I tried not to let irrational fear cloud my thoughts. Maybe I was just getting ahead of myself with all these future what-ifs. We’d only been on one real date. Technically. Minus all the sleuthing.
And the sex.
The unspoken thing lurking ten steps behind us in the shadows, always present.
Sure, we’d talked about it a little at Kerry Park, but what did we even learn? That it was a mistake? That we had communication problems? Daniel seemed to think we could start over, but what if we dated for a while and then found out we were just bad in bed together? Does that happen?
Aunt Mona was my go-to adviser for matters like these, but when I texted her about Grandpa’s trip, hoping I could swing by and talk to her about everything tumbling around in my head, she said she was busy meeting with a lawyer and would call later. If she was going to get in trouble for stealing that painting... I just couldn’t handle her problems right now. I had enough to worry about.
I wished someone could tell me what to do about Daniel. I wished I believed in something, so I could ask for a sign. Fate. God. Myself. Elvis.
Elvis. I laughed out loud.
So ridiculous.
Yet what did I have to lose?
I rummaged through my desk drawer until I found what I was looking for: the not-a-penny fortune-teller card I’d gotten with Daniel in the magic shop.
I see that you will have a chance meeting with a dark stranger who will reveal great secrets to you. If you collaborate, a bold and dashing adventure will be in your future. But beware of perilous pitfalls that lead to ruin. It takes a level head and determination to survive a run through thegauntlet. In great attempts, it is glorious even to fail, because in conflict you will find common ground together.
Not the most precise advice, but maybe not the worst, either. I slid the edge of the fortune card into the mirror above my vanity table. My thoughts were all over the place, zipping and bouncing around like bees without a hive. And that’s when I realized one thing: no one but Daniel had made me feel so much in such a small amount of time.
And I didn’t want to walk away from that.
“We all try to forget what hurts us. It is sometimes the only way we can continue.”
—William Monk,A Sudden, Fearful Death(1993)
21
I circled the drugstore aisle two times. My first time around, a chatty mom was browsing while talking on her phone while a screaming toddler ran behind her. The second time, a man was walking through. I waited until I was certain he was gone, and then I darted into the aisle.
My eyes scanned the colorful boxes on the shelves.
Fiery Ice. Studded. Sensitive. Extra Sensitive. Bare. Second Skin. Natural Lamb. Perfect Fit. Snug. Quickdraw. Colossus. Glyder. Extra Safe. Triple Safe. Armor of the Gods.
“Good grief,” I mumbled. Why were there so many choices? And half of them had dire warnings on the box about allergic reactions.MAY CAUSE IRRITATION AND/OR BURNINGandWHEN TO SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION.Maybe this is a mistake. It is probably a mistake. Give me a sign if this is a huge, horrible mistake. Maybe I should have gone somewhere off the island to buy these. What if I saw someone I knew?
I needed to calm down. Grandpa had left for his fishing trip an hour ago, so I for sure wouldn’t see him. Everything was fine. I could do this.
Another customer was approaching the aisle. I took a step to the side and pretended to be browsing... tampons. Terrific. When they passed, I grabbed the first box I could get my hands on. It was some kind of variety box, but it didn’t have a burning warning. Good enough, surely. I booked it so fast to the front counter, I was breathing a little heavy when I slapped the box in front of an older woman with white hair. I probably should have gotten something else to buy, so that the box wasn’t sitting there all alone and conspicuous. But it was too late now, and the cashier raised her brows to me as she scanned it. “Good for you, honey,” she said. I didn’t answer. I just prayed the government wasn’t tracking my bank card purchases like Aunt Mona says they do. Then I took the flimsy bag and strode out of the store as fast as my legs would take me.
I was young. I was free of parental guidance. I had the night off from work and a box of condoms. I was living my best life.
Trial one complete.
Now for trial two.
Locating Daniel’s cohousing community was easy. Getting there by ferry and bus was a struggle and took me a couple of hours. Once I got to West Seattle, I hiked through gray residential streets under a grayer sky, passing houses packed like sardines, a sea of cracked driveways, blue recycling bins, and wooden privacy fences. But at the end of a short cul-de-sac, I spotted a small parking lot beyond a private drive.
The Nest.
Tucked away in a few acres of green, the cohousing community was somewhere between modest and upper-middle class. Most of its two-story houses were painted in bright colors. They ringed a much larger building in the middle—the common house Daniel had told me about. Parking was in the front lot. I walked through it and passed a panel of mailboxes as I hiked down a wide sidewalk that meandered through the property. It was lushly landscaped, and there was an extensive garden near the common house, as well as a playground filled with loud kids.
As I strolled, it hit me that I didn’t know which house belonged to Daniel’s family. Each house was numbered, but apart from a red painted horse-shaped sign near someone’s door that saidVELKOMMEN, along with several Danish flags, there were no indicators of family names.
A plane flew overhead, somewhere above the trees. It was noisy here. And colorful. A couple of bikes sped by me. And when the rumble of the plane passed, I found myself looking at an elderly man with rosy cheeks, white hair, and wearing a pale blue beret.
