Jonah and I leave only after I have hugged everyone in attendance at least twice, even Naomi, who stiffens at my embrace, and then we take off on my Vespa with Jonah driving, even though he’s technically not supposed to. He makes us stop at home to pick up the helmets. One more surprise, or so he says, and I close my eyes with my arms latched around his waist, wings thrashing violently at my back.
He’s driving farther and farther toward the coastline, not stopping until we’re in front of a building that looks like a small-town church with a steeple. But, no. It’s a lighthouse. The light isn’t on, but I can see its shape—a tower with a circular walkway and black iron handrails. A glass planet trapped inside a birdcage.
“Come on,” Jonah says, pulling me by the hand after we climb off the Vespa.
“Are we going in? Can you get us in?”
“Yeah. My dad knows the caretaker. Knew him, I mean.”
From his pocket, Jonah produces a key on an old lanyard and opens the front door. The piping along the edges of the house reminds me of gingerbread, like you could shingle the roof in licorice and cover the windows with giant peppermints. Inside, the room is dusty and piney and filled with racks of postcards and model ships. Jonah watches me as I survey the trinkets, running my hands along shelf after shelf filled with maritime books. “My dad’s friend starting volunteering at the gift shop when he retired. The lighthouse obviously doesn’t get used for boats anymore, but the Verona Cove Historical Society restored the building and light a few years before I was born. There are actually lots of lighthouse tourists.”
“Enchanting.” My voice is a whisper as to not disturb the delightfully spooky atmosphere. “Can we go up?”
“Where do you think I’m taking you—the basement?” He smiles, lopsided and pleased with himself. “You sure you don’t want my jacket?”
I fluff my hair. “Oh, Jonah, as if I’d cover up this dress.”
He leads me up a spiral staircase, and I can tell even from the back of his head that he’s smiling because he knows I’m totally taken with this, all of it. My heart beats four times as fast as our footsteps up the stairs, th-thump, th-thump, at the quietness and anticipation. The wind whips straight into my ears as we enter the lighthouse’s deck, but the air off the Pacific is warm, and I gasp at the view. For a moment, I nearly lose my depth perception, trying to reconcile the new heights with the stars and the sea, and I understand why the guardrail rises all the way to my waist.
“Wow.” The word is a hush against the night. For all the joy that tonight’s dinner gave me, all the fullness and humanity and communing, this is something else entirely. I’m at the bow of the terrestrial Earth, steering straight toward the cosmos. I’m watched over by the dove-gray moon, his gentle head bowed, and I have to wonder if this is ygen, profound beauty in the natural world—so subtle that it calls up a feeling of wonder without naming it. The word has no English counterpart and neither does this feeling, so I stand witness to the universe without any thought but enjoying my front-row seat.
“Close your eyes,” Jonah says, and I do it immediately—I close my eyes, and the first thing I hear is music coming from what sounds like a crackly old radio. And then I feel light flash against my eyelids, a sun exploding right in front of me. I open my eyes toward the sea to find that I’m backlit. The light on and ablaze, too bright to look back at.
Jonah appears beside me, his hands on the rail. “The town paid an insane amount of money for it to be a working lighthouse. They only turn it on for special occasions.”
“They let you light it for my birthday?” I can’t believe this; I honestly cannot. How silly I was at the beginning of the summer, believing Jonah needed me to make him happy.
His mouth slips into a smile. “Let’s just say I’d rather beg forgiveness than ask permission.”
We stand together for what feels like a long time, the radio playing melodies over the white noise of sloshing waves.
“My dad used to take me here,” Jonah says finally. “He’s the one who brought that radio up here, to listen to baseball games. I was obsessed with baseball and boats as a kid. We don’t really have boats in Verona Cove, but we pretended.”
“Of course you love boats.” I adjust the straps of my wings. “You used to be a sea captain.”
He smiles at me, shaking his head in that Oh, Viv kind of way that lets me know he’s so terribly fond of me and the things he perceives as eccentricities.