by Kat Pace
I spread out on the blanket next to him. We stare up at the sky, at the trees, at the leaves falling above us. Their golds and reds are brilliant gems.
“Hey,” I say, looking over at Brooks.
He turns to me, and smirks. “Hi.”
“What do you think happens when we die?” I ask.
Brooks’s lips spread into a huge grin. I love when the corners of his eyes wrinkle when he smiles so big. “How very macabre.”
“It’s the trees. They’re all dead or dying.” I laugh, shoving his shoulder.
“They’re not dead yet,” he laughs.
“Fall is an entire season of dying but somehow still the most beautiful.” I lower my eyes to the row of trees shading the footpath behind us.
“Maybe that’s why it’s beautiful, Em. When we die, maybe we live.” Brooks looks at me.
“How very meta.”
“Is it?” He leans over on his side.
I bite my lip looking at him. Just look at him! Ugh. I’m thankful for his actual perfection.
“What becomes of us after death? Is there more to life than an earthly breath? Soft words spoken by quiet souls, born again in death, its secrets shared and told.” His lips stop moving; his raspy velvet voice stops flowing.
“Who is that?” I ask him. Staring at him in awe.
“An original,” he says looking away.
“No way.” I lean into him. “Did you just come up with it now?”
“Nah, while ago,” Brooks says.
“And I’m macabre?” I tease.
Brooks laughs at me, stretching his arms behind his head again. “Poetry isn’t macabre, Em.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re right. Just didn’t know you wrote poetry.”
Shit. He’s already sexy AF but now let’s toss in writing poetry. Think I just got pregnant.
“Sometimes.”
I laugh.
“What’s funny?” Brooks asks.
“Nothing. I mean, it’s just –I’m realizing I don’t even know you,” I say, shrugging.
“Of course you do,” Brooks says, eying me suspiciously.
“Not really,” I bite my lip. “I have memories of who I think you used to be. But every time we’re together a memory is replaced with who you are now.”
“I’m still the same. Mostly, anyway. As much as you are.” Brooks looks at me, intense.
“Mostly.” I nod.
My stomach is flat against the ground and I prop myself up on my elbows. Brooks stares at me, smirking. He reaches down to the inside of my flannel and his fingers play on the neckline.
“You never told me what this is…” Brooks’s voice trails off.
“What what is?” I ask.
“Your tattoo. The WYWH.” His fingers trace over my skin.
“Oh,” I say, tensing up. I remember when he asked over the summer. I remember not answering –on purpose. Eh, whatever.
“So?” Brooks nudges me.
“Wish You Were Here,” I say, quiet.
“Wish you were here,” Brooks repeats my words. Man, they sound good coming from his lips. “Like the song? By Pink Floyd?”
“No,” I laugh. “Not like the song. It’s just –I don’t know,” I say, biting my lip. “I got it sometime in college when I felt my life sort of shifting –felt myself becoming someone new.”
“I get it,” Brooks responds. “It’s a feeling, not really like you actually wish someone was here.”
“Exactly.” I nod.
I guess the WYWH encapsulates a sort of existential feeling. Wishing people were here when they’re not. Missing the person I am without them. Missing someone I used to be. Or maybe I subliminally got it for another reason.
Maybe it was for Brooks.
“Alright,” Brooks says, standing up. “Enough deep talk. How about some football?”
“Football?” I ask. “Seriously?”
“Sure. Touch football. One on one,” he grins. I like the sound of that.
“You’re on,” I say, hopping to my feet next to him.
Brooks pulls a football from the jumbo tote and tosses it to me. He crouches down to my height and runs his hands through his hair.
“Go easy on me,” he says.
“No promises.”
I won. An hour of touching and grabbing and being tackled by Brooks. Hell even if I lost, I won. We left the park in the afternoon. Back in my studio loft we watch reruns on the flix for hours. Every Thanksgiving episode of FRIENDS in a row. Then we braved the cold to forage for our Thanksgiving feast.
We’re in the corner convenience store. Shopping for our dinner. On Thanksgiving.
Getting mad looks from the clerk behind the counter. When he’s not creeping on us, he’s restocking the rotisserie hotdogs under the heat lamp. Who’s judging whom?
“Here. And here. And this.” Brooks is handing me one thing after another.
“Brooks!” I shout. “Off-brand cheese balls? We aren’t peasants.”
“Ha-ha. You’re right.” He mocks me, holding up a new bag. “Tonight we are royalty.”
“Hot fries are a YES!” I laugh and snag the bag out of his hands.
“Open up.” Brooks holds out his hand. His other hand is hiding behind his back. The stupid grin on his face is blinding me again, but man am I thankful.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Not telling. Just close your eyes and open.”
“What every girl wants to hear,” I smirk.
“Come on. I’m not feeding you poison.”
“Fine!” I sigh and cover my eyes. I open my mouth, laughing. Brooks puts his hand on my hip to keep me straight.
“Stick out your tongue.”
I do it. And feel a warm tingling popping sensation on my tongue. I open my eyes to see Brooks holding a packet of Pop Rocks. Before I can say anything his mouth closes over mine and he’s kissing me. The tickling feeling adds to our kiss.
“OK. We’re done!” I say, tossing our shit up on the counter.
The clerk is eye-balling us again. We probably do look out of place, especially considering the holiday and all.
“This everything?” He asks, ringing up the goods.
“Yup,” Brooks answers. He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and throws cash on the counter.
Two minutes later we leave with a one-bag meal.
Our feast consists of chocolate (coconut) milk, instant Ramen noodles and Hot Fries. A Thanksgiving dinner to embarrass all other Thanksgiving dinners.
There’s a very real vagabond vibe to it all. To the fact that we’re alone together on Thanksgiving. Away from friends. Away from family. It’s like we could be nomadic gypsies that just happened across this town on this night and we found ourselves at this convenience store. Real The Lumineers’ Sleep on the Floor vibes.
Shit. Stop making mixtapes in your head, Em.
7:13 PM
We sit cross-legged on my bed. Empty bags of hot fries and cups of ramen between us. He’s laughing at me –head tilted back and eyes swimming. I just told him I missed real Thanksgiving dinner. He just reminded me that even tofu turkeys still have feelings.
“I do miss my mom’s mashed potatoes though,” he says, agreeing that this meal has its pitfalls.
“This isn’t so bad though,” I bite my lip.
“No. It’s not.” He agrees, still laughing. He stretches his legs out so they’re on either side of me. I’m still cross-legged between them. His foot knocks over the Styrofoam noodle cup and it falls to the floor.
“Ah! Shit!” I try to grab it up.
“Shit. Five second rule,” Brooks says, beating me to the floor and scooping the noodles back into the cup. He laughs. “Floor can’t be that dirty.”
“Eh,” I shrug. “Sure we’ve eaten worse.”
“Well, maybe we are peasants.” Brooks leans back on the bed.
“Peasants it is, cheers.” I nod by half-empty bottle of milk at him.
“Almost time for wine,” Brooks says, hol
ding up his bottle.
“In the kitchen next to the fridge. Go ahead,” I nudge Brooks off the bed.
“Ems,” he whines.
“I’ll time you,” I tease. He rolls his eyes and rolls off the bed. He’s in the kitchen when I shout to get glasses.
“My Lady.” He holds out the wine.
“Who needs fancy family parties with dressy outfits and a two hour drive when you have all this?” I ask, raising my hands at our domain.
“Not me,” he smiles. “This dinner is just what I wanted. And the company is considerably better than last year.”
“Just last year?” I raise my eyebrows at him.
“OK. Maybe the last decade,” he says, rolling his eyes. He takes the Styrofoam cup from my hands and puts it on the bed next to me. It’s going to tip.
“Yea, right.” I shrug.
“What do you mean ‘yea, right’?” Brooks says, searching my face.
“I just mean I’m sure you had a great time the last 10 years, that’s all.” I shrug. My palms feel sweaty.
“And you didn’t?” He asks.
“Hey, that’s not what I meant,” I tease.
“I know what you meant,” Brooks says. His eyes are suddenly cold. He turns away from me. Shit.
“Oh my god. What is your issue?!” I shout.
“MY issue?” He spins to looks at me. Arms folded. Pissed.
“YES! ISSUE! You have to ruin everything, always. It’s like you can’t not!” I roll my eyes.
“I ruin everything? ME! Are you kidding me, Em? You’re the one ruining this right now.” He jumps from my bed like it’s on fire and paces my room.
“Me?” I laugh in his face. Bro, for real.
“You just LOVE reminding me about what happened. How are we supposed to move on?” He screams.
“How are we supposed to move on? MOVE ON?” I repeat. The Big Q. What does he mean move on?
“Yes, move on with our lives. Move past it. It was TEN FUCKING YEARS ago! A decade for fuck’s sake! And we are here now!” Brooks is low key screaming again.
“Yea,” I say. “We are here now. But what’s that mean? It sure as shit doesn’t mean we’ve moved on. I can’t just fucking forget it, Jay.”
The foil of the hot fries bag crinkles beneath my knee when I move toward him.
“Why do you say it like that?” He looks at me, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “Like I’m going to forget it? Like it somehow hurts you more?”
“Um. Because it fucking does!” I almost shout. He scoff-laughs.
“That’s not fair. You can’t act like you know how I feel. It doesn’t have to be a contest!” Brooks is yelling back at me.
“No, it doesn’t,” I agree. “But if it were one, you’d be losing.”
I try to force a smile. I want him to laugh and come back over here and kiss me on the hot fries foil. I want to put this fight aside until tomorrow. Preferably forever. Or at least until he’s far enough away it’s done via text like the true millennial I am.
“Is this fun for you? Is that what this is?” He looks …hurt. Weird flex, but OK.
“Yes. Course it’s been fun. I didn’t hang around all summer because it wasn’t fun.” I roll my eyes. Really pulling for him to drop this.
“I mean this. Torturing me! Is it fun?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I laugh. I move to him and put my arm on his.
“You’re the ridiculous one.” He shrugs me off and looks away again. It’s like if he looks at me it will give some huge secret away.
“I HATE when you’re like this!” I shout.
“Like what?”
“This. Tortured.” I raise my eyebrow.
“Oh, you’re very funny,” he says, and rolls his eyes.
“Ironic considering you’re the joke,” I sigh.
“Maybe it’s just you. You do this to me. Torture me for what happened.”
“Oh, MY bad. I sort of remember you inviting yourself here for Thanksgiving.”
“Whatever.”
“Oh yea, your answer to everything. I forgot about that!” I yell. My throat is starting to close up. Little shit’s about to betray me.
“How?” He finally looks at me, intense. “You don’t forget anything.”
“Whatever.” I fold my arms to mimic his.
I scooch back to my dent on the bed. Brooks grabs his phone from my dresser and shoves it in his pocket. He crosses the room and slams the door behind him.
I refuse to chase after him.
10:07 PM
I hear the door open and close again. Brooks is back.
I stand up from the couch, blankets falling off me. He’s looking at me from the door. I can’t quite read him from here. I take a step forward, still holding the remote in my hand. It’s good –it gives my hands something to focus on.
“Are you done pouting?” I ask.
“Shut up,” he says, but I see a smile creep onto his face.
“No, really. If you aren’t done, please continue.” I gesture to the hallway. “I’ll wait.”
“I wasn’t pouting. I just–” He looks down, mega awkward.
“I know,” I say for him.
It’s just… hard. It’s hard for two people to navigate such deep water when all they did was agree to dip their feet in.
“I was hoping you knew.” Brooks grins.
“The whole bipolar thing is kind of a lot,” I say, biting my lip to stop the smile.
“I’m sorry,” he says. I think he means it. “I know you didn’t sign up for it.”
“Dude, I don’t know what I signed up for.” It’s V true. I’m not sure I even signed.
“Well,” he says, smiling at me. “You did sign up ‘til at least Christmas.”
“Might need to rethink that. At this rate, you might hate me again by then.” I toss the pillow at him.
“Then you’ll just have to remind me why I like you. I think you can handle it,” Brooks says laughing.
He reaches across me and presses me down into the bed under him, laughing. I can’t help but breathe him in, feel him against me. His arms and legs and chest and hair and smell and OMG.
My fingers trace the outline of the butterfly again. I realize that it’s been months and I still don’t know what it’s for.
“You never told me what the butterfly means,” I say.
Brooks sighs heavy and extends his arm out across my chest until the butterfly is right in front of our faces. “Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?”
“Like, the movie?” I tease.
“Sort of like the movie, yea. But I didn’t get my tat in honor of Ashton,” Brooks laughs. “It’s for the idea. The theory. The notion that one minor change can infinitely alter the grand design.”
“That everything affects everything else,” I nod.
“That everything happens for a reason.” Brooks moves his arm back to his side.
“Deep,” I whisper.
“Just how you like me,” he laughs.
“Brooks!” I nudge him in the side. “You know, you’re not supposed to be like this. All multi-faceted and shit. First poetry and now existential belief doctrines. What’s next?”
“Conspiracy theories?” He raises his eyebrows.
“The butterfly effect is a conspiracy theory,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Maybe,” Brooks says quietly. “But just think how different things could be –would be right now if one other thing had been different –if one other thing had happened or hadn’t happened.”
“I think it all the time,” I say.
I roll into him, staring into his sea-colored eyes. I know I’ll never truly know what he’s thinking, but in this moment I know what he’s feeling. I feel it too.
We set something in motion months ago. Now we’re sitting idly, waiting for the chaos to descend.
My sheets are already starting to smell like him. A fact I find oddly comforting and deeply disturbing. I rest my head against his chest and match my
breath to his.
