Micah made a shooing gesture at Déjà and whispered, “Go, go, go.”
Her laugh was part sob. She wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m being such a bummer. I–”
“Please.” Cosmo put his hand on his hip. “I have cried on you more times than I can count. You have every right.”
“It’s just that… Rye plans their Halloween parties months in advance. We were going to be a retro angel and devil couple. And” – Déjà’s chest hitched – “and I told Rye I wanted to be the angel, but they didn’t want to be the devil because it was this skin-tight, itchy bodysuit and they have sensory issues. I said they could wear something more comfortable, but they just wanted me to be the devil instead. We argued about it, and the fight wasso stupid. After that, it seems like the stupid fights just started to increase. And I don’t know why I decided to look at their pics from the party tonight; maybe I thought it would make me angrier at them and the breakup would hurt less. But – But they’re wearing the devil costume. Why would they–” Her words dissolved into harsh sobs.
“Will you watch the pasta for me?” Cosmo asked Micah.
He ushered Déjà back into the front room and sat with her on the bed as she cried into his shoulder. He rubbed her back until her shudders ebbed.
Micah disappeared into the bathroom, then came back with a box of tissues, which he set on the coffee table and nudged toward Déjà. “Clearly Rye has joined a demonic cult that requires members to endure wedgies and getting glitter stuck in their eye. There’s no other explanation.”
Déjà laughed. She pulled a tissue from the box and dabbed at her face. “Why do such odd things come out of your mouth?”
“Don’t go trying to rescue them. You’ll only risk getting indoctrinated into a world of scratchy polyester and having your tail get closed in doors. I’ve seen this before.”
Cosmo bit his lip and stared at Micah with what must have been a bit too much desire, because Micah smiled shyly and scrubbed the back of his neck. He excused himself to go stir the pasta.
Pulling out her phone, Déjà said, “I’m willing to risk it.” She typed something out, then blew out a breath and picked up the three-ringed binder she’d brought in from her car. “I can’t leave yet, though. I have something to show you.”
The binder had a tiny oil painting affixed to the front: an unsettling anatomical blob – one of her ghosts – sitting in a fancy goblet surrounded by grapes and pears. She said, “My mom thought I’d be into scrapbooking because it’s ‘artsy.’”
Cosmo gagged. “Ew. There’s nothing wrong with craft hobbies, but they aren’t the same thing as fine art. You told her that, of course.”
“You’ve never met my mom. I’m not going to tell her that. Anyway, I’ve had this book and all the ephemera sitting in my closet for a long time, and I finally thought of a use for it.”
“You filled it with your art?” He hadn’t seen anything new of hers in years. “I can’t wait to see!”
“There are some little pieces, yeah, but that’s not the focus.” She ran her hand across the cover. “Do you remember how everyone filled that cremation urn with notes to you at your funeral party? You never took them home. I don’t know if you even read them.”
He’d been so upset at the time that he’d abandoned all of the decor and party supplies, including an ice cooler and a card table. “I didn’t. I forgot about that, actually.”
“I went back to the church the next day.” Her expression fell, wet lashes fluttering. “I sat there and cried over losing you as I read all the notes from that urn. I wanted to give them to you, but I was also pissed and tired, so I never did. I think it’s about time you got them back, though.”
She cracked open the book and set it in his lap. Strips of paper ran in rows down the decorative page. An ink sketch of a decrepit church beneath a glittering moon sat at the bottom of the page.
Some people make art, but youareart. You embody the creative spirit we all strive for.
We’ve only met a couple of times, but you are kind and sweet, and I wish I had half of your style.
I have no doubt your mind is a fascinating place to be. You’re a fixture of the art scene, and I can’t wait to see what you do in the future.
You have a good soul, and I wish nothing but good things for you. I hope all your dreams come true.
Don’t ever stop being yourself, Cosmo.
The notes distorted in Cosmo’s vision. People had written about his mind, and his creativity, and hissoul. They were the antithesis of every comment on his Flashbulb pics. “Thank you. You put so much–” The words lodged in his throat. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars.
Déjà said, “You have to promise me that when you start to feel shit about yourself, you open this book and read those notes.”
Cosmo nodded. “This is such a lovely gift. Micah, come see this.”
It was all he’d wanted from his funeral party. He’d needed that reminder that people cared, and instead he’d gotten into a fist fight with Zedd, and Déjà had broken up their friendship. Even with time being tangled, he couldn’t go back and fix that. That version of himself would always feel worthless and alone, wanted only for his external beauty. But it was hard to believe he had no inner worth when there was physical evidence to the contrary.
Maybe he would read one note every day and commit it to memory.
Micah sat on the bed beside Cosmo and looked over the notes. He smiled and kissed Cosmo’s temple. “Those are lovely. And they’re all true.”
