, I open my laptop up and grab my phone. It goes straight to voicemail and my stomach flips as I glance at the clock. Fox is probably on the flight already. He’s probably speeding away from me right now, but just because he’s dangerously out of reach, doesn’t mean I can’t fight to make it right. The infusion of courage doesn’t dissipate no matter how much my insides tighten.

As soon as I hear the beep, I speak. “It’s me. I’m stupid and wrong, and I’m sorry. I wrote something. It’s called ‘The Gift.’ I wrote it for you.

Continue to walk beside me

and provide me

with this gift

you bring.

You are the

song I sing;

the melody

that plays

and forever

stays on

my mind.

In you I

find reasons

in the seasons

of my life

to live and give

to others

what you've

freely and graciously

given to me.

A chance to see

something so rare

like a sunrise

nothing can compare

to what I have in you.

Continue to walk

beside me

feeling this heart

beat inside of me

hand in hand

as you do...

“Fox, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I do love you.”

As I disconnect the call, I think about all the events that could happen to prevent him from receiving the message. Any number of things could get in the way, and now that I’ve found my voice, I can’t allow that to happen.

Within a half hour, I’m packed.

Within forty-five minutes, I have reservations on a flight that leaves at noon. Thank God Gramma made me get that passport a couple years back. I don’t know exactly where Fox is staying, but I know he’ll be at Liverpool Football Club’s Anfield, which narrows the work I’ll have to do considerably. I try calling Fox’s father, but there’s no answer.

I’ll just have to do it on my own.

As I walk out my door, I see a medium-sized canvas tilted against the wall and the door frame. It’s facing away, but there’s only one person I know who would leave a painting for me. I don’t know what it’s like to swoon, but I think I’m close to doing it. My knees feel rubbery as I bend down to pick it up; my heart races, resulting in a thump-thump-whoosh sound that blocks everything else out; and my breath comes in short bursts.

Once the canvas is in my hands, I lean against the doorjamb and flip the painting over. The colors are so bold, yet there’s a softness within the lines which speak to the care and love the painter put into it. Fox has so much talent and passion. It is impossible not to notice when looking at his work. This particular painting is familiar to me. This is a final version of the sketch he made so long ago. The one he used to help me ask the question I almost couldn’t express.

In it, we’re sitting in a park, looking at each other. I don’t know how he does it, but in those anime versions of us, there is love in our eyes. He’s handing me a red, heart-shaped box. Above our heads are small gray text boxes. Not dialogue bubbles, exactly, more like a soft blend of thought and voice.

The box closest to the drawing of me reads, Are you mine?

His box says, Yes. The word is underlined three times and nearly guts me.

The picture is no longer a quick black and gray sketch with eraser marks and smudged thumbprints. This is a finished work of art. Beautiful lines, amazing color, and clearly a polished version of our relationship.

Fox had to have put this here this morning or possibly late last night. This is his version of my poem. A declaration. I take a quick picture of it with my phone, place it on the foyer table, then head back out into the hallway, and lock my door.

I have a plane to catch. I’ll use the photo of his painting to keep my courage and resolve high.

***

On my way to the airport, I drive under bridges. They seem to be a timeline of foxes. The first is a single fox, drawn by a happy graffiti artist. The next one is the same, but the third graffiti fox has a green leaf behind it. My throat feels like it’s swelling up and my heart starts thumping as I go beneath it. Finally, as I get closer to the city, a crying fox greets me, and the knot in my stomach grows larger.

I have so much time to spare once I get to the airport. They always scare you with how long the security lines are going to be, but rarely do they live up to the threat. So I drink coffee as I research England, Liverpool, and Anfield on my cell. As ridiculous as it sounds, researching is a little too inactive right now, even for me. It might keep my mind busy, but I have way too much nervous energy to sit for long.

I get up and roam around, peek into gift shop windows. I’m not looking for anything in particular beyond snacks for the plane and maybe a good writing magazine, but I find something I didn’t know I needed. It’s sitting up on one of the highest glass shelves. I can see the sticker on the bottom through the glass, but the cost is inconsequential.

Without hesitation, I buy it and a small pack of stationery notes. Back at the terminal, I copy down my poem in my smallest script, then curse myself for being so stupid. Fox doesn’t like to read, and he won’t appreciate tiny little letters that make him squint as well as the hurdles he has to jump to make sense of the letters.

I fold that piece of paper in half, stick it in my back pocket, and stare at the picture of Fox’s painting on my phone. I can’t think of anything else until the airline clerks call for pre-boarding of my plane. Then, all of the sudden, it floats into my mind where it nestles down deep into the core of my functioning. The same thrill I experienced when I realized I didn’t want to just sit back and let Fox go blankets my body. I can barely write on the paper because I’m so jittery, but it is perfect.

Just as they call for my group to board the plane, I tuck the little note inside the gift and smile to myself. This is an adventure fit to write in a journal. That is what I’m going to do with the remainder of the stationary notes. I can tape them into a notebook later.

If my parents could see me now, I think they’d be proud.

The flight goes by remarkably fast. I didn’t bring my laptop, which was probably stupid of me, so along with my thoughts, I scribble notes on the little notepad. Apparently being adventurous is good for the creative mind. In the time I’m in the airplane, I come up with seven poems. I write them without having to stop for any barriers. In addition to the poems, I sketch out a short story about how a people can find themselves through other people. It’s not going to be a silly book about how the love of a good guy teaches the main character to open up and strive for something. It’s going to be a book about how simple connections with the right people can help give others strength. The heroine meets a boy, yes, but it’s not instant love, and it’s not that the girl changes for the boy. She changes because of the boy. She can see how opening to the world can lead to a happiness she would never have if she kept hidden away. The past doesn’t have to define her; if she just opens her mind and her heart, she can see the world, the past and present, with new eyes, and actively work to make the future be whatever she wants it to be.

Once in London, I have to figure out what the hell to do. The first Liverpool match isn’t for two days, and I have to find my way to the city by the coast. I decide to spend the night at a hotel and do more research. I guess Liverpool is in a county called Merseyside, and it’s a little bit of a trek from London. I should’ve paid more attention in geography class.

My internet search yields that it will take over three hours to drive there or a little over two by train. It seems like it should be a no-brainer, but I debate for a good hour which option to take. On one hand, driving in another country is way more adventurous than sitting on a train; on the other hand, driving on the other side of the road scares the piss out of me. I’m pretty sure I could do it, but does adventure outweigh personal and public safety? I’m sure everyone in England will appreciate not having a reckless American behind the wheel, but will a train ride be worthy of a journal entry?

In the end, safety wins out, and I’m on the train to Liverpool by eleven the next morning. As it turns out, the train ride is worthy of many entries. Just watching the countryside go by is so inspiring. I think of another two book ideas as I ride, both set in England. I would have to stay here for a while to do research, but I think it would be worth it and fun. Especially if Fox stayed with me.

“’Ello.”

With some surprise, I turn to find the lady across the aisle smiling at me. Normally I wouldn’t talk to random strangers on a train, but this lady looks like a nice grandmother with fly-away gray hair and puffy cheeks. Plus, this is England and not New York City where striking up a conversation on the subway is considered bad social form, so I say, “Hello.”

“Not from here, I reckon?” The woman holds her hand out across the divide and opens it up, palm up with a piece of plastic covered candy. The package is white and black, and I’ve never seen this kind of candy before. Despite not wanting it, I take it and give her a smile. If I want to change, I have to, well, change. This whole trip is about pushing myself to be a better version of me, so I unwrap the candy and say, “Thank you.”

But there is only one word I can use to describe it when I pop it in my mouth: nasty, but this nice old lady is looking at me, so I give her an exaggerated smile. “Mmm. What kind of candy is this?”

“Black Jack chew.”

I chew it and try not to die from the way it makes my mouth water like crazy. Once I work through it and swallow what I can, I say, “It’s like black licorice.” Never been a favorite of mine. In fact, of all candies, I dislike black licorice the most. I take a drink of water from the bottle, swish it around, then turn back to the lady as I nod toward the front of the train. “Are you from Liverpool?”

“Lived there all my life until my Charles died last spring. I’ve just got back from holiday in London with me son. He lives in one of those posh flats in Chelsea.” The woman pauses, looks me up and down and says, “You’re a Yank.”

“I’m from New Jersey.” I’ve never been one to overshare, but I’ve got no one else to talk to, and somehow it seems like the more people who know how I feel about Fox, the more likely it is that he’ll forgive my stupidity. “I’m going to Liverpool because my boyfriend likes the soccer team there.”

“The what?”

“The soccer team. You know, the guys dressed in red kicking the ball into goals.”

“You mean football, dear. The Liverpool Football Club.”

“Yes, exactly. So he’s going to be at the stadium, and I want to surprise him. We didn’t part on the best of terms. Actually, I sort of broke it off with him.”

“That’s very brave of you to travel abroad on your own. Do you have tickets then?”

“Tickets?”

“Yes, to the match?”

I remember Fox telling me that match means the soccer game, so I shake my head.

“Oh, my dear,” she says with a sorrowful voice, “those tickets are probably sold out. You have to purchase early and even then, they’re expensive.”

“Money doesn’t matter. So there’s no way to buy a ticket?”

“I would say not, but perhaps you could solicit the supporters. It’s doubtful, but perhaps there are a few romantics among them who might sell you their seat.”

I give a heavy sigh. “Thanks for the information,” I say as I turn forward again. This isn’t great news. I’m not sure what I thought or why it seemed like such an easy thing to do, but I feel a little deflated.

But maybe this is just a test of how hard I’ll work to achieve something I really want. Finding Fox will be an accomplishment I can be proud of. Something I can write down for future generations to read and remember my triumph. By the end of the train ride, I’ve convinced myself once again that Fox and his love are worthy of hard work and uncomfortable effort.

The thought of seeing Fox, of seeing the expression on his face when he sees me, carries me through until game day. Maybe I can find him in the crowd before the match, but when I see the sea of Liverpool fans flooding in the gates, it seems hopeless. Instead, I try to find someone who looks like they’re attending the match on their own.

One guy smiles and give me a laugh when I ask if he wants to sell his ticket. “You’re mad! This is the first match of the season.”

Another guy considers it until a friend of his slaps him on the back and asks him to share a pint before the match. “Sorry, luv. Wish I could help.”

Finally a man wearing a jersey of the opposing team sells me his ticket for probably five times what he paid for it. “F*cking Liverpool supporters!” he says with a laugh as he walks away.

With ticket in hand, I go in and can’t help but be little awed of the size of the stadium and the number of people all coming together to watch one soccer game. Then, of course, comes the feeling of insignificance and hopelessness. I am but one person in this mass of humanity. Fox is but a speck within the constellations of faces in the stands. And they’re all wearing red.

How will I ever find him?

It doesn’t get any easier once the game starts. People are singing and cheering and singing again. They are out of their seats, clapping, sitting down and throwing their hands up, milling around with beers, shouting at the players on the field, and singing some more.

I don’t even care where my seat is; I just want to find Fox. As I walk up and down the stairs in every area I can get to, the music that has fueled our relationship is on a nonstop loop in my head. Song after song plays within my mind, most dominant of course, are The Avett Brothers.

I look up at the rows and rows of seats. How will I search all these faces? How will I find his face in this crowd? I realize now that while I was with Fox, I could only ever see myself, never him. I could only think about how everything affected me; and about how even while things were good, I always suspected them of turning sour because I was just pretending to be as in love as Fox was.

Now I can see that I wasn’t pretending at all. While Fox will always be a lighter, brighter person than I am, it doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t feel the same things his does. It just means sometimes I take more convincing. He is worth finding, and I’m worthy of finding him.

Something happens on the field that makes the crowd go crazy again. I look up at the clock and it says the game is in its sixty-fifth minute. Liverpool is ahead by a point, but then the score flips and they’re ahead by two.

I look down as I step up onto the landing right before going back inside the enclosed portion of the stadium. All of the sudden I’m knocked backward. I wave my arms to try to keep myself upright. My body is unbalanced and headed for a horrible fall down those stupid steps. Something tightens around my upper arms, and I’m pulled away from the edge of the stairs and onto the flat concrete.

I look up and forget everything beyond his face. “Fox,” I say in a disbelieving tone.

Slowly, he lets his hands relax and smooth down the length of my arms. For just a second, he uses his fingers to tickle the palms of my hands, but then his touch is gone. “Saige?”

I don’t know what to do, and I feel a bit stupid for having traveled all this way without rehearsing at least something to say to him if I did manage to find him. The silence grows so long and awkward Fox opens his mouth to break it, but I hurry to beat him to it. “I tried calling you.”

He looks at his feet, then back up. “Yeah. Apparently they have a different electrical system over here, and I didn’t budget for buying a new charger, so my cell is dead. Did you leave a voicemail?”

Fox sounds so casual, like nothing bad happened between us. I don’t understand how he can be like this, but I love it. “Yeah. I read you a poem I wrote.”

I get ready to recite it, but he narrows the space between his brows as he studies my face. “What are you doing here, Saige?”

“My Gramma gave me my mother’s journal. When she got scared of loving my dad, she went to Italy, but when he got tired of being without her, he flew five thousand miles to ask her to stay with him for the rest of their lives. He had no idea where she was, but found her on a beach.” I reach up and touch the wrinkled skin between his eyebrows. “I’ve hardly ever seen this.”

“I’ve hardly ever felt so crushed and confused. I thought we were over,” he says as he stares down at my feet.

“Yeah. Me, too.” I touch his hand, but I don’t dare hold it yet.

“What changed?”

It takes a moment to come up with something simple yet telling. “I did.”

Finally, Fox looks up at me.

I nibble my lower lip for a moment. “I decided you were worth the risk of getting hurt.”

“You still think you’re going to get hurt though.”

I shake my head. “I can’t predict everything, and I can’t change everything about who I am. I can’t change the fear of losing it all again, but if it does happen, I want to have experienced happiness and joy and love and. . .” I can’t finish the sentence. There are just too many things I want with him.

“Fox, you were right about how much you’ve worked for your dream, and I’m sorry I tried to make you stay and follow my half-baked ideas. I’ve done next to nothing to follow through with anything in my life.” I can feel the tears burning in my eyes, and as much as I don’t want them to fall, I recognize I’m powerless to stop them. “I was so scared of you leaving me I left you first.”

He covers my cheek with his hand and uses his thumb to brush away a tear. All I want for him to do is hold me as my muscles relax and the tension fades.

Fox’s smile is brilliant and louder than the crowd surrounding us. “You followed me here, found me among all these people. You’re following through with me, and that’s. . .” Fox lets the statement hang unfinished as he leans down and presses his lips against mine. I’m not sure what it is, but somehow the kiss infuses even more strength, courage, and resolve into me. He is what I want.

The crowd cheers, and for a second I think they’re cheering for us. We end the kiss and Fox retrains his eyes on the field. I turn around and see that Liverpool has scored again. I refocus on Fox quickly and love the delighted smile on his face and the way he pumps his fist in the air as if Liverpool’s triumph is his own. He brings his eyes back to me and the triumph is shared between us.

“Oh,” I say, as I remember the small gift I bought at the airport. I pull it from my small bag just as the crowd begins to sing again. It’s the song Fox played for me several times this summer, the one about walking through the storm because at the end, everything will be beautiful and you’ll see how lovely the sky is after something so dark as a storm, and instead of thunder and rain, you’ll hear the birds.

I mimic the painting he created, only in reverse. Instead of Fox giving me something; I’m giving it to him. While he’s slow to take it, I get the sense that it is not because he doesn’t want it, but because he understands the true implication of what I’m giving him. It’s not a cheap heart-shaped box from some marked up airport gift shop. It’s my heart, and I’m handing it over to him to hold and protect.

“Open it,” I say. The power of the voices around us almost drowns mine out, but he hears it. I think no matter where we might be, he’ll always hear it.

Just as he plucks the little piece of paper from within the container and squints to read it, two things happen. The crowd gets to the point of the song when they sing the title of the Liverpool anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” and Fox’s whole face lights up.

He holds the paper on which I’ve written I’m yours up to me. “For real this time?”

I nod. “For real. No matter what happens. As long as I have you in my heart, I’ll never lose you.” Just like my parents.

It’s not until he says, “Smile like you mean it,” that I realize how serious I must look. “Love is fun, Saige.”

“Will you be with me?” I ask because as long as the answer is yes, then I know I’ll be able to smile forever.

“I’m yours.”

My smile pulls and tightens the muscles in my face. It’s a smile that can only be rivaled by Fox’s. I want him to kiss me again, but instead, he says, “Knock, knock.”

“Who’s there?” I ask without hesitation.

“Aardvark.”

If possible, my smile grows as my heart lightens. “Aardvark who?”

“Aardvark all over the world to see this smile!”

“Knock, knock,” I say.

For a second, he looks shocked that I have one of my own, then says, “Who’s there?”

I say, “Olive.”

“Olive who?”

“Olive you.”

Fox doesn’t laugh, just cups my face with both of his hands. He kisses me again and confirms that risking my heart has been worth it.

This time, when the crowd shouts and applauds, I know no matter what’s happening with the players on the field, they’re really cheering for us.





ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Based in the American Midwest, N.K. Smith is a Technical Writer for a Fortune 100 company. The author of the Old Wounds Series, Ghosts of Our Pasts, and My Only, she is a mother of two who finds the time to write very early in the morning when the rest of the world is still fast asleep.

An avid lover of history, art, music, books, and people, she is interested in telling stories that speak to the human condition.

Website: http://nksmithauthor.blogspot.com/

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/NKSmithAuthor

Twitter: http://twitter.com/NKSmithWrites

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5358547.N_K_Smit