On the bed, Eva is curled up under a handmade quilt, facing the wall. I slide in beside her, breathing out a sigh of relief just to be this close to her, to smell her jasmine scent, to feel her warmth. I lie there, not touching her, for a while. I listen to her breathe, thanking every wish I’ve ever sent floating into the sky that she’s safe, that I’m safe, and that I’m here next to her.
She rolls over and releases this cute little moan that makes me almost smile. I watch her sleep, drinking in all the details of her face that I love so much. I could watch her for hours, her gentle breaths, the soft flutter of her lashes against her cheek, everything that makes her Eva and takes her through the minutes, through the world. Then, suddenly, she’s not sleeping. Her eyes are open and on mine. She puts a hand on my face, letting it drift down my jaw and neck to press against my chest where my heart thrums underneath.
“You’re back,” she says. “Thank god, you’re back.”
“I’m back.”
“Maggie?”
I press my eyes closed and shake my head, all the explanation I can manage right now.
“I was so worried about you,” she says, her palm still hot against my skin.
“I’m sorry,” I say. I feel like I’ve been apologizing for the last hour, but the word fits on my tongue just right.
“For what?”
That is the question. For what? There is some fault to bear, but there’s also a lot of fault to go around. Hell, maybe no one’s really at fault. So I just say, “For everything,” because it’s true. Sometimes you say you’re sorry because you fucked up. Sometimes you just say it because everything is fucked up.
She curls her hands together against her chest. “I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have said what I did the other night.”
“No, you were right. My mom is here. But you have to understand that it’s never felt like that. It’s never felt like I had my mother—?at least, not my mother like she should’ve been.”
“I know. I’m so sorry.”
I reach out and touch her, just two fingers pressed against her cheek. I’m relieved as hell that she lets me, that she’s warm and soft. “It doesn’t mean what happened to you, to your mom, sucks any less.”
She nods, her tears building and spilling over, a beautiful sort of release. Like always, she doesn’t fight it. She just lets it all wash, run, stomp through her.
She is like Maggie in that way, I guess. In a good way.
“I missed you,” she says through a shaky breath.
“You did?”
In answer, her hand slides around the back of my neck. My eyes flutter closed as she pulls gently, moves forward gently, until our foreheads touch. Then our noses. Then our lips. We fit together like two puzzle pieces. She sighs into my mouth. Or maybe I sigh into hers. Either way, we get all mixed up, and it’s perfect and wild, a desperate holding on.
“I don’t want this to be all we are,” she says against my mouth.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Me, the girl whose mom died when she should’ve lived. You, the girl whose mom can’t seem to be a mom. We can’t be like that Hattie girl, the one who jumped off the lighthouse a hundred years ago and now that’s all she’s known for. We have to be more than that.”
“We will be. We are.”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Anything.”
She inhales deeply. “I’m . . . I’m still a dancer.”
The smile on my face is immediate and huge, even through my leftover tears. “You are.”
“And you’re a pianist.”
“I am. Always.”
“And we’re more than that.”
