Dark Wild Night

“Why don’t you come over and watch it with me?” I whine quietly. I haven’t seen him in an eternity.

“Because I’d fuck you as soon as I set foot in the door, and you’re in the cave.”

My heart erupts and I imagine a sunbeam blasting from my chest. “Oh.”

He laughs. “G’night, Lola Love.”

I want him to tell me he loves me. I need the way his voice coils around the words, but it’s my prize at the end. I know it is.

When the movie is done, I put my empty beer bottle in the recycling bin and head back to my room, finishing the scene in an hour.



* * *




I’VE ONLY PRINTED out two full copies of Junebug, but I can’t stop touching them. I splurged on the glossy cover with black matte title font, the thick pages bursting with color in between. Color explodes from the front, too; I’m not sure whether Erik will want to keep this cover or not, but I’ll fight for it: iridescent blues, greens, reds, yellows swirling around my winged June and her beloved Trip. Chaos fades behind them, promising that, no matter what story opens these pages, there is triumph inside.

I’m proud of it, and giddy to show it to Oliver.

I pull up to the curb and listen to my old car tick in the silence. Oliver’s house is a small blue rambler on a tiny, square lot. His lawn is making a desperate attempt to grow, but Oliver refuses to water as much as it needs, because of the drought. The paint is faded, the walkway cracked in places. It is at once unremarkable and perfect. I can see myself here. I can see us here.

My heart seems to inch its way up my throat at the thought of being with him in casual, daily ways. I miss the everyday chatter. I miss, even more, the time alone with him, loving, being loved, making it.

Reaching for the books, I pick them up, holding them in the sun. One copy is for me. The other is for Oliver. I don’t need him to tell me it’s good; I know it is. But I want him to be the first to read it in full, because it’s our story, too. He’s seen it in pieces, but I wonder if it will sink in once he reads it from cover to cover. I recognize that’s how I create, at least for now: I unload my life on pages, transporting myself to a different world and seeing how I might react, survive, thrive.

I lift the R2-D2 knocker and let it drop against the heavy wooden door. There’s something reassuring about how Oliver looks when he answers: dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, hair mussed, half-eaten apple in hand. Despite everything that’s happened between us in the past few weeks, he’s still the only man I’ve ever loved.

He smiles happily when he sees me, pulling the door open wider and I wonder in a pulsing heartbeat if I could ever have been with anyone but him, Oliver Lore: now transparent to me, always up front and on the level.

“Hey,” he says. “This is a nice surprise.”

“Hi.” I nearly choke on the single word.

“I didn’t think I’d get you until Friday.”

His gaze drifts to what I’m holding, and I hand him his copy of the book. “My ticket inside, I believe?”

His laugh is cut off halfway past his lips when he gets a good look at the cover art. My heart soars as his eyes go wide, his mouth releasing a slow “Holy shit.”

The panel shows the girl, drops of rain spilling from her hands.

“I love you,” I say in a quiet, desperate burst. His attention breaks from the cover, and he looks up at me, eyes round with surprise.

Oliver steps out onto the small porch, absently dropping the apple at his feet and tucking the book under his arm. His hands come up to my face, cupping my jaw, eyes searching mine.

“Yeah?” he whispers.

I nod, saying it again. “I love you.”