I need seventeen more blankets. One of those hot water bottle things my mom used to put in our beds when we were kids.
“W-warm.” Her exhale is a sigh of relief. It’s three shuffling steps to the couch that isn’t covered in soaking wet clothes. When I collapse back into it, I make sure to keep Evelyn against me, guiding her body above mine until she’s sitting sideways, her legs tucked over my lap. I wrap my hand around her ankle and squeeze, my thumb rubbing at the jut of her bone.
We sit in silence, the fire growing in the hearth until the room is glowing with it—the crackle of the flames urging me to settle. I can feel the heat licking at my shins and I angle her body until she’s as close as she can be, tucked right against me.
“You called m-me Evie,” she says somewhere into my neck, her palm sliding from my wrist to my elbow. She nuzzles closer, greedy for warmth.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?” I give in to the urge to brush my lips against the shell of her ear, using my fingers at her back to gently comb through the ends of her hair. It’s still dripping and I wrap the edge of the comforter around it, trying to squeeze out some of the extra water. I should have brought her a towel. Made her tea in the kitchen.
“You hav - haven’t called me that in a while, is all,” she replies, lazy and slow. Her shaking has slowed, her jaw finally relaxing from the tight clench of her teeth. I stare down at what I can see of her face, her dark eyelashes fanned against the rise of her cheek.
“I li - like it,” she tells me—a statement. She pauses and breathes out a heavy, watery sigh. “I missed it,” she adds—a secret.
I move my hand to her back, slowing my touch until my palm rests along the center of her spine. I spread my fingers wide and listen to the sound of her breathing. I match mine to hers.
“I missed it, too,” I confess.
The chill starts to leave her skin as I continue to hold her, a soft light from the fireplace filling the room. One of the kittens appears at the edge of the couch, her tiny face turned up in concern. Evelyn’s body relaxes against mine and I adjust my grip, nudging at her once with my nose. “Hey. I don’t think you should sleep. Talk to me for a few minutes.”
She grumbles something under her breath, shifting around in my lap until her arm is low around my back and her knee is hugging my side. She’s using me as a human pillow and the thought makes me smile, some of the tension finally slipping from my shoulders.
“About what?” she asks.
“I don’t know. What do we usually talk about?”
“I usually ask you a bunch of questions and you g-grunt at me.” She laughs into the bouquet of daisies on my shoulder, the delicate petals fanning out over my chest. She traces over it gently—the long stems, the thin ribbon inked between them. Her thumb trails to the hollow of my throat and she leaves it there, nose at my collarbone. I adjust her in my lap.
I can’t think when all her skin is pressed to mine. I can hardly breathe.
When I don’t offer anything in the way of conversation, she sighs. “Tell me something about the sky.”
I tilt my head back against the couch and consider, stretching my legs out beneath the coffee table. “There’s a meteor shower at the end of April,” I start. Her legs shift and I’m distracted by the weight of her against me, her bottom lip dragging against my skin. I breathe in slowly.
“I know,” she tells me. “I saw it on your f-fridge.”
I forgot I put the map there. Usually one of the cats collects it for their nest and I have to extract it from between stolen shirts and a necktie I’ve worn twice.
Evelyn’s weight becomes heavier against me, her forehead nudging at my chin. I jostle her slightly, my hand sliding across her skin. “Come on, honey. Stay awake with me.”
She whines and it sends a bolt of heat rocketing through my blood. I clear my throat and grapple for something to fill the limited space between us.
“I read online that it’s considered a common shower.” That’s what the article said. Common. Like a bunch of dust, rock, and ice leftover from the creation of the solar system isn’t something incredible. When did we stop marveling at the world around us? When did we stop looking at the stars?
“Meteors come from comets?” She mumbles it into my neck, lazy and slow.
I nod. “Yeah.” I slip my hand down to her hip and squeeze once. “Bits of comet, I suppose. When the remnants start to fall through our atmosphere, they catch on fire.”
“When you p-put it like that,” she laughs, a slight catch in the sound. “It sounds beautiful.”
I smile against her temple. “It is, though. It is when you think about it. These things are circling the sky for—god knows how long, really. And then we knock into their way and they start to fall, lighting up the sky as they go. Think about every kid that looks up to the sky and sees that flash of light. That’s magic, isn’t it?” Eight years old and standing in my parents’ backyard, corn stalks up to my knees and my pajamas a size too big, the hem of my pants dragging. A flash of light and my heart in my throat. A wish made on a star. “What in the hell is common about that?”
“I told you, I’m not going.”
I peer out of the kitchen to the living room where Evelyn is wrapped up in four blankets on the couch, a mug of tea cupped gently between her hands. The cats have all burrowed in various spots in her cocoon. I can see Vixen by her shoulder, her tail curled gently over the back of Evelyn’s neck. With a purely selfish impulse, I brought her one of my flannels to wear and I can make out the rolled sleeve as she brings the mug to her lips, the collar stretched wide over bare skin.
Gus stopped by not too long ago, the ambulance barreling into my driveway. Evelyn had been mortified, hands curled tight to her chest, quietly asking if bringing the behemoth was really necessary. Gus had chuckled and unloaded his bag, gently checking her over.
“It’s my work whip,” he told her, two fingers pressed to the delicate skin on her wrist as he took her pulse. “Next time I’ll rent a limousine.”
I had made a sound at that. There won’t be a next time. We won’t ever be re-visiting this little trip to the pond again. The next time Evelyn goes there, it’ll be one-hundred-and-two and sunny. I’ll put her on one of those backpack leashes. Now that the fear is gone, I’m left with nothing but a buzz of frustration. I have to hold myself back from sitting close to her, scooping her up against me. I want to feel the heat thrumming beneath her skin. I want to wrap her in seven more blankets and lock her in this house.