“Hey,” I interrupt. “I asked you a question.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Mim? Chill. I’m going to tell a story, and that’s going to be my answer. Mmkay?”
I wave a hand in front of me. “Continue.”
“So. Over time, those three hundred bones fuse together into two hundred and six. Don’t even get me started on how weird this is. More than half of those are in the hands and feet, which are four of the smallest human features. And yet, if you add up all those bones, the entire skeleton is only responsible for fourteen percent of the total body weight.”
“You’re a science freak.”
“Possibly. Well. It’s been suggested.”
God, I could eat him. “So what’s your point?”
“My point is this: My heart must continue beating in order to pump a red liquid called blood through tiny tubes called veins throughout this unit called a body. All my organs, in communication with my heart, must work properly for this carbon-based life-form called Beckett Van Buren to exist on this tiny spinning sphere called Earth. So many little things have to be just so, it’s a wonder we don’t just fall down dead.”
“That happens, you know.”
Beck ha-has, then puffs a breath ring into the air. “I guess I just think life is more mysterious than death.”
“How very philosophical. You should write a book.”
Another ha-ha, and I’m suddenly aware of my own sarcastic mitigation. Possibly due to the late hour, though more likely owing to my borderline-drunken fascination with Beck, I’m acting like a freshman at prom; blasé, elbowy, incapable of original thought. In an effort to steer the conversation toward higher ground, I say what I should have said the first time. “So you believe in God because you’re alive?”
“Guess I should just say that next time, huh?”
The radio is playing a new song, and it’s nice, but if it ended, I would be fine. Nothing like the undertaker song. That fucking tune left me ravished.
“Where was your dad?” Beck asks.
“What?”
“In your story, at the bank or fish market, or wherever. Where was your dad?”
“He was never around back then.” I pause. “Actually, I don’t know why I said that. He’s always been around, but even when he’s around, he’s not . . . around, you know? Not present. Or at least, not since Kathy ruined everything.”
Something howls in the distance.
“What do you think?” I say. “Coyote?”
“What if you’re wrong?” says Beck.
“Yeah. Probably just a wild dog or something.”
“Not that. About Kathy.”
“What do you mean?”
Beck shuffles, uncomfortably. “Nothing.”
“Uh-uh. Out with it.”
“Look, I’m sure I don’t know the whole story, but you’ve mentioned this bitch of a stepmom more than a few times, and I don’t know . . . you’ve never really given any good reason for not liking her.”
I am Mary Iris Malone and I count to ten with the best of them. A deep breath, one through ten. My face flushes, and for once, I care nothing for Beck’s eyes. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mim, I wasn’t—”
“You don’t.”
Somehow, I’d imagined our first fight would be different. (Something like . . . while honeymooning in Venice, we polish off a tiramisu at some world-renowned restaurant that none of the other stupid American tourists know about. We order a second bottle of Cristal, then argue about whether to open it in the gondola on the way back to Hotel Canal Grande, or wait, and open it from the hotel’s rooftop balcony. Something like that.)
The second song ends. Good riddance.
“You still good with the plan for tomorrow morning?” asks Beck. “It’s not too late to back out, you know.”
“Beck. I need you to say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He looks away, and I honestly don’t know what’s coming. He nods once, then says quietly, “I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
If possible, I feel even worse. For a few seconds, we lie there, not talking, just taking in the sheer distance and scope of the stars. I think about how quickly things have changed for me. But that’s the personality of change, isn’t it? When it’s slow, it’s called growth; when it’s fast, it’s change. And God, how things change: some things, nothings, anythings, everythings . . . all the things change.
“Beck?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what you want?”
A second’s pause. “What do you mean?”
I don’t answer. He knows what I mean.
“I thought I did,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“I mean, I thought I did.”
“Yeah.”
I always figured, if love was in the cards for me, I’d find it, or capture it—never did I think I’d fall into it. Falling in love is boxes of chocolates and carnations, will-he-or-won’t-he, fumbly kisses, awkward pauses, zits at inopportune times, three a.m. phone conversations. In other words, not me. But listening to Walt’s snores in the bed of a pickup named Phil, I can’t help but think, of course. This is the only way it would happen for me. Imperfect. Supremely odd. Fast.