by A. M. Geever
She took another step toward him, then another. Mario felt like he was going to pass out when a warm flutter stirred in his chest. Tiny and soft, like a puff of breeze on a still day, or the tentative beginning of a gentle spring rain. It nudged him, whispering softly in his ear. He took another step, letting the strange, insistent feeling guide him, and realized it was hope.
The world around her spun. Mario stood thirty feet away.
He was alive.
A sob filled her throat. The relief that rushed through her body made her feel as if she would float away, up through the clouds, and never touch down. He was battered and bruised and so beautiful it hurt to look at him. His face was thinner, clothes torn, cuts on his palms seeping blood. His dark hair was longer than she remembered, and her fingers twitched, wanting to feel it under her fingertips.
She wiped them on her shirt to stop the twitching desire. She needed to tell him what happened to them had been her fault. That she regretted all of it, would take it back if she could. That she loved him so much, and seeing him made her ache. She’d rehearsed it so many times in her head, but she couldn’t move. Fear flooded her body, a sucking swamp of terror threatening to pull her under its murky surface.
He looked like he was caught in a spider’s web, but the look on his face was unfamiliar. She knew her mouth was open but she couldn’t seem to close it. Her heart beat so hard that if she didn’t know better, she’d have thought she was having a heart attack. She took a step forward, drawn to him like a moth following a beam of moonlight. The world at the edges of her vision spun faster. Her feet moved of their own volition, then faltered when he took a step.
She was so relieved he was alive, choking on fear that rose up from her stomach in waves, but she had to tell him. Even if he didn’t love her anymore, even if he couldn’t forgive her, she had to tell him the truth. She jerked to a halt, so close she could touch him if she had the nerve to reach out her hand. He was so close she could see that he hadn’t shaved, and blood smudged his cheek, but the space between them felt like a chasm. When he spoke, it sounded like a gasp.
“Miri.”
She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but the words lodged in her throat. She felt her face crumple. Tears blurred her vision as she started to cry. Her longing overwhelmed everything else. She didn’t know where to start or what to say. Didn’t know what he needed to hear that would make him believe her. She just stood, staring at him, while tears ran down her face, the soft, small animal of her body aching to curl around the soft, small animal of his. She had no defenses, no lies she still believed. She clung to the only thing she had left—the truth.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry.”
The swirl of emotion on his face blossomed into something gentle and strong. He closed the last step between them, cradling her face in his hands. They felt tacky against her skin from the bleeding cuts, but their warmth felt like sunshine, just like she remembered. The dark depths of his eyes were tender, anticipation and relief twirling in them like dancers. He took a shuddering breath, then pulled her close.
His breath was soft against her ear when he said, his voice choked, “I’m sorry too.”
The next few hours passed in a blur. She didn’t remember how they’d gotten back to SCU, but rounding up the flunkies the Council had installed there hadn’t been as hard as Miranda feared. The residents of SCU had only needed a spark to flare into open rebellion. The dramatic arrival of Miranda and her friends on the helicopter, and their rescue of Father Walter and Doug, had been more than enough. SCU residents had already rounded up some of the Council’s functionaries by the time Miranda and her friends got there.
The one constant as each moment blurred into the next was Mario. He was always nearby, catching her eye with a look that said he had so much to tell, and wanted to hear what she had to tell him. When he took her hand throughout the day, his fingers brushing the inside of her wrist, or hers feeling the familiar contours of his arm, she was hit by a rush of longing for all the casual touches they used to share. She hungered, ravenous, for every small moment they had missed, and the time she’d squandered. When Doc told them that Father Walter would be all right, and it finally seemed there was nothing else to do, she looked around for him, but he wasn’t there.
“Settle down, Coppertop,” Doug said as he walked into the living room of the Jesuit Residence holding Skye’s hand. They flopped on the couch opposite her. “I think he went to find a place for you two to spend the night.”
“Right, of course,” she said, sinking to the closest couch and trying to tamp down her sudden panic that maybe he’d changed his mind and didn’t really want to be around her after all. She was too tired, too frazzled, to drive home and unlock her house, too overwhelmed by the day’s events. She hadn’t even thought about it till now, but Mario had. She wished Delilah was here, even though she was glad the pit bull was being spoiled by River back in Portland. She could use the snuggly weight of the too-big-to-be-a-lapdog pittie in her lap, which always cheered and calmed her. She realized she hadn't really thought through the decision to leave her behind. She’d have to go back to LO to get her.
“How’s the head?” she asked.
Doug reached up and gingerly felt the inch-long line of stitches on his forehead. “Okay, I guess. A little sore. Skye said it makes me even sexier.”
“I did not; that’s not funny,” Skye said, sounding distressed, her eyes glistening with tears. Miranda could see how exhausted she was, and after hearing about the last twenty-four hours, had a fair idea of how she must have been feeling. “I thought you were dead, and when I finally found you alive, you looked like you’d been stabbed.”
Doug’s face softened. He pulled Skye to him. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Doug caught Miranda’s eye. She mouthed without speaking aloud, “Too soon, idiot.”
Skye adjusted herself to snuggle into Doug’s side, wiping at her eyes.
“Is City Hall still burning?” Miranda asked.
Doug shrugged, then said through a yawn, “Last I heard, but the fire brigade was fighting it.” He yawned again. “Brother Rupert and a couple others went downtown to make sure people didn’t start summary executions. We hammered out plans for a tribunal a few years back, for when the Council finally bit the dust. Thought it would be a good idea to have some sort of plan. It’s chaotic enough without starting from zero.”
“I always pictured you in the thick of all that,” Miranda said.
Behind Doug and Skye, she saw Mario walking down the hall toward her. Doug saw her distraction and looked over his shoulder. He nodded to Mario, then said to Miranda, “I’ve got the same plans as you, Miri. I’m going to bed with my girlfriend and sleeping for a week.”
Butterflies churned in Miranda’s stomach. More than butterflies…something along the lines of an anxious herd of rhinos. Mario had already showered. He looked a little less beat up in the clean clothes, and without dirt and blood smudged on his face and neck, though still tired. His eyes lit up when he saw her.
“I found a place for us for tonight,” he said. “Ready?”
Miranda nodded as she stood, her tentative smile fading to what felt like a grimace. She wanted to be alone with him but was so nervous. She felt like a bride in an arranged marriage on her way to the bridal suite, with a groom she’d only just met.
“See you later,” she said to Doug and Skye.
Doug caught her hand as she passed him and said softly, “Don’t look so tragic. It’ll be all right.”
Mario had secured a small guest apartment in Nobili Hall. He’d sent her off for a shower with a smile so gentle, tears had rushed to her eyes. She stood under the hot water, eyes closed, the thick lather of soap sluicing from her body to circle around her feet before disappearing into the drain. She was eager to be alone with him, and nervous, too. When she finally stepped out from under the water, she wrapped a robe that hung on the back of the door around her dripping body, the sof
t, thin flannel sticking to her like a hug. She gripped the doorknob, offering up a silent prayer that it would be all right. That she would find the right words to make him understand.
She blew out a breath and pulled the door open. He was fussing with the blanket on the bed, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips. He smiled as he turned to her, the muscles of his torso rippling as he moved, and the swooning sensation it caused made her light-headed. He looked tentative, and she could see that he was nervous, too.
“Feel better?” he asked.
She nodded, cat firmly in possession of her tongue, because he was here with her. Against all odds, he was here. They looked at one another for a few moments, then she finally said, “I don’t know where to start.”
“How about here?”
He opened his arms. She melted into his embrace…the warmth of his arms around her, his body against hers, a balm. Then his lips found hers, pushing everything else away. Heat radiated from her center as desire consumed her. She gasped when he kissed her neck, her head falling back as the feel of his lips on her skin overwhelmed her. The robe puddled at her feet. She pulled him to the bed, the need to feel their bodies meld together too strong to delay.
He kicked off the sweats, following her as she slid higher up the bed. He hovered over her for a moment, lips slightly parted and breathing hard. The naked vulnerability, the hunger for her that she saw in his eyes filled hers with tears. They spilled over, pooling beneath her eyelashes before sliding down her temples, for it mirrored her own. She had never felt so open, so present, so exposed, but for the first time, she wasn’t afraid to be. She wasn’t afraid to let him see the part of herself she’d always kept hidden and locked away, even from him. The part that used razors and alcohol to cope, to numb, to keep her from feeling all the things that had been too painful to feel. The things she’d been sure would kill her if she did.
She hadn’t understood how precious the love they shared was, and how close she’d come to destroying it, until she finally let him see all of her.
They moved together, joined by more than their bodies, desire fueled by discovery old and new, by the need to know that the love they shared was still there. She could feel it spooling between them, binding them fast, unfurling inside her as Mario held her close, whispering her name, telling her how much he loved her—had ached for and needed her—always. It still burned in his eyes and coursed through the heart she felt pounding in his chest. It still captured her soul, overwhelming her senses with its heady perfume. It beckoned her closer, stormy waves of sweet oblivion catching her in an undertow that she let pull her out, into the deep, where she knew he would be waiting.
Later, they lay side by side, foreheads almost touching. Moonlight spilled through the window, its glow illuminating the otherwise dark room.
“It was my fault,” she whispered. She felt her face screw up and a sharp pressure push against her sternum. “If I hadn’t gone outside that night, hadn’t done what I always do. You knew what I’d done, and I couldn’t stand it.”
“Miri, I—”
“Rocco says not stopping to think, not thinking it through, that’s the part that’s my fault, not what happened after. I want to believe him, but… I should have known what might happen next.”
“That’s not true,” he said, brushing her hair back from her face. “I’ve never thought—”
She felt his body tense, even though they barely touched. His words had banged against her denial for months, growing more and more insistent, until they broke through her misdirected anger, demanding to be recognized. She could tell by his sudden stillness that he’d remembered, too.
But it’s not me that’s dead because you put yourself in harm’s way, is it? And it’s not you, either. If one of us left the baby behind, it sure as shit wasn’t me.
“It was my fault. I left him behind, just like you said, and then I let myself want him. After he was gone, I couldn’t…I couldn’t stand you being good to me.”
She felt, rather than saw, his eyes lock with hers, for his face was almost hidden in shadow. But she could see enough to recognize that it was a study of regret. Not just for Tadpole, but everything—the dreams their world had crushed, the heartache and betrayal and horror and fear. His bewilderment at how his choices had snowballed, one leading to the next, accumulating the weight of a lifetime. The family he’d made with Emily, that he loved and needed. The little boy Silas, who he’d told her about in these few, stolen hours, who he’d loved so much, only to have him ripped away in the cruelest way imaginable. His inability to help her when she needed him most, no matter that she’d done everything she could to drive him away. And their own little Tadpole, who they never even met.
“I didn’t mean it,” he said, his shaking voice filled with more pain than four words could hold. “It wasn’t your fault, Miranda. It was never your fault. I swear on my children that I didn’t mean it. I was hurt, and angry, and I forgot that you were hurting, too.”
She felt the pressure building behind the dam she had built, the bricks of pain she had hoarded stacked one upon the other. Tears welled in her eyes. Her chest started to hitch. She felt it deep in her belly, where she had cradled Tadpole once. Felt it claw through her chest, squeeze through her throat. It slipped out of her mouth, and the dam broke with it. Mario pulled her into his arms as she sobbed. For Tadpole. For him. For herself. For their tiny little family that never was. For the small, soft, foolish dream she’d let herself have, let herself want, only to have this world destroy it like it had all the others.
“I’m sorry, Miri. I’m so, so sorry,” Mario whispered over and over. He held her tight to his chest, crooning in her ear. “I didn’t mean it.”
“He’s gone,” she whispered. “We’ll never get him back.”
She clung to him, and he to her, as they wept for Tadpole—together.
Eventually, the sobs subsided. Her temples pounded, the pain of grief suppressed too long lingering in the thin muscles of her scalp. Her sinuses were stuffed, nose runny. Mario reached over her, hanging off the side of the bed for a moment, then came back up with the sweatpants he’d been wearing before. He switched the lamp on the bedside table on, its low light making the old dorm room feel cozy. From the pocket of the sweatpants he pulled out a handkerchief. He had another for himself, because of course he did. Of course he had two hankies a decade after the end of the world.
She sat up, pulling on a tee shirt he handed her when she said she was cold, then leaned against the wall at the head of the bed. After a good blow, she almost felt like she could breathe again. Mario sat beside her, holding her hand, their fingers interlaced. The crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes had deepened. He looked remorseful, but she saw a spark in his eyes, tiny and fragile, that hadn’t been there when last she’d seen him at LO.
She took a deep breath. “I didn’t mean what I said, either. That you abandoned us. That you didn’t love Tadpole as much.”
Mario squeezed her hand. “I know you didn’t. I forgave that a long time ago.” He paused, then said, his voice so tender that her eyes welled up again, “Rocco’s right. You should believe him. The only thing you did wrong that night was not think it through. What happened wasn’t your fault. There was no way for you to know.”
She nodded, not wanting to speak because she’d start crying again.
Mario said, “I want you to promise me that you’ll try to believe it.”
“Okay,” she whispered, unable to fathom how she ever could. But he’d asked her to try, so she would. “I promise.”
He smiled at her, looking careworn, but happy.
“Do you think—” She swallowed, feeling nervous again. “Do you think we could start over?”
His bark of laughter echoed off the walls. “I thought we already had.” He pushed her hair behind her ear, looking at her like she was something precious, which made her feel shy. Then, seeming to realize that she needed to hear him say it, he said, “I would like that
very much.”
She let go of the breath suspended in her lungs. It flooded back again, how much she loved him, like it had so many times today, filling her body with a lightness that made her feel like she would float away.
“I’m sor—”
“Shhh,” he said, putting two fingers on her lips. He wiped the tears that would not quit from below her eyes with his thumb. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. Not anymore.”
She felt bashful, and relieved, and so fucking tired. It felt like she had carried the guilt and shame of blaming herself forever.
“I love you,” she said. “Even when I convinced myself it was gone, it was always there.”
She pressed her lips to his. Their supple strength and tender yield, his hunger for her that she could feel, made her whimper with relief. When they parted, she saw how much he loved her in his dark, serious eyes, burning clear and steady and true. They were alight with joy. And underneath, a sadness, for everything they’d lost and never properly begun to grieve until now.
“I’ve missed you,” he said softly. “Maybe we’ll get it right this time. You know, three times a charm?”
“Thanks for not giving up on me.”
Mario’s delighted laughter rumbled in his chest as he gathered her into his arms. “Oh, Miranda… Only a fool would give up on you.”
34
Emily said, “You look better today, Miri.”
Miranda smiled, glancing over to her friend. “I feel better. It feels like I’ve done nothing but sleep the past ten days.”
Through the windows, the voices of the children rose and fell as they ran around the backyard of Emily and Mario’s Palo Alto home. They were playing hide and seek. Violet and Maureen burst from behind a Jacaranda tree, shrieking like banshees. Anthony pursued, hot on their heels, his arm outstretched. Violet dragged Maureen with her, but Maureen’s legs were too short to keep up. Anthony lunged, tumbling to the ground, but managed to tag Maureen on her ankle. Michael’s head popped out from behind a bush, took a look at the littler kids, and disappeared again. Anthony and Violet conferred. Then Violet began to count, despite Maureen having been tagged. Anthony took Maureen’s hand and they streaked away to hide.
