Te Iubesc
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Thrice you’ve texted in the years since you’ve passed, the same curt message:
Sunt mama, pisica de piatră. Vino la Cimitirul Eternitatea pe luna albastră. Te iubesc.
Always during blue moons. Always from random Romanian numbers.
And, quite frankly, ma, I’m a little pissed.
Alive, you had no time for me. Just flew your little Starla off to “un loc mai bun…” As if any place without you was better than being beside you. But dead, well… Now you want me back. Won’t even tell me why (or how you’re doing this!). Not plainly.
But Iași isn’t my home, you saw to that. Neither is this culture you’ve denied me.
I came for you, though. Eventually. Cost me two day’s travel on economy planes and rickety trains. Had both my laptop and cell phone stolen by a gang of scraggly, yet surprisingly adept, youngsters—that one girl’s portrayal of “lost and scared” would have had even Meryl Streep rising to applaud. And now I’ve no way to translate, I’m perpetually confused, more scared than I probably ought to be, and so, so furious. You never taught my tongue how to dance like yours; I am speechless in your language.
And as I wander through this crumbly constellation of tombstones dotting “Cimitirul Eternitatea,” the sun setting ablaze the horizon with all the colors of angst and fury, I’m searching for every cat of stone. Looking for you.
Happy now, ma?
Five…six…seven. Seven cats of stone. I make a mental note.
Which one are you?
The sun now passed, the moon a faint print in the sky, I sit myself upon a rusted bench along a cobble walkway between graves and puzzle over what to expect. You’re a cat (or so you claim). Of stone. Fitting, I suppose. You never were easy to understand. Ever distant. Enigmatic.
Will you come alive with the blue moon? Or is this just more wasted time?
A few plots away an older woman tends to the cradle grave of a loved one. O bătrână. Frumoasă. Swaddled in a black shawl and a red headscarf, she lights candles, places them into gilded lanterns hooked on either side of the white marble tombstone. Their small flames illuminate the mass of rose bush spilling out from the grave where it had been planted. Nurtured and grown. Here. She reaches for a white rose, bloomed wide, caresses its petals. Offers care and warmth. Acknowledgment. She turns, meets my eyes. Smiles.
I nod, smile back.
The blue moon (luna albastră) crowns the distant buildings now, accentuating their brash and distinct brutalist-styling. I remember the few tales you’ve shared. Of communism and corruption. Of hardship. How, even after the revolution, life wasn’t easy. You did what you thought was best. Gifted me an opportunity at a life you never dared dream for yourself. And I don’t blame you. But that doesn’t mean the missing hurts any less.
The older woman rises from her tending beside the grave and approaches, small bags clutched and crinkling in hand. She nears, says something I don’t understand. My throat drys, tenses. Uncertain of what constitutes proper protocol in this situation, all I can think to do is shrug, say, “Uh…”
“Zi bogdaproste.” She makes light of my ignorance with a soft chuckle, waves her hand in encouragement as she repeats, “Zi bogdaproste, dragă.”
“Bo–bogdaproste.” The word is clumsy on my tongue, but her brown eyes twinkle.
Pleased, she nods, proffers a bag. I accept, and she departs.
Stars blink now, and the blue moon glows overhead. I rise from the bench, my eyes already leaping through the cemetery, sweeping across stone cat after stone cat. They’re all where they were, ornamentations scattered amongst various graves. Except one.
Did I…miscount? I must’ve.
I cannot move, stilled by thoughts and recollection.
But…no. No, I didn’t… There were seven cats. But…dammit, ma! You can’t be…
My legs start to move, aimless at first, wobbly, then with vigor, dashing between tombstones towards where the one cat is missing.
You’re gonna owe me such an explanation. Can you…even speak as a cat?
Movement catches my eye. A man in overalls. He’s charging towards me, hollering nonsense, a hoe raised above his head. I lunge behind a nearby tombstone, shout back as he passes, “What the fuck!”
He pays me no mind, keeps on.
I shake my head, bite my lip and rise, glaring after him and his maniacal assault. It’s then I spot you—a sleek figure darting just ahead of the man, dark feathers streaming from your mouth like a grotesque trophy. And I don’t know how, but I recognize you instantly. Some inexplicable knowing, deep in my bones.
He’s got you backed against a thin copse of trees, swinging his hoe. Jabbing.
You stand your ground. Hiss and shriek. Bristle.
I come up behind the man, angle myself so he sees me. He shouts something, sounds like profanity, but I wouldn’t know. Flashcards shuffle through my mind. I search for something to say, something he’ll understand.
“Vă rog!” I start, firm, “Gata.” Enunciating every syllable. “Pisica e bună. Vă rog, pisica e bună.”
He jabs again and again. Misses you. Misses you.
“Vă rog!” I implore. Please.
He looks at me, shouts back, “Pisica nu-i bună. E agresivă. Sălbatică.”
From what I understand him say, I agree. You look the part: plumage and bones pouring from your mouth. Jagged. Bloody.
“A mea,” I insist, stepping past him, towards you. “Vă rog, pisica e a mea.”
Breeze and breath fill the silence.
I bend down, scoop you up. You paw at the bag the older woman gave me.
“Mulțumesc,” I say, backing away through the trees. “Mulțumesc.”
He waves us off.
“Plecați de aici! Plecați!”
I hurry, eager to be rid of him, too.
It’s true night now. Bright stars wave from their beds of distance and darkness, thousands of small candles wave back, cozy beside their flowers and tombstones, left behind as the stream of straggling visitors trickles out past the iron gate.
I settle us in the quiet, sit on the steps of a small mausoleum. Look at you.
“Ai venit, Starla! Ești aici.”
My heart skips a beat.
“What?”
“Nu avem mult timp, draga mea. Ascultă-mă.”
Gibberish in my ears, I forget to breathe. Just stare at you.
“No. Nooo. No. You’re a cat. Cats don’t…don’t do that.”
“Starla. Ascultă-mă. Te rog. Ascultă-mă. E foarte important.”
I press against my temples, feel my pulse hasten.
“Ma,” I say, half in disbelief. “Ma, I don’t understand you. I don’t…understand any of this. You’re dead. You’re supposed to be dead. The fuck is going on? How are you alive? A…a cat. How is…any of this happening?”
I cover my eyes. Breathe.
In all the years that I’ve received these messages from you, I didn’t actually think anything would turn up. It’d just be some sick joke. A misunderstanding. I came here on a whim, not on belief. I came hoping to prove to myself that whatever insanity was transpiring, it was…unprocessed grief manifesting as…something, anything other than this. Because this…can’t be real. Cats don’t talk. Cats don’t talk. THEY DON’T TALK!
I stumble to my feet, pace along the steps, clap the tips of my fingers together. You follow along beside me lithe and calm and regal as any cat. Somehow that makes everything seem even more impossible.
“I don’t even…” I exhale. Stop. Look at you. Away. At you again.
“Concentrează-te, Starla. Concentrează-te,” you say. “Ai telefonul tău?”
“I. Don’t. Under. Stand,” I say, miming to you. “You’re. Supposed. To be. Dead. Why aren’t you dead?”
You roll your eyes, grumpy-growl at me.
Your ears shift back and forth, like you’re listening to something.
“Urmează-mă. Rapid.”
You’re gone, weaving through trees and tombstones. Swallowed by the dead and night.
“Good, god.”
I hurry after you, more stumbling than running. For a time, I can no longer see you, just keep drifting from candle glow to candle glow. Exasperated and weary. Then I hear you: a guttural shriek followed by what sounds like the howl of a man. I hurtle myself in your direction, prickly bushes and chipped tombstones lash and brush against my arms, my pants, scrapes stinging.
I come upon a hooded figure curled on the ground. Rocking, whimpering.
“Ma?” I call out.
A few rows away, behind a tombstone, you call back, “Aici, Starla. Sunt aici.”
I press forward in the direction of your voice, confused and hating myself for leaving the injured person behind. What did you do, ma? What did you do?
A cellphone’s glow illuminates your form in the dark. You’re snarling, pawing at the screen.
“What are you…”
“Trebuie să vorbim, Starla. Am nevoie să înțelegi. De ce nu înțelegi?”
“I don’t understand because you weren’t there to teach me! Fuck!”
I take the phone in my shaking hand, stare at the lock screen. It’s a blur at first, my eyes adjusting to the influx of light, then a young couple. Crisp. Smiling. Bright. The phone slips from my hand—or I let it go. I don’t know. But it lands with a thump on the cobblestone. Cracks. And I teeter to the side, lean against a tombstone. It’s cold and solid and the greatest comfort. I slide down until my butt meets the earth. Just sit there.
“Starla. Dragă.” You come beside me, nuzzle your nose into my leg.
I want to brush you off. I don’t. You’re warm and here and alive. And I don’t. But I don’t embrace you either. Just let you be. Be beside me. You’re here…
“What did you do, ma? Ce ai făcut?”
A growl is your response. Bristling.
I look up. Scream.
A man stands over me. Us. No longer hooded. A deep, clawed-gash marks his left eye. Red pulses and dribbles down his face, splashes against dirtied sneakers and the ground. He yells. Hits me. Shoves me against the tombstone, his grip dizzyingly strong. I can’t think. I let him. I can’t think. I let him. I can’t think.
You don’t let him. You nip, snarl, and claw.
He turns, tries to grab you. You nick his hand. He shuffles, goes to kick you. And I don’t know where you land, only hear the thump. The wheezing that follows.
“Ma,” I say through tight breaths. “Ma.”
I don’t see when he leaves, just know that he’s gone. Phone, too.
Once my feet are under me again, I go to find you. Your breath is sharp, soft, and all I can hear. Neither of us says anything as I scoop you into my arms, hold you to my chest.
“I’m sorry, ma. I’m sorry.”
What I apologize for, I don’t know. Just seems right.
You lick my hand.
I focus on getting you someplace safe where I can take care of you. We’ll figure this all out later.
We have a later…
I trudge towards the exit, draw near. You weigh heavier in my arms, fur stiffens, and streaks of grey ripple across you. You’re turning to stone and your shriek stills my heart. Stills me.
“Nu pot pleca,” your voice is a whisper, cuts deep. It takes all I have not to fall to my knees. “Nu pot. Nu… Nu pot.”
Not knowing what else to do, the blue moon fading from the sky, I take you back, place you where I first found you. The missing cat. And as stone takes you, you say, “Te iubesc, Starla. Draga mea. Te iubesc.”
“Te iubesc, ma.” A tremor in my chest. “Te iubesc.”
I follow the rising sun to leave, pass a still flickering candle and stumble upon that crinkly bag the older woman had given me. Treats fill it, wrapped in packaging with words in your tongue. Some I know. More I don’t. And so I’ll learn. One at a time.
“Until the next blue moon, ma… Ne vedem curând.”
It Wasn’t Love On My Mind
It wasn’t love on my mind as I slid onto the backseat of my Grab driver’s motorbike headed to the Tipsy Elephant—so why was my heart racing?
I only wanted to see him again, him and that adorably stupid frat-boy grin of his. To hear his voice with its tobacco-baked raspiness and sounding so entirely British. Northern British, from Newcastle—he had clarified this morning when he had deigned to sit beside me at work, the first time in the nearly six months that we’ve worked together. And he had talked to me. Really talked with me. My toes had curled, and my pupils must have dilated into saucers. Maybe that’s why he had grinned at me then. I swear, just above the scruff of his jaw I had spotted the faintest blushing of his cheeks. It wasn’t love, mind you, it wasn't. Just…anticipation. Tonight didn’t need to be serious. It could be simple. Drinks and music. Conversation. And later, perhaps, it could be a bit of sweet tangling in bedsheets. Asterisk on perhaps; I couldn’t be so bold as to bet money on it.
Though, daring as I was, I did hope so.
As the driver and I crossed over the bridge connecting Thao Dien to Binh Thanh, the oranges, purples, and creams of sunset draped soft shadows across the city's lines. Smog and exhaust clung to the air, thick and suffocating as ever—I’d long since grown accustomed to the coughing. A familiar ruckus was this evening's choice tune: blaring shouts and screaming horns. The chaos was at once mesmerizing and exhilarating.
We rounded the corner and the sun’s colors faded, the Tipsy Elephant flashed into view.
I said, “Cảm ơn!” to my driver. The scrunching of his brow made clear my botched pronunciation, though I hoped he understood my sentiment. Biting my lip, I ran my hands along my arms and stole a calming breath. I wasn’t a school child but at that moment my brain must have forgotten that. Years have passed since I last stepped out into the dating scene. Back in the States, alone and me, we were best buddies, we were pals. I liked being alone; there’s less pain that way. But alone doesn’t travel well. Not with me. So, there I was, taking a chance, rolling the dice. I hoped that as I got to know him—and him me; I know I’m not the easiest to like—he might really be nice.
I stepped into a buzzing bar. Locals glowered over the rims of their beers at the expats fussing around like mosquitoes. I felt as out of place as I was likely unwanted.
Unnerved, I turned to leave, thinking I’d wait for him outside.
Someone called me then: Martha, from work.
I stood, stunned and confused, as she waved to me and kicked out a stool, gesturing for me to plant myself beside her.
“Girl! What are you doing here?” I said. My face must have worn the daftest of expressions for she cackled and quaked the table with her fist, much to the whole bar’s agitated bemusement.
The three empty glasses before her clued me in—she was plastered.
“We’re chill, Martha. We’re chill.” I rubbed her back in a counterclockwise motion, habit guiding me more than genuine concern.
“I’m so nervous, Kyle. I spent half the afternoon curling my hair. You think he’ll say something?”
“Your hair is bouncing and beautiful, Martha. It always is.”
She sighed, tossing a few spirals over her shoulder. “I know. I just like to hear it.”
The server came and I ordered mineral waters for the two of us, hoping Martha wouldn’t notice the lack of alcohol through the lime and fizz.
“So…delighted as ever to see you, but what are you doing here? Who you’re waiting for? Cause I’m sort of waiting for someone, too. And I’m feeling very confused right now.”
Doe eyes stared back at me.
Our drinks arrived. I slurped a sip.
“Absolutely not! No, no, n-n-n-n-no. We’re not doing that. Not where I can hear, it’s like you’re literally slurping my brains out.”
“Oh. Your three margaritas haven’t atrophied that yet?” I bit my lip, recognizing my words to be harsher than intended.
Luckily, her mind seemed elsewhere, her eyes on the door.
I ran a nervous hand through my hair then snapped back it into my lap, worried that I’d look greasy when he arrived. Something about being with Martha brought out these frantic anxieties in me about my appearance. With a breath to compose myself, I tried again.
“Martha, darling, take a sip, calm down, and focus. Who are you meeting?”
“Samuel,” she said, tonguing her straw. “He and Harry are supposed to head over after they finish up with whatever new game boys are playing these days.”
My jaw clenched, a cold annoyance suffusing me.
“Harry’s coming with Samuel? Like, coming here? Together?”
“Yeah. That’s kinda how double dates work.” Martha began chomping on ice.
“Ah. Mhm. Of course.”
My eyes couldn’t roll back far enough. Harry hadn’t mentioned this was intended to be a double date—or perhaps he had, and I had just been too transfixed on his puppy-dog eyes, as alluring as they were grey. Either way, I suppose the situation could have been worse. If I had to choose anyone to be on a double date with, it would absolutely have been Martha. Quirky as she was, she knew how to keep the pot stirring.
— — —
I was a glass of prosecco and a shot of tequila down, courtesy of Martha’s bewitching tongue, when the boys arrived. They strolled in together, carrying themselves like frat-boys three years their juniors, stumbling as though they, themselves, were each a few beers gone.
They plopped into their seats.
(He sat across from me!)
I was so chill the whole time.
“Hey, boys! Just in time to get the next round. What’re we all drinking?” As expected, Martha kept the conversation spinning all night. More than once, I thought she must be plucking questions from my own mind.
“So, Mr. London Boy,” she said, sipping her umpteenth margarita “How come it took you so long to ask my fine friend out?”
Harry shifted on his stool, took a swig of his whiskey. “I don’t know. This whole thing is still kinda new to me. I didn’t have the greatest people in my life… Back in Newcastle. Not London.”
He took another swig.
The gleam in his eyes I had come to adore dwindled then. Hoping to keep it alive, I pivoted, blurting out, “Newcastle is where Chelsea’s from?”
“Excuse me?”
“The soccer—er, football team. Chelsea. They’re from Newcastle?”
“You’re joking, right? Chelsea? From Newcastle? No, mate. No.”
The gleam returned. And his grin, as adorably stupid as I remembered.
Conversation stretched through the night, winding from football and video games to a not-so-quick interjection about women’s rights and pay discrepancies—courtesy of Martha, of course. A warmth of gratitude swelled in me for having rolled the dice and tried my hand at this night. So seldomly I took my eyes off Harry, I thought I might accidentally weld a piece of me onto him. He reciprocated.
The moon shone, a crown amongst sparse stars, when he invited me outside with him, a menthol calling his name. He offered me one. I refused. We stood looking at each other. His eyes swept across me. Seeing me.
It wasn’t love on my mind, it wasn’t. But that moment was exactly what I needed. Us… Together under smoke and stars. And I think he needed me, too. I think some part of me needed him to.
“I still can’t believe it,” he said, a silver wisp streaming past his lips. “I’ve wasted six months pretending I didn’t notice you. Pretending I wasn't...curious about you. And for what? Fear? Shame? Embarrassment…”
“You weren't ready,” I said, leaning against his shoulder. “I understand that. Sometimes it’s hard to accept that we are who we are. You’ve lived in the shadows of your own life for so long; I don’t blame you. But you’ve notice me now…like I’ve noticed you.”
Our eyes locked, held briefly, then he turned away. He was still so used to hiding when things got real. So, I let him hide. I saw his markings, though. His bruises. It was such an eerie thing, how his looked so much like mine.
I wrapped my arms around him, held him not too tight. And we shared that moment. It was nice. Really nice.
Then came Martha—stumbling, grumbling, moment-ruining Martha—her timing ever impeccable.
“I’m so over this dump. Look what their lack of air conditioning did to my hair! I look like a tumbleweed.”
Samuel ran a hand through the black puffball atop Martha’s head, his fingers catching on a few tangles. “I think it’s hot. And I’d love for you to take a tumble in my weeds.”
Laughs all around, as fake as I’ve ever heard.
“Samuel’s taking me back to his place cause he’s such a sweet gentleman.” Martha slumped against Samuel’s chest. They both went teetering backward.
When I saw them mounting Samuel’s motorbike I shouted, “Hey! There’s no way you're safe to drive.”
“Kyle. Dude. Chill. I live right up the road; I do this all the time. We’ll be fine.”
They took off in a cloud of dust, carving a line that was anything but straight. Martha waved as they rounded the corner, the shadows sculpting her into a scarecrow. I shook my head.
“I was actually thinking I might head home myself.” Harry’s words broke me. “Maybe, uh… I don’t know.”
“What?” The word fell out of me, more a plea than I intended.
“I was going to offer you a ride…”
I let out a sigh and bit my tongue. Today had been one of chances and I’d been lucky so far. I mulled over the risk. But numbers and probabilities have never been my strong suit, so instead I asked, “Are you sure you’re good to drive? A Grab is literally a dollar-fifty.”
“I mean… I want you to be comfortable. I don’t know, like… Do you trust me? I wouldn’t hurt you.” A crushed innocence echoed in the crackling depths of his voice.
My stomach knotted, and I knew then that I would have done anything just to have him smile at me again.
“I know you wouldn’t.”
And he looked at me, his face alight like the north star. My north star.
I sat behind him, my body pressing into his. The smell of him was more intoxicating than any glass of wine, or bottle of whiskey.
“You mind?” He asked, a cigarette already wedged between his lips.
“Of course not.”
I did.
We went.
The night welcomed us as we set out chasing the stars. He never asked me where I lived. In truth, I never expected him to. Seeing how he commanded that two-wheel deathtrap, hearing the revving of his engine—which I think he hoped I’d find impressive, despite it sounding like a wounded banshee—I found myself wholly captivated by him, cursing that frat-boy charm of his.
With the closing of my eyes, I gave myself to him. And the world transformed around us. The wind on my skin became his hands caressing my cheeks. The musky air became scented candles burning in a dark room. The rough bumping of the road and the growing headlights blinding me became a sea of white sheets.
So loud…the horn screaming in these plush white shee—
…
The world was gone. But I was there when it returned.
There were no sheets, just blood. So much blood.
It wasn’t love on my mind when I realized I didn’t know where I was.
It wasn’t love on my mind when I looked at his face. I couldn’t recognize his body.
It wasn’t love I felt. But numb. And cold. Which didn’t make sense…
His blood was so warm.
Sugar Talk
Tory:
“Tory, man, you can’t actually care about that guy. He’s crypt-keeper old.”
“Well…,” Tory shrugged in a what-can-I-say sort of way. “I kind of do.”
Mitchell rolled his eyes, shook his head, then shifted forward in his chair and met his friend’s gaze with his own.
“Then you’re only opening yourself up to heartbreak. All a man like him wants is power, and the illusion of your infatuation is how you keep the power for yourself. Because, once the illusion is gone, then, dude, you’re doomed.”
“What if it’s not always about power?” Tory said, running a hand through his salon-blond curls before shifting forward on the sofa. “I mean, you seem to have fairly balanced relationships with three older guys all at the same time. So… clearly something else has got to be possible.”
“Here’s the key difference between you and me,” Mitchell started, then paused, reaching for a swig from his bottle. “I don’t care about any of them. They’re all just means to an end. Things I use and then dispose of the moment they’re no longer useful to me—”
“—After you max out their credit cards, you mean,” Tory teased, rubbing at his chin, playfully concealing a smile.
Mitchell met Tory’s chuckle with his own, adding an amused, slitted glare, before continuing. “But it’s because I don’t care that not one of them has any power over me. That’s the difference. Once you care, you’re done.”
Both swallowed a swig from their bottles.
“You’ve got to make a choice,” Mitchell said with a shrug. “Either steel yourself and play the game as it is—a game where you milk that man for all he’s willing to give—or you lace up the Versace boots he bought you last week and walk that tight rump of yours out his door before he decides to smack it in your face. Dude, men like him, they don’t care about guys like us. We’re just handsome faces that remind them what youth used to feel like—their playthings. Don't let him convince you otherwise.”
Genuine concern shone in Mitchell’s stern eyes. It stung Tory. Right in the chest. He shook it off with another swig.
“But…we can exist as more than just shadows in their lives. Especially if we find someone good, someone kind. Like Edmond is to me.”
Mitchell reached over the table and nudged Tory on the shoulder. “Alright. Tell me, have you met any of his friends yet? Or his kids? Does he take you places during the day, or does he only call on you at night? In that warm, romantic glow of bedroom light?”
Tory’s grip tightened around his bottle. “No,” he said, the muscles lining his jaw twitching. “Not yet.”
“And it’s never going to happen, man,” Mitchell said. “He’ll fill your head with words of honey. He’ll dress you up in the finest clothes just so he can strip you back down again with his clammy, old, wrinkled hands. He’ll make you believe that your wildest, nastiest dreams could all come true; they could all be yours. With him, right? Only with him.”
“Colton almost married you,” Tory sneered without thinking. He regretted every word the moment they slipped out.
Mitchell sat still. Deflating. His very essence seemed to sputter out from some invisible wound on his chest. Steel bars clanged down over his eyes.
“Yeah,” Mitchell said, his voice thin. “He almost did. But look around. Where is he now?”
Tory shifted on the sofa, rubbed at the tingles of anticipation creeping across his arm.
“He’s not here,” Pain lined Mitchell’s words. “He never cared about me, never loved me. He only ever wanted to own me. And I almost let him. Deceit and betrayal are all these old badgers know. But hey… What do I know?”
Slow, unsure, Tory slid to the edge of the sofa, his soft gaze locked on Mitchell. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was stupid of me.”
“Yeah.”
Tory reached across the table, taking Mitchell’s hand in his own. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to hurt you. Honest. It’s just... Edmond isn’t like Colton. He isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met. Sure, he may not have introduced me to his friends yet, but… I know he cares about me.”
Mitchell took Tory in, the warm stubbornness on his face, the glint in his eyes. Hurt and jaded as he was, Mitchell wanted to believe.
“I showed you the pictures, didn’t I?” Tory asked, brightening. “He trusted me to remodel his apartment. When we’re together, I can tell that he only has eyes for me. His eyes—and I think his heart—are only for me.”
“Look, I know you want to believe that he’s somehow different,” Mitchell said as now he squeezed Tory’s hand. “I just…don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Can you trust me?” Tory asked. “Trust that I know how to look out for myself?”
“Honestly, I don’t know, man.” A half-smile stretched across Mitchell’s face. “Sometimes you’re still pretty damn naïve.”
“Hey!” Tory scrunched his brow. “Come on, I’m nearly twenty-three; I’ve lived through some things.”
“And isn’t he nearly…” Mitchell pulled away, traced numbers through the air. “Carry the one, subtract the libido, and—actually, I guess the man’s not quite old enough to be your dad. But almost!”
“That joke wasn’t funny the first few times, and it still isn’t funny now.” Tory chuckled and rose. He strolled over to the fridge, popped open another couple of bottles, and handed one to Mitchell.
“Thank you,” Tory said.
“What do you mean?”
“I know that this is difficult for you, but I also know that you care. That’s all anyone could ask of a friend.”
Mitchell clinked his bottle against Tory’s. “Dude, you really care about him… Grey hairs and all?”
Tory sighed and looked off into the distance, his eyes alight with flashing images of himself and Edmond. Together. “I do. I think he knows that.”
“I’m sure he does, my naïve friend. I’m sure he does.”
Edmond:
“Edmond, please. Everything about that boy screams red flag! You cannot seriously be considering this.”
“You know I find it unpleasant when you refer to him as a boy. The man’s nearly twenty-three.”
“And you’re nearly forty.” Agatha’s refined alto voice stung with truth. “When you were twenty-three, the boy would have been…” She drew numbers in the air. “Carry the one, add the breast milk, and—Actually, I suppose seven isn’t quite young enough to still be breastfeeding.” She wore a teasing grin.
“Nevertheless, Edmond, end it. Soon. Or mark my words, that boy will try fervently to bleed your tender heart dry. He is still a child.”
Edmond leaned back on the sofa, legs crossed. He ran his fingers through his classically trimmed beard, wisdom peppered throughout. “He’s simply enthusiastic, only in need of a little guidance, a little support.”
A cackle erupted out from Agatha’s throat, and she reached across the table, clasping Edmond’s shoulder. “Precisely what I thought about my last husband and the one before that and the fiancé prior to him.” She leaned in close, wearing an expression of humored compassion on her face. “I know how you see him, the glint in your eye when you say his name.”
“Tory,” Edmond said, his voice warm and deep, like crackling embers smoldering in a hearth.
Agatha nodded and pointed to Edmond’s eyes. “There! I just saw it! ...and I understand. He is a fine specimen of a man, a smidge on the short side perhaps, but his sunstone hair and the tight tug of his jeans,” Agatha waved her hand like a fan over her face, “trust me, I see what you see. But I also happen to know what I know, and no offense, but I do have a few years on you when it comes to the learnedness of identifying a good man.”
Edmond arched his brow. “Of course. As the three cobweb-coated engagement rings accompanying the carpet of dust inside your jewelry box can testify to; you sure know how to land a keeper.”
“I said good,” Agatha protested, wearing a mischievous smirk. “I never said I knew how to land a keeper, only how to identify a good man.”
Edmond took Agatha’s hand in his own. “Can you trust I know how to handle myself responsibly?”
“Of course,” Agatha pulled away and rose. Skirting the edges of the coffee table, she went to pour herself another glass of wine. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. This is a whole different world you’re stepping into. It’s entirely new to you, though somewhat familiar to me. I only want to help you because I care. That boy has you in the palm of his moisturized hand. You’ve allowed him to change everything; I barely recognize the place anymore.”
Agatha spun around the room, velvety red wine sloshing along the rim of her glass. Her gaze brushed across every unfamiliar fabric, every brash color, every newly darkened strand atop Edmond’s once silver sea of hair. “You’ve done all this for him—and more I presume—I worry that you might lose yourself adopting a whole new persona all for a whim, impressing the first boy with pretty eyes to waltz his way into your life.”
Edmond glanced up at her, nodded his understanding.
“When you told me you were separating from Mary, I stood by you, supported you. When you told me you were feeling for men, I may have fumbled for a moment, but still, I supported you. Now, I fear that I’ve been a terrible friend in not reminding you sooner that you don’t have to throw out the baby with the bathwater. Not everything has to change.
“This,” she gestured around the apartment, “none of this is you. Not any side of you that I’ve ever known, and I know you, Edmond.”
Agatha paused. She took in the changed apartment, the changed man sitting before her. “I do, don’t I?”
Edmond rose and strolled over to Agatha. “You do. Of course, you do. Yet still, there are parts of me that I don’t even know myself. Tory, he brings this,” Edmond shuddered, “this child out of me that I had buried so deep down that I never thought…”
He took a breath, swallowed the nerves clotting in his throat.
“Is it wrong for me to give that forgotten child a chance? A chance to see the world through his own eyes, his own experiences? I’ve only ever allowed myself to be such a small part of who I am. There is this whole other side to me, a side I’ve always kept locked away, who I’ve refused to meet. Until now.”
Edmond glanced around the room, his circling gaze resting again on Agatha’s proud, willowy form. “Tory is a companion. He… He sees me in ways that I never dared to see myself and if being around him, with him, means that some things are going to have to change, then I say let them change. I couldn’t have accepted for things to have stayed the same. If pursuing him ends up an expensive lesson, risking a broken heart, I’ll gladly pay the cost. I will.”
Agatha let out the breath she had held tight in her chest and wiped away a tear. “If it’s companionship you want, I know of a whole slew of discreet businesses that wouldn’t cost you half as much.” She put down her glass and took Edmond’s hand in hers. “But I understand… Mostly… As best as I can.”
“That’s all I’ve ever asked.” Edmond raised her hand to his lips, his eyes locked on hers.
“Thank you.”
“What for?”
“For understanding.”
Agatha spoke, presumption in her eyes, “I still stand by what I said. The boy will bleed you dry.”
“Hopefully not as dry as your wine.”
Agatha scoffed. “You truly believe that he might care for you…”
“In truth, Agatha, I don’t know. How many young men with the stamina of a stallion can truly care for a tired old nag?”
Agatha pulled Edmond in, wrapping him in her arms.
“I hope he does,” Edmond said, a faint trembling in his voice.
“As do I, dear friend. As do I.”
When One Loves The Fae
Theodore loved faeries, and so I loved him. Not because he loved faeries—obviously, they weren’t real—but because of what loving something meant to him: adventure, devotion, borderline obsession. To the rest of the world, he was your typical college dropout, academically unmotivated, easily distracted. A never-man. Your classic Peter Pan. But he was just Theodore to me.
And I knew—trekking through these mountains, dusk on the horizon—that by the end of this wilderness excursion to “find the fae”, he would be mine. He would.
The rain fell over him in pellets, every drop yearning for the chance to shatter itself against his skin. Yet he merely pressed on, determined and seemingly oblivious to nature's pining.
I, on the other hand, waded through the underbrush after him, grumbling and shivering like a disgruntled chihuahua. All I wanted was a modest four-star accommodation and a firm lap to rest my head on. I was out of my element, but it felt amazing to have been invited into his.
"Hey, Theodore," I shouted into the wind. "How much further is it?"
"Shouldn't be much longer. According to the map, we're getting close," he said, rubbing under his pack at his shoulder blade, where his "phantom wings" resided.
Years ago, he swore that once he found the entrance to the fae realm, he'd get his real wings back. Though, in all the time I've known him, sneaking glances at the seaside or in the gym, I've noticed nothing more than a few thin scars and an almost crown-shaped birthmark on his left shoulder.
I couldn't deny that at times he could be a little nutty, but at least he was the kind of nutty that made the world feel larger, like it was stuffed full of secrets waiting to be revealed with just the tiniest cracking of one's perception of reality.
Trudging through the forest, and drenched as I was, I had to admit that there was something ethereal about being out here. I've never been one for the outdoors—techno music at the beach with a glass of champagne in hand was as "outdoorsy" as my life usually got. But Theodore had this way with me. He made me want to be a part of whatever next kooky adventure he embarked on, even if that adventure meant mud leaking into my shoes and leaves sticking to my hair.
"Riley, I found it! We’re here."
It didn't seem like we were.
"Uh, I know this is my first time doing this, but a dark cave to who-knows-where wasn't exactly what I had in mind when you invited me on a camping excursion to 'track down the fae.'" I stood eyeing the mountain’s maw, pummeled by the rain. "Shouldn't there be a campground, or at least a tent somewhere?"
"Fae don't live near campgrounds; they find them too noisy and tend to stay away." The matter-of-fact way those words tumbled from his mouth left me taut-jawed and blinking.
"Okay… So then, how are we supposed to survive out here—or stay warm, at least?" More than one solution crossed my mind, even as I watched a fully grown man pad around a cave floor on all fours, searching in every nook and cranny he could find for…something.
Was he really doing this?
"I didn't exactly say camping…"
"No. But you did invite me into the mountains with you, saying to pack an overnight bag and my mom’s wind chime. What else could I have thought that to mean?"
"You brought the wind chime!"
His face, beaming brighter than all the flashlights in the world, caused me to stumble and teeter on my heels. There was a sort of glow around him, and I found myself almost believing in a realm beyond our own. I wanted to throw my whole being at his smile.
“You asked me to bring them,” I said with a shrug and trying not to blush. “So, I did.”
Pulling the wind chime from my pack, I dangled it from my fingers. The evening breeze played a gentle tune in the swaying of its thin metal tubes.
Theodore jerked to his feet and took off running—dripping water and practically falling—towards me.
“It’s as beautiful as I remember.” He fished a small leather book, ratty with age, from the chest pocket of his jacket and leafed through its pages. Across and back, his finger slid along lines of text until finally he cast a glance at the crooked lips of the cave.
“There,” he said. “Hang it there in the middle of the cave’s mouth, then glance up and tell me if you can spot the moon through the clouds.”
I obliged, hooking the wind chime on a protruding rock overhead. When I glanced up, through a web of branches and the thinning clouds, I spotted it. The moon. It was full, casting the mountains in a milky blue hue. I paused to take in its majesty.
“Well?” His voice was more giddy-child than mountain-man.
“It’s there. Full and blue…”
Drops still spilled from the sky, though gentler now, seeing as they no longer had a desirable enough target to shatter themselves against. The night was resplendent, a watercolor masterpiece. I even caught a few stars peeking through, curious as I was to see what Theodore would do next. He was my kind of mystery, always keeping me on the margins of certainty—and on my toes.
“Just as the journal said…” Theodore spoke in a whisper, more to himself than to me. “That means…” He peered into the cave’s depth, glanced back at me, and then tore off into the unknown, shouting over his shoulder, “Come on!”
With a sigh and an endearing shake of the head, I laid my pack down next to his—nestled in a pool of moss and guarded by a smattering of small blue mushrooms—then took off into the darkness after him, instantly regretting that I had trusted he would pack the flashlight. More than once I thought I might have glimpsed his sinewy silhouette skipping rather than sprinting through the darkness. I didn’t bother suppressing a laugh.
As I ventured further, the light dwindled, and a chill enveloped me. An eerie murmur of voices spoke in my ear like caged whispers, nervous to be set free:
Tell him how you feel.
Tell him…
Don’t you want him to see you?
See you…
I did.
For years I’ve been a friend to Theodore. And not…
A friend doesn’t sneak quick glances in fleeting moments, unsure if not being found out would be worse than the alternative.
A friend doesn’t lie about not getting into college just to spend another year lost in some boy’s adventures.
A friend doesn’t toss and turn at night, wrestling with a thousand what-ifs, wishing they could chase away their own cowardice long enough to say how they really feel.
I wasn’t his friend because friends didn’t want more.
Theodore’s nutty, sure. But I had come to find that I enjoyed life better with a little crunch.
It dawned on me then… I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t see anything.
“Riley!” Theodore’s voice echoed through the darkness, thrummed in my chest.
“Theodore?” I began moving in the direction of his voice, my hands outstretched in front of me, feeling for anything. For him. “Theodore, where are you?”
“Come a little further in. You should see a faint blue light soon. I’m right beside it. Think you can find me?” I heard his grin as he said that last part.
My response was a secret whispered only to myself: “There’s nothing that could keep me from you.”
Stumbling through the dark, the eerie voices came again:
Tell him…
Your feelings…
For him…
What was it about caves that played tricks on the mind?
I could, couldn’t I? Tell him…
The light was bright as I rounded the corner I hadn’t known was there. Theodore was practically bouncing beside a circle of large blue mushrooms, his eyes alight with intrigue and intensity, like a pirate who’s finally found his hallowed chest of gold.
“This is it,” Theodore said. The mushrooms protruded from small cracks in the cave wall, just about at his chest level—or my eye level. He read from his raggedy journal, bravado ringing in his voice: “When as one the full moon and mushrooms glow, and the night sings its breezy hello, come home to us, your light in the dark; your soul, to us, prepare to depart.”
“Theodore…” I said, trying to mask the panic bubbling in my stomach. “What’s going on? What are you reading?”
“I told you I’d find it—my home, the entrance to the realm of the fae.” His wide eyes were as haunting as they were beautiful. “This is it. I cracked the journal’s code. I knew it would lead me here. I spent weeks searching for this place, but then I thought of you.”
You thought of me?
“Riley, you’re my best friend. I don’t know if you ever really believed me or not, but it didn’t matter because you were always there, right beside me. You could have named me a lunatic and left me to my fantasies. But you didn’t. And I couldn’t leave this realm without letting you know that you have a choice, too. You could come with me, Riley. I’m asking you… Come with me.”
I didn’t understand the words pouring from his mouth, but the seriousness of his tone as he spoke unnerved me. If this was magic, it wasn’t like anything I had ever imagined. There was no gust of wind, the glowing mushrooms didn’t burst into stars; nothing changed. Wasn’t magic supposed to make things change?
He said I had a choice… Was that change enough?
“Theodore.” My voice wavered in my throat. “If I have a choice, then let it be this…”
His eyes were like blue fireflies, yet I was the one who yearned to be caught.
“I—I care about you. A lot. Whether you're a…” I gestured all around. “A faerie, or a pixie, or just Theodore… You make me want to be things I never dreamed I could. You have me out here like some kind of wilderness explorer in a freaking cave in the middle of the woods, probably getting high off the spores of these mushrooms, and yet there isn’t another place in this world I’d rather be.”
“How about another world?”
His smirk broke me, and I swooned.
“So,” he said, sounding at once the cockiest I’ve ever heard him and the happiest. “What are you gonna choose?”
There was never any choice.
“I wanna be with you.”