My driver is a man named Lamar; like Greer, he’s lived here his whole life, but unlike Greer he’s entirely uncomfortable with silence, and for every one of twenty-nine minutes it takes to get to Boneshaker’s he talks. As we make our way through the outskirts of the city, he talks to me about a new overpass that wasn’t there when he was growing up, about a now-empty shopping mall that he used to go to every Friday night, about the minor-league baseball stadium where he once ate fourteen corn dogs over the course of seven innings. In the backseat I make murmured sounds of assent and acknowledgment, but I also set my hands on knees, gripping tighter and tighter in frustration. I try to keep in my head the sound ofGreer’s voice.
I love you.
I could’ve stayed at Kit’s, of course, or I could’ve found a place in the city. But when I’d left the hospital that day, Patricia’s words ringing loud in my ears, I’d thought to leave entirely; I’d taken her advice seriously. I’d gone back to the studio apartment, the sheets still smelling like Greer—soft, skin-warmed lavender—and I’d packed my things, my headphones in my ears as I’d called Jae. “Not Syria,” I’d said to him. “But I can’t stay here.”
I’d flown to New York that night, had slept in Jae’s guest bedroom—or had attempted to sleep. Mostly I’d stared up at the ceiling, picturing Greer’s face in my mind, feeling so alone and so separate that I thought I might simply disappear, that Jae would open the door to that room the next day and find no trace of me at all. But in the morning, I’d still been there, something inside me different after the long, lonely night. Something full and heavy and—strangely pleasant, strangely grounding. Something true. Something made up of all the things I’d thought about Greer, about me, about the twoof us together.
Over a breakfast of fat, decadent pastries ordered from a bakery two blocks over, tiny cups of too-strong espresso sitting in front of us on the narrow breakfast bar of the apartment, I’d told Jae what I wanted to doabout my work.
By Tuesday night, I was back in Barden, the airport hotel room a concession to the distance Greer had asked for. I’d made Kit swear not to say a word. I’d alternated between hope and doubt, confidence and despair. I’d had two panic attacks, one in the breakfast room of the hotel lobby and one inside my room late at night, when I was just dropping off into sleep, and both of them were fucking awful, absolutely the worst, but at least I hadn’t spent days afterward berating myself about it. Instead I’d gone to see Patricia, conscious and careful on the streets that I’d see Greer somehow, that I’d run into her and lose her trust by not doing what she’d asked of me. I’d written in my journal; I’d taken pictures with my FG, exchanged a few emails with Bart, had dinner with Ben and Kit and Sharon and Henry at a chain restaurantnear my hotel.
Self-care, self-care, self-care. I’d waited and waited. I’d waited even when she’d called, when I’d pressed the phone to my ear like it was the camera at my eye.Light, light, light,I’d thought, and then she’d said she loved me. A whole entire sunrise of light, all over me, no lens on earth that could capture it.
Before we’re even all the way to the curb, I’m on my phone, adding Lamar’s tip—large, because however much he talked my ear off he still got me to the woman I love safely—my head down and my heart pounding in anticipation. I pat the pockets of my jeans, making sure I’ve got my wallet; I raise my hands to my hair and smooth it the best I can, wishing I’d taken an extra minute to look in the mirror before I left the hotel. I take a deep breath, and Lamar looks at me over his shoulder and says, “Good luck, man,” and for the first time in my life, I thank someone forthe sentiment.
When I step out onto the sidewalk it’s a tiny shock of surprise to look up and see her there, standing under the café’s awning, her bag slumped on top of the same table where I taught her how to hold a camera. She is an absolute mess, her cheeks splotchy and her eyes red from the tears I heard her crying, her clothes rumpled and too big, her clunky sneakers distressingly dirty.
And the injuries—JesusChrist, the injuries. The cut across her forehead looks shiny and tight, probably itchy as all hell, same as the scraped skin I know is under her cast. She’s bruised all the way up to her shoulder on that side, faded purple and greenish yellow, same as the one on her face, swooping underneath her eye and across her cheekbone. From where she stands I can see the very top stitches from the slice on her leg, the ones that curve slightly toward her shin.
She is perfect.
Still, I’m cautious as I approach her, remembering every small but important detail I’ve learned about her over the month we’ve had together. I’m keeping in my mind the last morning we spent together in that hospital room, the day she sent me away. I’m wary of doing this wrong, of scaring her again. Of getting sent away again. Of being alone, separate.
But when I’m close, only a table-length apart from her, she shocks me again, opening her arms wide before she—shefallsinto me, a deliberate, thoughtful fall, one it seems like she’s been waiting for. A big sigh of relief exits her body as she presses her face—the unbruised side—against my chest, her arms coming around my waist and squeezing, the stiff line of her cast pressing against my lower back, and it’s all I can do not to squeeze her back, not to press against any of the parts of her that are tender and hurting. I bring my arms around her gently, one hand smoothing up her back until I reach the nape of her neck, and that’s what I wanted—there’s where I wanted to touch most, that place on Greer that’s most vulnerable, the one she wears exposed to the world—small, private defiance of everything that slowed her down, kept her trapped. I use my thumb to stroke her skin there—too relieved, too overwhelmed, too happy and grateful to say anything at all.
So it’s a good thing she speaks for us both, saying the hardest, most secret thing. A thing she knows I won’t hold against her, and a thing she’d never hold against me.
“Take care of me,” she whispers, and tightens her arms around me even more.
* * * *
At first it’s all I focus on: what’s immediate to her, what she wants, what she needs for me to take care of her. She doesn’t want to go home yet, doesn’t want to go back to my hotel, doesn’t want to be indoors at all, and other than the fact that I’d like to feel all of her skin against mine, that I’d like to stroke my hands all over the places I’ve missed and missed, it’s what I want too after the days I’ve spent cooped up in that hotel. Warm sunshine and open air andher beside me.
So I take her back to the park. She’s got a blanket in her car, the one I bought before I took her to the beach, and I walk with it underneath one arm so I can hold her hand, my other one holding a bag of food and bottled water we stopped off to buy her. I choose a spot set apart from the planned gardens, beneath a vast, ropy black locust tree. I spread out the blanket and lie on my side next to her, and within ten minutes she’s asleep beside me, as though this exact blanket, this exact tree, this exact day is what she’sneeded to rest.
She doesn’t sleep for long, maybe a half hour, but while she does I imagine I can hear her healing on the inside in the same way I feel like I’m getting put back together, all shaken up and cut apart since that night at the showcase. When she wakes up her eyes look less puffy, her complexion clear of the splotchy redness from before, her freckles prominent across her nose in spite of the shade we’ve stayed under. I don’t think about it; I only lean down to her mouth and kiss her, and right away she lifts her uncasted hand, tangling her fingers through my hair, opening her lips against mine, and I don’t know, maybe outside was a bad idea after all. Probably getting arrested wouldn’t be good for thepanic attacks.
“Ooof,” she says, pulling back after a few seconds, slowly lowering her head back to the ground. She takes the hand from my hair, moves it across her body to rub at her shoulder. “I haveto be careful.”
“Shit, I’m sorry. I got carried away.” Some caretaker, Jesus.
She smiles up at me, her face clear and untroubled. “Igot carried away.” Her smile turns a little more rueful as she looks up at me. “But it—it’ll probably be a while. I’m doing a lot of PT, but the—I’ve got all this tension, and then I get headaches. Plus the muscle relaxers I take at night, they makeme tired, so—”
“I don’t care. I’ve got all kinds of time, Greer. I’m not going anywhere.”
At that she lowers her eyes, and it’s the first time since I saw her this morning that I really remember I’ve got more to focus on than what’s immediate to her, than what she wants and needs. If it’s going to work between us, we’ve got to talk about everything else, about what both of uswant and need.
“About that,” she says, and pushes herself up to a sitting position. There’s a moment where she struggles, wanting to sit crisscross-style, the way she did that day in the herb garden, but the cut on her leg makes it impossible. She pushes her back against the tree instead, her legs stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. She gives me a shy look from beneath her lashes and points at her injured calf. “Say anything about my leg hairs and you’ll walk backto that hotel.”
I laugh, lean down again, and press my lips to her shin, feel the prickly, unfamiliar texture.“I don’t mind.”
When I look up her cheeks are flushed, but her expression has turned serious. “Alex. It won’t work, if you try giving up your job. You know it won’t. What you said inthe hospital—”
I sit up now so that I’m facing her, my legs drawn up and my elbows resting on my knees, my spine curving uncomfortably given the uneven ground beneath my ass. I don’t expect either of us will last much longer out here, but for now, it’s okay. It’s right, even, a little bit of discomfortfor this part.
“I was lying,” I tell her. “You know I was.”
She nods, keeps her eyes on her lap.
