by Emily Henry
I lie back down, and Beau’s arm wraps around me, his fingers soft on my shoulder. “I don’t know my birth parents,” I tell him. “I was adopted when I was eleven days old, and I’ve always lived here, but I don’t really know where home-home is.”
“I bet your mom was a doctor,” he says.
“Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”
“Same reason you knew I played football, probably.”
“My muscular body and worn-out T-shirt,” I say.
“Tell me you’re not going away to some fancy college to become a doctor or a lawyer or something like that,” he says.
“Actually, no,” I say.
He looks down the plane of his face at me. “So you’re staying here.”
“Well, no.” I’m unable to meet his eyes. “I am going away to some fancy college, but I think I’m going to study history.”
“History.” His thick eyebrows rise. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises.”
“Are you surprised by how boring my future sounds?”
“It was never my favorite subject,” he says.
“What was?”
“Probably gym,” he teases.
“Well, that was my second choice,” I say. “I’m just not sure Brown offers degrees in classes that are named for the room they take place in.”
“Their loss.” He sits up enough to take another sip of beer.
“Really, though, Beau. Gym?”
His eyes scan the starry sky. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe woodshop.”
I consider pointing out that’s another class named after its location. Instead I watch his breath raise and lower his chest slowly and imagine his hands working over wood with the same tenderness and exhilaration with which they traveled across the piano that night in the band room. Of course it makes perfect sense that the same hands that pulled those notes from those keys could make beautiful objects too. Physical incarnations of his music. His serious eyes slide down to mine. “Really, though, Natalie,” he imitates me. “History?”
“History,” I confirm. “That, or women’s studies.”
“Women’s studies. Is that, like . . .” He hesitates, then sort of shrugs and shakes his head like he can’t even come up with one guess as to what that might mean. “Gynecology?”
I stare at him, trying to judge how serious he is, until he cracks a smile. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Natalie,” he says, “I wasn’t much of a reader in school, and I would’ve failed history the second time I took it, except my teacher didn’t want me gettin’ suspended from the football team. But, yes, I’ve heard of women’s studies.”
“So you’re at least as familiar as I am with woodshop.”
“I am.” He nods. “So why history or women’s studies?”
“I like understanding how things fit together: who influenced whom, how one event affects another or how one little thing can change everything. I guess I feel like . . .” I hesitate, trying to put into words an amorphous thought I’ve had a million times since Grandmother left but have never said aloud. “I guess I feel like someone forgot to write down my beginning, and I just showed up in the middle of things, in time for this.” I hold my arms up in the sticky night air as if hugging the sky. “And I don’t really get what I’m supposed to do with the present because I can’t see the whole picture. But until I can figure out my own place in all of this, I want to hear other people’s stories. Knowing stories that have been around forever and have almost been lost a hundred times already, it feels important.”
After a beat of silence he says, “I do remember one story from history.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“When they tested the atomic bomb and it worked,” he begins, “everyone involved knew the world would never be the same. One of the guys who invented it said, ‘I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds.’”
“I can’t imagine how that must have felt.” I roll onto my side to look at him, and his eyes are still fixated on the stars, thoughts hiding behind the wrinkles in his forehead. “So tell me this: How does someone who wasn’t much of a reader remember a verbatim quote from the inventor of the atomic bomb?”
“Oh, I’m real good at watching movies.” Once again, he grins and it’s contagious, and even though my cheeks are starting to ache, I can’t make them relax.
“Really now?”
He nods. “Yeah, coulda gone pro.”
“So what you’re really saying is you’re a good listener.”
“Oh yeah, Natalie Cleary,” he says soberly. “The best.”
“Now you’re just trying to impress me.”
“Yeah,” he says. “But it’s true. Tell me one of your stories.”
“And afterward you’ll be able to quote it?” I challenge.
“If you’re any good,” he says, only breaking into a smile when I scoff. He reaches over to flip my hair back over my shoulder then slowly kisses the side of my neck. A wave of warmth and tingles passes through me, like Beau’s mouth is the moon pulling tides through my veins.
“What kind of story do you want to hear?” I say, quietly, to hide the shake in my voice.
“Somethin’ happy,” he says.
10
There’ve been plenty of stories Grandmother’s called “happy,” but there’s only one I remember actually making me feel happy. I was ten and I’d woken up from a nightmare to find Grandmother in my room.
“Why are you crying, honey?” she asked, and I told her about the dream. It was one of the recurring ones, where I’m in the car with Mom, talking and laughing as she drives us through the countryside. In the nightmare, it’s bright outside and the sky is pale blue and cloudless, the creeks lining the road sparkling. But suddenly, a dark orb appears ahead, rising up over us and flinging us sideways off the road. We spin across a ditch, the front of the car smashing into a thick tree, and the world goes dark, as thunder breaks the sky, sending rain pouring over us. Gradually, the car begins to fill, not with water but with blood, though neither Mom nor I is cut. I’d never told anyone about the dream before. I was too afraid it would come true, but telling Grandmother felt different.
“I used to have a dream just like that,” she told me. “It seemed like it would never go away. But it did, Natalie. Everything but the truth goes away in the end. Now, lie down and let me tell you a story.”
And she did, and this is how it went.
In the very beginning, Moon, Sun, Wind, Rainbow, Thunder, Fire, and Water lived on the earth. They simply awoke there, not knowing how they had arrived, and that was okay. They lived happily on their earth, until one day they met a very Old Man. This Old Man turned out to be their leader, the Great Spirit Chief. He had just formed people to cover the earth in all the spaces between Moon, Sun, Wind, Rainbow, Thunder, Fire, and Water.
“Old Man,” Thunder said, “can you make the people my children?”
And Old Man said, “No, Thunder. They cannot be your children, but they can be your grandchildren.”
Then, hearing this, Sun asked, “Old Man, can you make the people of the world my children, then?”
And Old Man replied, “No, Sun. They are not your children. They can be your friends. They will be your grandchildren. But your main purpose is to cover them in light, and to make them warm.”
Moon asked next, “Old Man, if not Sun’s, can you make the people my children?”
“No, I cannot give you the people of the world, Moon,” Old Man said. “You will be their uncle and their friend, lighting their way at night while giving them rest.”
“Old Man, please make the people of the world my children,” Fire said.
“I cannot do that, Fire,” Old Man answered. “They will be your grandchildren. I have made you to keep them warm in winter and at night. You will cook their food so they can fill their bellies.”
; Wind asked next, but Old Man’s answer was the same. “No, dear friend Wind. But they will be your grandchildren, and you will clean the air for them and keep them healthy and strong.”
“Old Man, might I have the people as my children?” Rainbow asked.
“They cannot be your children,” Old Man explained. “You will always be busy preventing the rains from falling too hard and the floods from rising, and painting the sky for their eyes to enjoy.”
“What about me, Old Man?” Water said.
“No,” Old Man said. “The people of the world can never be your children, Water. But you will clean them and quench their thirst, and let them live long lives on the earth.”
Moon, Sun, Wind, Rainbow, Thunder, Fire, and Water looked at one another in confusion. Then Old Man continued, “You are well made, and I have told you the best way to live to help the people of the world. But you must always remember that these, the children of the human race, they are my children.”
And that, Grandmother told me, was the truth.
Tonight, with Beau, the story makes me feel the same way it did the first time I heard it: freed from a nightmare by a hug from the world.
Beau’s quiet for a long moment when I finish, staring up into the sky thoughtfully before he says, “You are good.”
“At telling stories?” I say.
He nods. “That, and in general.”
“At everything,” I agree.
“Except football.”
“Nah, I’m pretty good. Just not compared to you.”
He tells me about his first game, when he scored on the wrong end zone, and about his job changing tires and replacing brakes, how he much prefers construction work but can’t seem to get enough hours. He’d like to build his own house someday, and I tell him he should build mine too, and that it has to have a porch, and he agrees, because a house isn’t a home without a porch. He tells me how his mother sometimes leaves for months when she thinks she’s met The One, only to turn up a few months later, so devastated she can’t get out of bed for a week, and refuses to say what happened. I tell him about Mom’s ability to turn everything I do or feel into some metaphor about my “adoption journey.”
“Do you think she’s right?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I sometimes think I wouldn’t feel so lost if she didn’t try so hard to make me feel okay about looking for myself. I mean, I always knew I was different from my family, but I didn’t feel the need to justify it until I started school. Every time my parents dropped me off at a birthday party or took me to school or the neighborhood pool, all my classmates would ask me why I didn’t look like them. And, I mean, my mom had prepared me for that. But then one day, this neighbor kid asked me what my real name was. I had no idea what he was talking about, and he was like, You know, your Indian name. Like, Running Deer. So then I asked my parents if I had an Indian name, and they kind of laughed, but when I told them why I was asking, Mom was super upset, so she started doing all this research, trying to prepare me for any and all potentially offensive inquiries, while also being like, Remember, sweetie, you don’t have to answer anyone’s questions if you don’t want to. It’s no one’s business but yours.”
“Wow,” Beau says. “Didn’t know six-year-olds had business.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Oh, and then she started buying me these early reader books about Native American history and culture. She’d leave them in my room, and then very casually tell me I should be proud of every part of who I was, but I guess that made me feel even more different than I already did. Then, one year, when I was six, I think, I wanted to be Pocahontas for Halloween—the Disney version, of course—and she acted so weird about it, sort of tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn’t budge, and in the end she ended up making my costume. But then a few years later, she read this article about racist depictions of Native Americans in popular culture and how harmful they are. That somehow led her to an essay that appeared right after some designer was in the news for sending his models out on the runway in Navajo headdresses, about the way modern American culture abuses and appropriates Native culture. Mom felt so bad she came to my room and apologized to me. She was crying, and I didn’t even understand why, but she wasn’t acting like she was my mom. More like I was a complete stranger to her.”
Beau shrugs. “Aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” I say, taken aback.
“Just seems like all parents start out thinking their kids are a part of them, another mouth they’ve gotta make sure eats, another body they’ve gotta get dressed. And then one day, our parents look at us and notice we’re whole people. We’re not a part of them anymore, even if they’re a part of us. And for the ones who never really wanted to be parents anyway, that’s probably a relief. But for a mom like yours—I don’t know, she must’ve been sad when she realized your life was gonna be different than hers. She must’ve been scared when she realized she wasn’t gonna be able to protect you, and that you were gonna deal with things she never did.”
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I guess, but as a kid it still felt horrible to be different from her. It didn’t feel normal. I think I, subconsciously, spent the majority of my childhood trying to make that feeling go away. I joined the dance team, learned to laugh off jokes about me talking to wolves or catching fish with my bare hands. Made a point to insert myself in the middle of the social scene, and started dating this really popular guy . . .” I trail off, thinking of the time after Grandmother left, when it was just me, alone in a world I was obsessed with fitting into. No more quiet moments when the rest of Union had fallen asleep and I’d lie awake listening to her stories wash over me in her gravelly voice, filling me up with drops of truth and color. Pieces of myself. I realized then I didn’t know where the fake me ended and the real me began.
“I don’t know. It’s hard being surrounded by people—generally good people—who don’t get it, who think I’m uptight and weird whenever things bother me. I mean, sometimes it’s like people assume I’m like them in ways I’m not, and that sucks, but other times they think I’m different in ways I don’t feel different, and that sucks too.”
Beau thinks it over for a long moment, then says softly, “That why you’re leaving for your fancy school?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “It’s hard to feel like you belong when you don’t know who you are, and it’s hard to know who you are when you don’t know where you come from.”
“Maybe you’re just lucky.”
“Lucky? How?” I ask. “You can’t imagine how hard it is to not see yourself in anyone around you. Or to be constantly encouraged to look.”
His shoulder shrugs under me. “And you don’t know what it’s like to see yourself in people you don’t like. You’re just you—no deadbeat dad, no alcoholic mom, no family curse.”
“Or maybe I’m still made up of all those things, and I’m just good at pretending.”
“You know what I think?” he says.
“Football?” I guess, and he laughs silently.
“That,” he says, “and I think you belong here more than anyone I’ve met.”
“Whaaaaat?” I say, sitting up again. “Why?”
“I just do.”
“You just do.”
“I do,” he insists.
“Well, fahn.”
“Fahn.” After a minute, he says, “You got any more stories, Natalie Cleary?”
I tell him about the Girl Who Fell from the Sky. Then I drink the last beer and tell him about the Vampire Skeleton and the Ghost of the Tetons and the Ghost House Under the Ground.
I’m just finishing the story of Brother Black and Brother Red, when my phone vibrates in the grass beside me. “Hold on a second,” I tell Beau.
When I sit up to answer Megan’s call I realize the sun is starting to rise, the sky fading to a deep blue. We’ve stayed out all n
ight, and I can’t decide whether it’s felt like minutes or days. “Hello?” I say.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Megan whispers.
“Why are you whispering?” I ask.
“Brian and I fell asleep at Matt’s. I’m leaving now. Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine—I’m at the football field.”
I hear a door close, and she resumes her normal volume. “Oh my God, Nat. I’m so sorry. I’m so, so, so, so, so sorry. I’m on my way. Don’t move.”
“I can take you home,” Beau says beside me.
“Who was that?” Megan squeals. “Was that him? He sounds like a subwoofer!”
I cup my hand over the phone. “It’s Megan. She’s still at Matt’s,” I tell Beau. “It’ll only take her a second to come get me.” He nods, and I uncover the phone. “See you in a minute,” I say.
Beau and I gather the cans and toss them over the fence with the football, then climb back over. Again he catches me on the far side, but this time there’s no hesitation. He eases me back against the fence and kisses the corner of my mouth, his hands tightening on my hips. Light sifts through the trees, yellowing with the dawn, accentuating the golden-brown ring around his greenish irises.
Even though this has been all night coming, when Beau pulls back, I still feel shy and dumbstruck. “Thank you,” I’m horrified to hear myself say.
He laughs and touches my hair. “Anytime.”
In the quiet of morning, I can hear Megan’s car pulling onto the street that runs behind the far side of the field and leads to the parking lot. I release Beau and look back. Megan parks at the top of the hill beyond the stadium, lowers her window, and waves.
