The energy radiating off her is magnetic. The challenge makes the thought of completing the task at hand even more rewarding. I flex my hands against my thighs, leaning over and turning my head so my mouth is just by her ear.
“Snowflake,” I say, unfamiliar with the rasp of my voice.
She turns her head just so the side of her nose is almost brushing the tip of mine. I track the goosebumps that rise on her skin. “We’re going to have a good night.”
It’s a simple command, but it lands. Her eyes flutter up to meet mine, widening as her mouth slackens. She swallows, offering me a jerky nod in response and tucking her plump bottom lip under her teeth in that way she does when I’ve said something she likes. We’re supposed to be making this holidaydifferent than the others. What does it say about me that she can do that just by being here, acknowledging she’s heard what I said?
I shake my head, resting it against the cool leather headrest — try to figure out how I ended up here before deciding I don’t want to be anywhere else.
Nick
Ishould have brought the Canon. Twenty years behind the camera and I still haven’t learned that lesson. Outside the library is a rose garden. The thorned bushes spiral around the center where a large fountain sits — spewing artful streams of water in arches, dimly lit by bulbs that need to be replaced. The lights strung from its pinnacle haven’t come to life yet. It’s the first part of the show.
She keeps saying she doesn’t want to spoil it for us, but Gayle can’t stop dropping little hints about how the night is going to go. They pass out LED candles for each of us to hold. The town is nearly pitch black. Not even the street lights are on.
Someone announces the Old Crescent Baptist Choir, and three rows of red robes hustle into the small courtyard, quickly aligning themselves. One of them steps forward, wielding a cordless microphone bedazzled in holographic rhinestones that glitter inexplicably in the darkness.
Her voice is crisp as she begins the first verse ofO Holy Night.
When I look down at Krystal, she’s enraptured — eyes misty and cheeks flushed as she listens to the choir. Their perfectsynchronization anchors my attention once they get to that part right before the chorus.
“Fall on your knees,” she belts.
Then the rest of the choir. “Oh, hear the Angel voices!”
Something shifts in the crowd, a heaviness that blankets me. I feel it coming before it hits every time, and I still can’t stop the grief-filled tears that flood my eyes. I stare up at the sky, hoping it will stop. I try not to let the memory surface — tubes piercing his skin and running up his little nostrils. Chestnut skin gone cold. Tonal counts that should represent his heart beating.
Fading.
Fading.
Fading.
A hand clad in velvet slips into mine.
I remember where I am, the harmonious voice of the choir registering with the rhythm of my heart. I look down at Krystal, who swipes the stubborn tears away from my cheeks with her free hand, the fake candle tucked under her arm. I see my reflection in her glassy eyes and remember I’m alive.
I’m still alive, so I owe it to Juno to continue living.
I squeeze Krystal’s hand in mine, and a sense of relief floods my chest when she doesn’t pull away. When the choir reaches its crescendo, the lights above us come to life. Hushed gasps lift from the crowd, and I look around at all the tiny lights around us, realizing our original crowd tripled since we got here.
I should have brought the damn camera.
I was so caught up in Krystal that I forgot.
The crowd erupts in applause, and she lets my hand go to join in. Any annoyance I feel with myself subsides when I catchthe delight in her expression. Maybe I was supposed to leave it behind tonight. Experience life instead of capturing it for once.
“That was so good,” she turns her head up to me, her eyes glowing.
I smile down at her, still a bit raw from the wave of grief that almost overwhelmed me. It was so easy for her to ground me, and I don’t think she has the slightest idea.
The crowd starts moving again. By this time, there are several trucks, their tailgates decked with cushioned seating for guests who don’t want to walk. I help her up into the back of one of them before deciding to take the trek.
As we meander down the dark street to the next thing, I stick my trembling hand into the pocket of my coat before falling behind the crowd. My heartbeat is just starting to settle, but my mind continues to race. Memories of Juno, of Marie, and our little family spiral in my head. Then, my eyes catch on Krystal’s face. She’s laughing with the bright-eyed woman next to her.
I’m not sure if it’s guilt I feel, acknowledging that I’ve never felt this way about another woman before…not even the mother of my dead son. Never felt this level of attraction, this curiosity, this need to know her the most — to become her favorite person on the planet. At the end of this vacation, when we go our separate ways, will that be it?
Why do I keep feeling drawn to people I’m bound to lose in one way or the other?
