It’s quiet. Just when I’m beginning to wonder if he fell back asleep, he answers. “We wouldn’t leave you, Mim. Not like that.”
“Not like what?”
“Like—high and dry.” He clears his throat again. “At the very least, you’d get a liquid good-bye.”
And that’s when I know what this is. Or rather, what it’s not. I remember our conversation from last night, out under the stars, in the back of Uncle Phil, and I know. “This isn’t a crush, you know.” I say it with my head in his arm—I want him to physically feel my words.
“I know,” he says.
“It isn’t.”
“I know.”
Tell him, Mary.
It’s deep and real and fucking old-school. It’s a fortress of passion, a crash—a fatal collision of neurons and electrons and fibers, my circus of oddities coming together as one, imploding in a fiery blaze. It’s . . . I-don’t-know-what . . . my collection of shiny.
It’s love.
I don’t say any of this, but not because I’m afraid. Wrapped up in Beck, I might never know fear again. I don’t say it because I don’t have to. Beck sees what it is.
I feel his weight shift on the bed; he rolls sideways, toward me, his face hovering over mine. We stare at each other for a second, silent, unmoving. I drink his green eyes, shiner and all. I drink his sharp nose, his jaw covered in desert-island stubble. I drink his eyebrows, thick and just the right amount of wild.
And I sense the move before it comes.
Beck leans in, slowly, and kisses my forehead. It isn’t brief, but it’s gentle, and full of sadness and gladness and everything in between. The sensation of his stubble lingers long after his lips are gone. His breath is robust and pleasant, how I imagine a ski lodge might smell, or a late-night jazz club. And just as I’m wondering how it would smell-taste-feel to have his lips pressed against my own, to feel his weight on top of me, to forever reunite Madagascar with Africa—he whispers the answer to last night’s question.
“I’m too old for you, Mim.”
Another kiss on the forehead, lighter this time, and he’s gone. He pushes himself off the bed. In the semidarkness, I watch him step over to the couch and lie down. That’s that. Game over. My fortress of passion crumbles around me, the most ruined of ruins.
And then, with nothing but two soft words from across a stained room, Beck rebuilds it. “For now.”
35
Olfactory Lane
September 5—morning
Dear Isabel,
In my very first letter to you, I declared myself incapable of fluff. And it’s true. On a typical day, you might even say I’m unfluffable. (Oh God, will you please?) But I’m not quite myself this morning, which is to say I’m feeling spry. Peppy. Full of morning-person stuff, and yes, even a little fluff. So, taking advantage of this rare a.m. energy, I reread some of my previous letters, and would like to, hereforthwith, attach a few amendments. I hope you don’t mind. Actually . . .
Amendment, the First—In reference to these amendments, I just said, “I hope you don’t mind.” I really don’t give a rip one way or the other. Until delivered, the letter belongs to the author. I will attach amendments, as it is my right to do so, and whether you mind or not. (Le Boom.)
Amendment, the Second—On September 1, I wrote this about pain: “. . . I know it’s the only thing between me and the most pitiful of all species—the Generics.” While it’s true that pain will keep you from becoming a Generic, I take back what I said about that particular group being “the most pitiful of all species.” Make no mistake, of all the despicable qualities available to a person, trying to be something you’re not is by far the most pitiful. (I would know.)
Amendment, the Third—On September 2, I wrote, “I don’t think a vivid imagination is all it’s cracked up to be.” I went even further, lamenting the burden of having such an imagination. I’ve thought about it, and in light of a few recent developments, would like for you to ignore everything I’ve written as it relates to imaginations. I wouldn’t trade mine for a single ounce of practicality.
Amendment, the Fourth—In my last letter, I wrote, “. . . most people are egotistical, neurotic, self-absorbed peons, insistent on wearing near-sighted glasses in a far-sighted world.” Ha-ha. How very Mim of me. Chock-full of cutting cynicism and wit, no? Well. While I hold to this general sentiment, it’s possible I’ve underrepresented a certain demographic: Good People. There are a few out there. And, okay, I promise not to go on and on about this (lest you think I’m a card-carrying member of the Generics), but if I don’t tell you about one of these Good People, my head might explode. It won’t be all, dear diary, I met this boy and he’s like, so totally hott, and now my life has, like, total value and stuff! Lol.
Instant nausea, right? Right. Still though . . .
I met a boy. And he is, like, so totally hott. And stuff. Laugh out loud.
My fetching photog. My heroically flawed Knight in Navy Nylon. My New Pangaea. His name is Beck, and he’s beautiful, intelligent, and kind. He challenges my spirit while comforting my everything else. Beck is teaching me how to be a better person, and when you find someone who inspires you like that, you hold on for dear life.
The last thing I’ll say about him is that he’s my friend. I know it sounds cheesy, but I’d rather have that than all the rest. I’ve made some royal mistakes in this life, but one in particular trumps the rest. The remedy for this mistake is so simple it’s maddening, so important, I’m going to underline, capitalize, and cursify.