Even If the Sky Falls

by Mia Garcia

  When we release the wood, it bows and bends with each gust of wind. “Um. That’s not going to last.” I imagine this is why you are supposed to place these on the outside of the window and not the inside, but there’s no use now.

  “No, it’s not.”

  Around the room lamps have fallen on their sides and items such as bowls and vases have rolled onto the floor. It feels wrong to leave the room like this, so Miles and I move what’s left of the breakable stuff (that hasn’t already broken) into the small adjacent bathroom and sweep the glass into a corner before closing the door.

  Out in the hall my eyes drift down to the other rooms, and I remember the pieces of art hanging in each one. Miles looks over at me and says, “You’re going to make me go into every room and hide things, aren’t you?”

  “Things could break! Lamps could fall! Societies might crumble!” I realize how silly I must sound and match Miles’s smile with my own. “Um, other stuff can happen.”

  “You seem freaked out a bit.”

  “Well, it is my first hurricane, and I think it’ll help if I keep myself busy.” The wind screeches and I jump. “Once I spring-cleaned our entire garage during finals.”

  “See? You could be busy telling me your life story.” He places his hand on my waist. “There are so many secrets to be learned.”

  “I thought no baggage?”

  “Yeah, I know.” He pulls me closer, his other hand cupping my face. I can barely hold his gaze when he leans in, the kiss so light on my lips, a brushing of skin against skin. “But I kind of want it all now.”

  My heart pounds. There is so much to tell—how could anyone want all of it? But I am drowning, drowning in want and the way Miles takes me in, because it’s true, he would take the good, the bad, everything. I close the gap.

  The wind slams up against the hall windows as if annoyed that we’ve ignored it for this long. We break apart, reluctant. The wind is a petulant child. I want to go back into our windowless room and hide under the covers and let every single window break when something slams against the glass and it cracks. I give in.

  “You know, the faster we do this . . .”

  Miles laughs and nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

  We head out into each room, pulling down the pieces of art and gathering them in corners or tucking them inside the giant Narnia-like wardrobes in each of the rooms. Miles makes a show of feeling at the back of each wardrobe for any hidden doors or compartments before popping back out. In one room I help him lift this gorgeous painting of a woman sitting in a courtyard staring out at some point beyond the canvas.

  “Thank you for obliging me.”

  Miles shrugs it off. “You’re right. Plus the less we have to clean up later, the better.”

  “We?”

  He sets a lamp down beside the bed, reaching under the table to unplug it. “You aren’t leaving me here to put all this stuff back by myself.”

  With one room finished we head over to the next. The theme of this one seems to be Regency-era chic, with the main focal point being a large four-poster bed draped in both lace and gossamer.

  On the opposite side of the bed, I struggle with one particular painting as I pull it down. “My dad would like this one. He’s always wanted to paint.” The frame is more than four feet in length and feels like it weighs at least sixty pounds. I lean it against my thighs as Miles comes up behind me, lifting one side as I take the other.

  “What does he do?”

  “People’s taxes.” I smile, thinking of my dad. “He’s possibly the quietest man alive,” but maybe that award goes to Adam now. “I’m not sure he knows what to do with us anymore.”

  It is the first bit of deep-down truth that’s slipped through, and I try to pretend there’s nothing more to it.

  He takes the painting from me and lays it on the bed. “We should finish up stashing the art and head back into the other room before any more windows break.”

  “You think more will break?” I hop on the bed, next to the painting.

  “Windows break all the time during storms, so we just want to stay away from them until it’s over. And I’m not saying it to scare you.”

  “Right. I guess I wasn’t prepared for this part of our adventure.”

  “That’s New Orleans for ya. But a promise is a promise, Lila.” Miles comes up to me, pulls me into a hug as I slide off the bed and our lips almost meet, and he shifts away with such a wicked grin. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you.”

  He maneuvers away from my hand as I try and smack him on the shoulder. Devious little devil. I stick out my tongue and focus on the painting.

  The painting itself is kind of boring—a field and some trees, which are pretty, but a little paint-by-numbers compared to the others we’ve encountered. Miles watches my face, barks out a quick laugh.

  “It’s the frame,” he says, fingers running down the wood. “Salvaged wood from one of the destroyed houses. Amazing, isn’t it? You can feel New Orleans in the carving.”

  I take a step back toward the bed, really looking at the frame. It’s dusted in gold and the wood beneath the accents is deep and rich, carved with a series of ridges that mimic the flow of water. I trail my fingers down the deepest groove until my hand meets Miles’s. I stop, and his fingers travel up my arm, continuing the pattern of the frame on my skin, to my shoulder, then my neck. He shifts behind me, one hand still on my neck, the other now at my waist and sliding around to my stomach. I lean back as he does and my shirt pulls up just enough for our skin to touch. I want him to keep going and want his hand to stay where it is at the same time.

  I keep my hands to my sides as we press up against the bed, pushing the painting farther down the mattress. Miles dips his head toward me, lightly kissing my shoulder, my neck, the tip of my ear; one hand trails down my back, the other slips under my shirt. My pulse picks up, and I wait and wait for his hands to continue but they don’t move and it takes me a moment to realize that he’s waiting for me—Miles wants me to guide him, to tell him what I want.

  What do I want? I feel my hand slip on top of Miles’s and guide it up. I can feel my heart thudding against his hand and each kiss across my neck and shoulder is driving me insane. What do you want, Jules? The thought keeps barging in as I lean farther into him and it is infuriating. I know what I want, stupid brain. I want this, I want Miles and me on this damn bed and I want to push everything, everything else in my life away so far that it will never hurt again.

  I turn, pulling Miles’s mouth toward me, capturing his lower lip first before I deepen the kiss. His hands travel quickly, grabbing me by my legs, wrapping them around his waist, slamming me against the wall. His lips travel down my chin, down my neck and chest. His hand pauses at the top of my jeans—a silent query—and he brings his face back up to mine.

  “Maybe we should slow down a bit.” His voice is scratchy, and I can barely hear it over the pressure of the wind beating against the glass.

  I bring my lips back down to his as he sets me on my feet, hands traveling to my face. He shoves his hands in my hair and dips his head to my neck, staying there for a moment. The whole world seems to mute as we stand—before it comes crashing back to remind us.

  In one quick movement something slams up against a window in the room, cracking the glass as Miles shifts in front of me.

  “Let’s go.” Miles snags my hand as we rush out of the room and back down the hall and into our refuge.

  “Sunshine,” he says as he kisses me again, tongue lightly touching my lips. He tastes salty and sweet, and I press myself up against him, needing to be closer, as close as possible. We fall on the couch, my hands work faster than my mind and reach down to tug his shirt off. Then it’s lips, hands, legs wrapping around one another, Miles now on top, pulling up my shirt and pausing at the top of my jeans. He looks up. “Yes?”

  I lift up from the couch, plant a quick kiss on his lips, and smile. “Yes.”

  Miles flushes up against me, burying his f
ace in my neck. His hands travel to the back of my bra. I’m shocked by how close I want to be, how much more skin I want to touch. My hands fumble at his jeans, a flash of silver from his pocket. I watch his face, a hint of red on his cheeks and just a bit sheepish as I pull them down before all hesitation vanishes.

  We are rhythm. We are sound and touch and need. And it is good.

  On My Way

  Good morning—then

  go on, greet the sun,

  the day already too long.

  I dust myself off

  And head down the way,

  A groove in the floor

  tells me I never strayed.

  And I’m on, I’m on, I’m on my way.

  Down the same path,

  from which I’ve never strayed.

  These chords feel so drawn,

  and these lyrics are staid.

  What is the point anyway?

  Then right in my path, right in my way

  this bright thing, so blazing

  the sun shies away.

  She lights up the paths

  that I’ve ignored to this day.

  Paths that I thought I had hidden away.

  And I’m on, I’m on, I’m on my way.

  This new path more vibrant

  than I’ve ever played.

  Eye of the Storm

  WARMTH ENVELOPES ME. IT SLIDES DOWN MY BACK TO MY WAIST, pulling me up from my dream. The world is soft and out of focus. As my mind begins to sharpen I pinpoint the source of the heat: Miles’s body pressed against mine. We are curved into each other, his arm wrapped around me, one leg between mine, a blanket halfway down our bodies.

  I have no idea what time it is, and I can’t reach for a phone to check. One or two of the smaller candles have started to dim, while the Santa Barbara is as bright as before. I watch the flame of the candle flicker across Miles’s skin, and I let my fingers trail the shadows across his back. He shifts for a moment, arms tightening around me.

  Santa Barbara is supposed to give you strength and courage during difficult times. I wonder now if I chose the candle or she chose me. I watch her flame and think that being here with Miles, I haven’t felt this safe in such a long time.

  I hate to stir and wake him, but my body demands it; as secure as I am, my muscles ache with a need to stretch and move. I have no idea how long we’ve been asleep, but it feels like hours. Lifting his arms I slip off the couch and reach for my underwear. The slight pressure in my back springs to life, wanting attention, so I stretch reaching up to the ceiling, feeling everything loosen.

  “A lovely sight to wake up to.” His voice is soft and groggy.

  I exhale with a laugh, meeting his smiling eyes with my own. Following my lead Miles stretches, the blanket coming perilously close to falling even farther down his waist. My cheeks redden, my mind ripe with memories. I reach over for my shirt and put it on; Miles places his hand behind my knee, tugging me toward him as he sits up.

  “What are you doing?”

  I smirk. “Writing a sonnet.”

  “Really?” He caresses the back of my knee. “What about?”

  “About . . .” My mind slogs through, trying to find playful answers but I come up empty. “Pass?”

  His smile is a thousand watts, my heart flutters once again, his eyes lock on mine.

  “Why get dressed?”

  “Because.”

  “My favorite answer! Because?”

  “Well we—”

  He tugs at my knee. “Already . . . you know.” His eyebrows wag in mock seduction.

  “No.” Words can’t tumble out of my mouth fast enough. “That’s not—”

  “It is,” he starts, that wicked grin back on his face. “Just because we’re naked doesn’t mean we have to have sex. And frankly, I’m surprised at how dirty your mind is.” His hand drifts up my leg. “Though I one hundred percent support it.”

  I kick him in the shin, and he slips his hands farther up in retaliation, causing goose bumps to bloom on my thighs.

  “You can stay naked if you like”—a quick kiss and I pick up my jeans—“I’m getting dressed.”

  “Sounds good.” Miles stands, letting the blanket fall off his hips before walking over to our supplies and eating half our gummy bears. I spend the next five minutes admiring Miles’s absolutely gorgeous body and trying not to stare.

  After a stifled giggle, Miles struts over with the bag of gummies, offering me the rest. I shake my head, and he comes around, kissing my neck.

  “What are you thinking?” he asks.

  He pops several gummies in his mouth, sparking memories of his lips on mine. I twist to face him, channeling all the vintage ladies made of moxie, gumption, and silky-smooth voices that drip confidence. “Eyes up, young lady.”

  I run my finger down his chest; my heartbeat is out of control, but not on the outside. Outside I’m sexy and in command.

  “You have permission to look all you want. I’m all yours.” He takes a deep breath as I pull him closer.

  “Are you?” I close the gap, my lips so close to his they almost touch.

  “I am tonight.” I expect another grin or cocky lift of an eyebrow but Miles is still, his face an open book. “May I kiss you?”

  I nod, not trusting my words. He tastes like sugar, the warmth of him enveloping me. My hands wrap around his waist, pressing him closer as his weave through my hair, resisting the urge to give his ass a squeeze.

  It’s then I notice the bracelet on my wrist—it catches the glow from the candles. I run my finger down the links. “Why?”

  His finger traces the bracelet and runs up my arm. “I don’t”—his eyes find mine, he leans in for a soft kiss—“I don’t want you to forget me.”

  As if that could be possible. The bracelet feels cool against my wrist. We kiss again, and when we break I explore his neck with my lips.

  I’m somewhere along his collarbone when he says, “Do you hear that?”

  Which is a trick question because I can’t hear anything above my own pulse. “Hmm. What?”

  “Nothing—there’s nothing to hear.”

  So it is a trick question.

  In a flash, Miles is out of my embrace and racing down the hallway—naked. Before I have time to register the loss, he’s back with the same bounce of energy. Oh God, eyes up!

  “It’s the eye!”

  “The what?”

  “Put on your shoes.” He’s throwing on his clothes. “It’s the eye of the hurricane—we’re going outside.”

  The what now?

  We dress quickly, and Miles rushes me out the door.

  “Come on,” he says, pulling me by the hand. “I want to show you something. It’s not far.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous to be walking around right now?” Still I slip my shoes on, following him.

  I chance a look at the sky—expecting to see it wiped clean, sun shining through, but it isn’t. The sky is muted, a dull gray made up of one eternal cloud. The sight of it wakes me up, reminding me we are still very much in a storm. I take in my surroundings. The buildings, the vibrant colors now subdued: a wash of gray around all New Orleans.

  “We’ll be back before it starts back up,” he says as he ties an errant shoelace. “We’ll be able to tell, I promise. The wind and rain will pick back up like angry devils. Trust me, we’ll know.”

  He offers me his hand, and we race through the streets, debris everywhere. We zig through shattered glass, plants that have traveled great distances. The night air feels amazing now that our clothes are dry.

  The damage to the buildings looks superficial so far: cracked glass, plants pulled up by their roots . . . until we pass a particular building with a broken balcony that won’t survive the second half of the storm; it creaks as we make our way past.

  “I wonder how the rest of the city faired.”

  Miles pauses to look with me. “Probably worse. The Quarter usually doesn’t get hit as hard by water surges since it’s above water level.”<
br />
  “Do you live in . . . ?”

  We pick our way through the tougher debris. “I live around Carrollton, actually, not far from where you and a couple hundred people danced down the streets. Damage will be around the same; usually it’s the Lower Ninth that gets the worst.”

  “Did your house suffer a lot of damage after . . . ?”

  “Yeah.” Miles’s grip tightens for a moment. “Not all from Katrina—hard to keep rebuilding when shit keeps knocking you down.”

  “I—” I stop myself, caught between wanting to know and not wanting to ask.

  “You can ask. I didn’t really go into it.” He doesn’t turn when he speaks, guiding me again, slowly this time, a much more difficult path now than it was before. “It was enough to eat into our savings. Enough to get a loan from the bank we can’t pay off.”

  “They’re taking your house, aren’t they?”

  I pull Miles to a stop and he faces me, dropping my hand to lace his own at the back of his neck. He’s quiet for what feels like forever, and I hope I haven’t screwed things up.

  His scream catches me off guard—it turns from sound into an actual word: “FUUUUUUCK.”

  He stares up at the sky. The gray stares back. “Yeah. They’re taking my grandfather’s house, that he fucking built, that we rebuilt. That my mom put her life into so that we could have a damn home and history.” Anger mixes with sadness. “Just in time too, there’s barely anything left to fix. They’ll have a nice new house to sell if this damn storm doesn’t tear it all apart again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He turns, a quick kiss on the lips, his thumb caressing my cheek.

  “Let’s keep going; eyes don’t last long.”

  WE REACH THE river, and Miles walks ahead of me toward a wooden dock that looks like it hasn’t been used since 1910. I pause before stepping on it; the water around us is beyond choppy, attacking the pier as he continues on.