“She’s fine. Just making sure this cut doesn’t get infected.” He flushed it with some kind of medicinal solution, applied salve, and bandaged it up again.
“Poor thing.” I knelt beside her and stroked the abrasions on her skin. She stirred and opened her big, brown eyes.
“Thankfully, those are superficial. She’ll be good as new in a few days. Won’t you?” Jack nuzzled her. “But you need to rest right now. That’s right. Close your eyes. You’re safe now.” He rubbed her hide in broad, gentle strokes, as the light of the setting sun fell in golden beams around them.
Suddenly I was in the presence of a flesh-and-blood man that no book boyfriend could ever live up to. He wore a crown of dried twigs and hay, but he was more royal, more magnificent than all the jeweled kings in all the fairy tales because he walked in real life—mortal, vulnerable, broken, jaded, but still a king—with the heart of a lion, and the soul of an angel. I ached to touch him, to feel his golden energy. My hand moved heedlessly toward him, the sides of our palms touching briefly as he soothed the calf. It was the softest sweep of skin against skin, a little nibble for my hungry heart before I withdrew.
Anyone else would have brushed it off as accidental, but not Jack. Heknew. Perhaps because he was just as acutely aware of the currents that spiraled between us. His gaze shifted to my face, searching my eyes. I don’t know what he saw in them, but the air between us felt locked and loaded, like it was rigged with dynamite—one false move and we’d both get blown to bits. I didn’t care though, not in that moment. His closeness was like a drug, lulling me to euphoria. I drifted toward him, slowly, helplessly, until my lips tasted the full, intoxicating essence of his.
Kissing Jack was like kissing a slumbering lion. He barely moved, but I could sense the raw power behind his restraint. And deeper still, lurked something wild and dangerous, something that could obliterate me if unleashed. But I wanted it, because it was magnificent, because it swirled over the loss and pain running through his veins, because it was the part of him that was alive. It made me want to thread my fingers through his thick, tawny hair even though I knew it was a bad, bad idea.
Jack didn’t respond, but he didn’t push me away either, and that was okay with me. There is special kind of hell that comes with remembering, in full-blown Technicolor detail, a kiss that never happened. And I had just freed myself from it. I pulled back, my eyes still closed, knowing that I had just stolen an epic moment from life. Someday when I looked back, I would smile in the middle of the street and no one would know why, because it was just for me, so that I could say to myself:
Once in Africa, I kissed a king . . .
I got up, smoothed my dress, and walked away, leaving Jack kneeling by the calf.
“Rodel,” he said, just as I was about to step outside.
Rodelle. Another thing I would always remember—the way he said my name,elle-vating it beyond the ordinary.
He was between me and the exit before I could turn around. He swung me into the circle of his arms and kissed me—not softly or tentatively, like I had kissed him, but hungry and demanding, crushing my body to his. His mouth moved wildly over mine, his tongue exploring the recesses of my mouth, as if I had stolen a piece of him, and he wanted it back. I tasted the whole universe in Jack’s kiss—the blue heat of spinning stars, the birth of distant suns, atoms buzzing and colliding and fusing.
And just like that, in an old red barn at the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro, I found the elusive magic I had glimpsed only between the pages of great love stories. It fluttered around me like a newborn butterfly and settled in a corner of my heart. I held my breath, afraid to exhale, for fear it would slip out, never to be found again.
When Jack lifted his head, my pulse was beating hard and fast at the base of my throat. He traced it tenderly, in gentle fascination, before meeting my eyes.
“Rodel,” he said my name again.
I tried to mask the swell of emotions running through me, but he caught the flicker of something, because his expression turned grim.
“Come with me,” he said, leading me outside by my hand.
We walked past the house, in the soft half-light between afternoon and evening, to the giant acacia tree I’d seen him standing under, the night of the thunderstorm.
“Everyone I love ends up here,” he said, pointing to the four tombstones at the base of the tree. His grandfather. His father. His mother. His daughter. “And this here is my spot.” He marked out an area next to Lily’s grave. “I was born here, and this is where I’ll die. God knows, there are days when all I want is to be with Lily, wherever she is. When I met her mother, I was young and naive. I thought we could make it work. But not many women are cut out for life on the farm, removed from everything and everyone. At first Sarah was taken by it, then she tolerated it, then she hated it. It took away everything good between us. After she left, I vowed never to put anyone else through that again.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned around.
“This thing between us—” his shoulders heaved as he took a deep breath “—it’ll just hurt us both. When it’s all said and done, we belong in different worlds. My home is here, yours is there. I could never ask you to stay, and you can never ask me to leave. It wouldn’t be fair. And I don’t have what it takes to let you in and then let you go. I can’t handle any more goodbyes, Rodel.” He stood at the foot of Lily’s grave, as twilight descended and shadows melted under the canopy of the ancient acacia tree. “The last one destroyed me.”
My fingers ached to straighten the crown on his head, but I stood next to him, my hands by my side, fighting the strangest pull of emotions. My heart was heavy with a sense of loss: his, mine,ours. At the same time, something beautiful had come alive at Jack’s declaration, his acknowledgment of our connection. It was as if a tiny seed filled with magic had taken root. And even though it would never see the light of day, just the fact that it had formed, where there had been nothing before, made me feel like infinite blossoms were blooming inside me.
NIGHTS AT THEfarm were slow, welcome pauses when everything hung suspended under the canopy of a star-freckled sky. Goma sat at her old sewing machine, her foot on the pedal, filling the library with a soft whirring. Occasionally, she would get up, measure the fabric against Scholastica’s form, and either nod or get her scissors and tailor’s chalk.
“What are you making?” I asked.
Jack, Scholastica, and I were leaving in the morning to pick up the next child on Mo’s list, and from there we had one more stop before we headed for Wanza.
“I’m sewing some wraparound skirts for Scholastica,” replied Goma. “They’ll last her a while.”
Scholastica looked up at the mention of her name. We were practicing how to write her name. Ever since she had seen it on paper, she’d developed a fascination with it.
Scholastica
Scholastica
Scholastica
She scribbled it on every blank piece of paper she could find. It was as if she was discovering her identity, solidifying it every time she wrote it.
