I tap his waist, in the spleen region, and his body tenses beneath my touch. “Red boots,” he mutters under his breath, as if my fingertip released the words from him automatically.
“Hmm?”
“Your red steampunk boots, with all the buttons.” He sounds pained. “I love those goddamned boots.”
“I think I got them from Etsy.”
More groaning. “You were wearing those boots when we weren’t speaking to each other, and I had to watch you walk around with your notebook and your two pencils in your hair, exploring. Your face…you looked so fierce and determined. Some guy asked if you knew whether the pharmacy was open yet, and you completely ignored him because you were so deep in concentration. It was incredible. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”
I don’t remember anyone ever asking me about the pharmacy’s hours.
“When I think of you, I sometimes draw a dragon at your side,” he goes on, “because it just makes sense. There’s Zelda Tempest”—I feel a whip of air as he flourishes a hand—“courageous and bold, andthereis her dragon, naturally. A Zelda should always have a dragon. Maybe I’ll doodle a helmet and sword on you, too. I don’t know if I’d rather be the damsel you’re saving, or the dragon.” He ponders insensibly. “Or the grass, enjoying it when you step on me.”
“Why would you want me to step on you? That doesn’t sound enjoyable at all.”
“I am making a confession, and it is landing like a cannonball into a dry pool.” Morgan sighs wearily. “What I’m trying to say—”
“Oh, I remember now!” My memory jogs up and waves hello. “I was wearing those boots the day I saw a hellhole.”
“There is no way I heard you correctly.”
“Hellhole. Small white animal with two sticks for feet. It’s got dark blue feathers around the collar, and this gaping blackhole for a face. At a slant, it looks like the hole is a wide-open mouth, like it’s about to scream, but there are no eyes. It’s just…a great big hole in its head.”
He sits up. “That sounds like a nightmare. Let’s go right now. I want to see.”
“It was under a tree, over by the bank.”
“The rabbit!” he exclaims. “I remember you were looking at a rabbit under a tree.”
“Oooh, so it looked like a rabbit to you?” Intriguing. “I saw it swallow a hawk whole.”
We’re both at full attention, reaching for the lantern, fingers touching on the switch. Warm yellow light blooms, and our eyes meet; our enthusiasm is a tangible sparkle in the air around us as we dash down our notes. Morgan forgets to uncap his pen before he begins writing, he’s so caught up.
“Hellholes,” he repeats, mildly disparaging. “That’s even worse thanmouseplant. You’re awriter, Miss Boots. Go back to college.”
“Come up with something else, then. I know you’re dying to.”
Morgan is all delight, pen flying across paper. “Rabbit plus tree equals treebit. Rabbit plus bird equals rabbird. Cavity plus face could be called a cavace. What are some famous rabbits? Thumper. Thumper…Monster. Mumpster. Eater Cottontail.”
He sounds like a robot with a dying battery pack. “There is something wrong with you.” Then again, there is also something wrong with me. Most people probably don’t visualize being buried alive by a bush as a way to calm themselves.
Morgan smacks his notebook against his forehead. “I’ve got it! The navy-necked hollowhead. Perfection.” He scribbles a star next to the name.
I have to grin. “You and your alliteration.”
“Magicadoresalliteration,” he points out. “And likes the chime of rhyme quite fine.”
“Did magic tell you that?”
“Pretty much. Your grandmother told me that, and your grandmother’s magic. Is she not?”
It makes me smile to hear him speak of her in the present tense. My sisters talk about Dottie all the time, and I’m usually left feeling sad when they do. But the way Morgan talks about Dottie is different. He makes me feel as if he and Grandma and I are in on something secret together. A journey still ongoing.
Such warmth exudes from him. A deep firelight of wonder, curiosity, mischief, mayhem. All of the best things.
The wordsever disseverfrom “Annabel Lee” pop into my head again.Ever dissever, ever dissever.
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