They had not, however, promised not to dance. In fairness, this was because Poppy, in her wildest nightmare scenario, had not conceived that she would dance herself and certainly had never considered the horrifying possibility that her parents might. But that’s just because she was still a little jet-lagged. Presented with a cheesy slow song in an elementary school gym decorated for Valentine’s Day, her parents were obviously going to dance to it.
As she took her husband in her arms, Rosie also took a moment to savor the smell of him, the feel of his hand in her hand, the way in which he was hers, for sure and forever. She remembered the high school years when she didn’t have a boyfriend and the college years when she had one but he was mean to her and the first years of med school when she was sure she’d never be in love again, and she remembered the feel of the wall on her back at the middle school dances when her friends got asked and she didn’t and the boy she liked chose someone else, and she felt how it was all worth it if it earned her, if it won her, if it resulted, karmically, narratively, miraculously, in Penn at last, Penn forever, Penn who was always and only and always hers, certain as sky.
As he took his wife in his arms, Penn also took a moment to remind himself he was in the presence of ten-year-olds. Don’t touch her ass, don’t touch her ass, don’t touch her ass.
“Thank you for coming home,” he whispered into her hair.
“I’m so proud of you, Penn.” She drew back from his shoulder to meet his eyes. “Author-Husband. I never doubted this day, not since the first time you took me to bed.”
“I am very persuasive in bed.”
“But your getting published is not why I came home.”
“I know.”
“Was there ever any doubt in your mind?”
“Never. But that doesn’t mean I am not grateful.”
“After all these years,” she said, “what made you finally write it down?”
“It wasn’t finally.” He pulled her closer. “But it was time.”
“Why?”
“We’ve always been living a fairy tale, Rosie. From the moment we met. From the moments before we met. We have this perfect love story. We have this love story that feels like a fairy tale and must be because how else to explain something so magical? But the problem with fairy tales is that they end, and quickly too. The lead-up is everything. Then you get transformation, love, and happily-ever-after all in one breath. That story’s nice, but it’s not big enough to hold us. There’s no room for the hard parts. There’s no room for the transformations and the loves that come next and next and next. In a story, nothing is unalterable, but nothing is alterable either. After the magic, there’s no more change.
“That’s no way to live, but I was trying to anyway. Make sure Poppy stays a little girl. Make sure Poppy stays a secret. Change her so she’ll never change. Metamorphosis to ward off transmutation. It makes no sense; that’s what I realized when you went away. So instead I tried the opposite: write it down, carve it in stone. Or, if you like, paper’s just as permanent once you send it out into the world. It seems like it closes the story, settles on one ending eliminating infinite possibilities, fixes it in place, in voice, but no, it does the opposite. You write it down so others can read it, and then it can grow. You nail it to a moment so it can pass through time. A book is just a foundation. Like us. You write it down to build upon. Our love, our magic fairy-tale love, is what supports the rest of it. It doesn’t mean the kids can’t grow—of course it doesn’t—but it lays down a place for them to do it from. That’s what story’s for.”
“That’s very pretty, Author-Husband.”
“Thank you … uh … Doctor-Wife.”
“But it doesn’t answer the question.”
“What question?”
“All the questions,” said Rosie. “Closet or rooftop? Blockers or puberty? Surgery or hormones? Both or neither? Girl or boy or in between? Today or tomorrow? Next month or next year? Fifth-grade meanies or homeschooling in her turret by the sea? DN or fairy tale?”
“It’s true.”
“What’s true?”
“It doesn’t answer the question. But it opens possibilities, and that’s even better, possibilities we never saw before, possibilities no one ever saw before. And it promises that when the time comes to decide, we’ve built someplace solid as ramparts from which to do it.”
Rosie was quiet for a while. Then she buried her face in Penn’s shoulder again so Poppy wouldn’t see her jubilation. “Can you believe she danced?”
“Of course I can.” Penn held her closer still. “Because you know what’s even better than happy endings?”
“What?”
“Happy middles.”
“You think?”
“All the happy with none of the finality. All the happy with room enough to grow. What could be better than that?”
“For a while,” said Rosie.
“A while’s a long time,” said Penn.
*