The Geography of You and Me

They trudged on, both of them breathing hard, and Lucy was reminded of all those walks up and down the stairwell during the blackout. An image of Owen flashed in her mind, tall and gangly, lurching up the stairs with all the grace of a broomstick. When she looked up, she saw Liam powering ahead, sturdy-legged and strong-backed, and she felt a tug inside her, something wrenching and bleak.

A few other hikers passed them on their way down, but it felt to Lucy like they were the only ones still winding their way up, and her mouth was dry and chalky, her chest burning as they pushed on. She knew the city was unfolding at her back, and she wanted to turn and look, but she was afraid to lose momentum—or worse, lose Liam.

Finally, they rounded one last bend, and though she could see that there was still room to climb, Liam stopped at a flat outcropping, a sort of makeshift lookout point, and waved his arm out over the edge with a little flourish. For a moment, she couldn’t look; instead, she bent over with her hands on her knees and struggled to catch her breath. Liam had hardly broken a sweat, and briefly, fleetingly, she decided that she hated him. What was he thinking? It was nearly dark now, and he’d dragged her up some stupid mountain on a lark. She’d never in her life felt more like a city kid, and she was suddenly certain that she didn’t belong here. She was built for rooftops, not mountains.

But then she turned around, and there it was, the city of Edinburgh: spread before her in shades of purple and gold, all spires and turrets and glittering lights. Lucy stepped up to the edge of the overlook, her eyes wide and her chest tight. In the distance, the castle glowed a faint white, and a scattering of other monuments pierced the evening sky.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, and Liam stepped up beside her. He was so close that she could hear a small rattle in his throat when he breathed, could feel the heat rising off him, but in spite of this, her thoughts were still five thousand miles away, in another place with another boy, and the unfairness of this lodged itself in her chest and made her feel like crying.

Because what was she supposed to do now? There was no point in waiting for someone who hadn’t asked, and there was no point in wishing for something that would never happen. They were like a couple of asteroids that had collided, she and Owen, briefly sparking before ricocheting off again, a little chipped, maybe even a little scarred, but with miles and miles still to go. How long could a single night really be expected to last? How far could you stretch such a small collection of minutes? He was just a boy on a roof. She was just a girl in an elevator. Maybe that was the end of it.

Beside her, she could feel Liam smiling as the sky went a notch darker and the lights a notch brighter. “It looks like a painting, doesn’t it?” he asked, and the words stirred something inside her. She let out a long breath, then shook her head.

“It looks,” she said, “like a postcard.”





11


For Thanksgiving, they bought a chicken instead of a turkey.

“There’s no way we could eat that much,” Dad said as he wheeled their cart through the freezing cold aisles of the grocery store. And then, as if they needed reminding, he added: “There are only two of us.”

Owen gave in to this, and to store-bought stuffing, too, but he insisted they make all the sides, even turnips.

“I hate turnips,” Dad said with a groan.

“So do I,” Owen said, dropping them into the cart. “But they were her favorite.”

“Maybe we should start some new traditions of our own.”

“Fine with me,” said Owen, “as long as chicken isn’t one of them.”

Dad sighed as he steered the cart toward the checkout. “Next year will be better.”

Owen said nothing; he couldn’t think of a response.

They spent the morning preparing mashed potatoes and turnips and cranberry sauce in the cramped kitchen of their rental apartment, a small two-bedroom place with thin walls and a hissing radiator. The scent of the chicken in the oven was overpowered by the scent of salsa from the Mexican restaurant downstairs. They’d been here almost two months now, and Owen had grown used to the way everything from the carpets to the couches always smelled a little spicy. Even his clothes had a kick to them that deodorant couldn’t quite mask.

“If all else fails,” he joked as he stirred one of the pots, “we can always grab some tacos.”

“Come on now,” Dad said. “I used to do a lot of the cooking, too.”

Owen snorted, and Dad couldn’t help laughing.

“Fine,” he said. “But I microwaved with the best of them.”

“You still do,” Owen conceded. “It’s quite a skill.”