Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
There’s a weird peace in that. A comfort.
But I sense the real question under his words, so I say, “You’re not going to get arrested for being with me. I’m a grad student now. You’re just another gross, emotionally-stunted male in my life.”
He laughs, then gets quiet, and I feel him gearing up to say something big.
He picks up my hand, turns it over, traces the lifeline with a fingernail. “Do you ever think about—later? Like, what you want in five years? Ten?”
I watch his face. The last of the sunlight catches on his jaw, the silver hairs at his temple, and I realize I never think of him as old until he reminds me. “Are you planning a midlife crisis? Should I start worrying?”
He lifts my hand to his mouth, kisses the knuckle. “No, I just—sometimes it feels like I’m holding you back. You’re so young, sweetheart. You could do anything, go anywhere. And I’m settled. You know, tenure and all that.”
I twist to face him, pulling my knees up. “You’re not settled. You’re just scared.”
He winces, but not at the accusation. “Maybe. But I want to know what you want. For real.”
I let the question fill the space between us. In the past, this is where I’d make a joke or change the subject, but not tonight.
“I want this,” I say. “I want school, and you. I want to get good enough at poetry that I can teach it someday, maybe even here. I want a life that’s messy and alive, not just—” I falter, searching for the right word.
“Scripted?” he offers.
“Yeah. Not just following the script.”
He relaxes, leans back so his head touches the siding. “Do you want to get married?”
The question lands with a thump. It’s not a proposal. He’s not on one knee. But it’s the kind of thing we never really talked about, beyond the jokes and the near-misses and the time I almost signed a surrogacy contract without thinking it through.
I laugh, a little wild. “Maybe. But we don’t even know if I can get pregnant, genius. The fibroids could come back. I might be a barren wasteland.”
He’s gentle. “I don’t care.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart beats louder. “If it happens, it happens.”
He looks at me, searching for a lie, but finds none. “You’d be a great mom.”
“Gross,” I say, but I feel the words in my chest. “You’d be the worst dad. So embarrassing. Reading Rilke at soccer games.”
He pinches my hip, grinning. “You say that like it’s a threat.”
We laugh, and the swing sways, and the world feels less daunting.
He gets quiet again, staring off at the neighbor’s porch, where someone is playing a sad, distant song on a tinny radio. “My house is too big for me alone,” he says. “I rattle around like loose change. Unless you wanted to, you know. Move in?”
It’s not a big production. He doesn’t even look at me, just lets the words dangle in the air, ready to shrivel or bloom.
I freeze, then bite my lip. “You’re sure?”
“Only if you are.”
I think about it: his elegant yet comfortable home, my pile of thrifted mugs, the way his shampoo smells. I think about the future, and for the first time, I don’t feel panic. I feel the edges of happiness.
I slide over, crawl into his lap, arms around his neck. “I’d love to,” I say, and mean it.
He buries his face in my shoulder and holds me so tight I can barely breathe.
It’s not fireworks. It’s not a movie ending.
But it’s ours.
And it’s enough.
The drive north is the color of sunlight filtered through bug splatter and pine needles. The old Civic is packed to the roof with groceries, beach towels, the sort of optimistic gear you bring to cabins even though you know you’ll spend most of the time inside, tangled up in each other or hiding from mosquitoes. I’m the DJ, as always, but Liam sneaks in a playlist of his own—Wilco, Cat Power, a dash of Depeche Mode for the nostalgia. He sings along in a low, careful way that suggests he’s only half-trying, as if to remind me he’s more human than legend.
The lake cabin is not the horror movie type, nor the luxury Instagram sort. It’s weathered, lopsided, a structure that squats rather than perches. There’s a stone fireplace blackened from decades of woodsmoke, a fridge that hums so loud you can hear it from the dock, and floorboards that announce your location at all times. The nearest neighbor is visible through a fringe of birch trees, but only if you squint. The water’s so clear you can see minnows flickering in the shallows, and it smells like nothing except water—no gasoline, no runoff, just the endless, blank possibility of July.
We unpack, which is a joke, because neither of us brought more than shorts, swimsuits, and a few changes of underwear. I flop onto the musty sofa, while Liam inspects the kitchen like he’s about to host a reality show. He finds a box of pancake mix so old it expired during the Obama administration.