Zada made herself meet Buford’s eyes. He smiled at her, and she smiled back. When she had dreamed of this night as a child, she hadn’t imagined that she would constantly need to remind herself to smile.
“How is work—” she managed, a half second after Buford blurted out, “So what are your—”
“Sorry,” said Zada. “Finish your question, please.”
“I was only going to say, what are your career goals? Not that,” he added, “it’s necessary for you to have every step of your job planned out ahead of you, I simply wondered if you’d given it thought.”
Zada nodded. “I’m trying out for every orchestra or ensemble that will let me audition,” she said. “The only trouble is, there are no openings until autumn. I’m stuck waiting.”
“That’s a shame,” Buford said. “What with all of the events of the Centennial needing music. Sorry, you were going to ask me—?”
“I was going to ask how your position is going.” It sounded a little dry to Zada’s ears, but she reminded herself that everythingthe love of her life had to say would be interesting to her.
And itwasinteresting. The conservative Founders Party had recently discovered that due to how the charter defined marriage, it was still technically legal in New Ionia to get divorced, as if they were in the kind of cheap vintage drama that got played at the Historical Society. They sought to amend the law, while the more radical and reform-minded Establishment Party insisted there was no reason to rewrite the text itself, given that no married couple had needed to separate in over a hundred years.
It was strange to imagine how people must have suffered before Heartsong. Broken homes, single parents, acrimonious breakups, and the stingy division of property—what a nightmare it must’ve been. She could only imagine the profound relief and joy that must have swept through New Ionia like a new dawn when Heartsong was rolled out. The history books said the celebrations had lasted for weeks. Zada liked to imagine it sometimes: the happy tears, the wrongful marriages dissolved, the correct couples united at last.
Buford’s explanation carried them through to the end of the waltz, at which point Zada’s mother and father took their leave early. They were clearly delighted at the thought of Buford escorting their daughter home. Zada and Buford stayed for the rest of the dancing, and then by unspoken agreement they headed out, Buford chivalrously carrying her triple cello case with one hand and deactivating his Gracelet with the other.
It was a minor thrill to walk so close to someone her age without constantly making sure they didn’t touch. She asked him every question about work she could devise, and this kept them talking all through the hyper-carriage ride back home.Zada, who usually took the train, tried to savor the experience. The sturdy horses gleamed in the moonlight, their joints whirring almost imperceptibly, and the ride was far smoother than it looked from the street. The interior of the hyper-carriage was sleek and minimalist, with sloped seats that were designed for comfort.
It was such a novel experience that she forgot to be embarrassed by her neighborhood, which was lined with squat, blocky hydroponics labs. The green shining through the glass felt almost festive. Buford held Zada’s hand as she climbed out, and they stood on the sidewalk and watched the horses idle, heads swiveled toward the nearest recharging port. Not for the first time, Zada wished the engineers had given them something resembling faces.
“Well,” she said, indicating the familiar pod unit that jutted out slightly above the NuGrow building, “this is me.”
“I’ll walk you to the door,” he offered. They crossed the street in silence. “Does it get old?” Buford said suddenly.
Zada mentally replayed the last few seconds, but no, she hadn’t missed anything. “What?”
“The sound of the hydroponics,” he said. “All that humming and gurgling.”
“Oh, I don’t really pick up on it anymore, to be honest,” said Zada. “It’s sort of like how you don’t hear yourself breathing.” The hard part was always sweating from the humidity of the grow labs above and below them, but it felt too early in their relationship to admit to perspiring that much, or at all.
“That makes sense,” said Buford. They’d reached Zada’s door.
“Thank you for taking me home,” she said.
“No trouble at all,” he said.
“Have a good night.” She reached for the doorpad, hovering a hand in front of the sensor until it registered her fingerprints and the door opened.
“You, too,” said Buford. She reached for her triple cello, and their fingers brushed. She remembered then what was meant to happen now. Your first kiss was not nearly as important as your first touch, but it still figured in every love story. It was a stepping stone on your way to the ultimate end of a Heartsong match—marriage.
For a long, silent moment, neither of them moved. Buford’s lips pressed together, as if he were gathering his courage.
In the cold, greenish light of the hydroponics lab overhead, Buford looked like the eighteen-year-old he was. He wasn’t the confident rising star of council politics or Aiden’s charismatic best friend anymore. He was just an old classmate.
Zada realized that she hadn’t really looked at Buford when they’d first crashed into each other, setting off their shared Heartsong. She had no idea if he’d been happy to discover she was his match. And she was suddenly glad she didn’t know.
“I feel good about us,” Buford said finally. “I feel steady.”
“Me too,” said Zada.
She thought back to the tinkle of broken glass, the smell of fifteen extremely specific scents all vying for her nostrils at once.I don’t feel a thing, he’d said on the floor.
When he stepped closer, something sank in the pit of her stomach. She would get through this. She just had to try harder, be better—it was the story of her life, and this was simply a new chapter.
Steeling herself, she closed her eyes and leaned into him.Buford pressed his lips against hers for the length of a single quarter note and then pulled away so quickly that her first thought was:Is that it?
