And then I kiss her.
Delilah’s lips move under mine, as if we are speaking the same secret. I break away only when there’s no more breath to share, and bury my face in the curve of her neck. “I love you so much.”
Her hands play over my shoulders. “When you say that to me . . . I feel like I’m flying.”
With a groan I roll onto my side, curling my body around hers. I slip my arm beneath her waist and pull her tight against me, her back to my front. “I’ll never let you fall,” I promise.
Two days after Jessamyn’s return from the hospital, we celebrate with a meal she calls “takeout” that is a collection of deliciousfoods from a foreign land. Although she doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite, I can’t stop eating. “I have never tasted anything so delectable in my life,” I say, mopping up sauce with flatbread and stuffing it in my mouth.
“Really,” Jessamyn muses. “Most of the time when I want Indian, you fight me to the death for Chinese instead.”
“Perhaps my taste buds are evolving.”
“Hmm,” she says, raising a brow. “Who are you, and what have you done with my son?”
My blood runs cold. Has she figured it out?
Then Jessamyn laughs. “Does this mean I can start cooking brussels sprouts too?”
What the devil is a brussels sprout? I force a smile. “Let’s take it slowly,” I suggest.
I watch Jessamyn pour herself another drink of water. I’ve been watching her carefully since she’s come home, as if her bones are made of glass and the slightest bump might shatter her whole. But with the exception of a small bandage on her temple, she seems to be her usual self.
Not that I’m entirely sure what thatis.
I know I need to tell Edgar what happened to his mother—that she was in the hospital overnight. And I’m not holding the truth back from him, honestly. It’s just that I want to wait until I’m able to give him good news—to tell him his mother is fine.
I want to be 100 percent certain.
Jessamyn begins closing up the ingenious little boxes that hold the food. “How about we watch a movie after dinner? Do you want to pick?” she asks.
One shelf in the living room is devoted to small folderscontaining disks that—like Orville’s potion for the future—project a moving image onto the television screen. I’ve watched a few with Delilah. I let my finger trail over pictures of robots and aliens, which all seem to have numbers in the title, and finally come across one that looks much more palatable.
I hand the movie to Jessamyn, who takes it and smirks. “Very funny.”
“What? It looks rather interesting.”
“The Princess Bride?” she says. “The last time I suggested watching this, you said you’d rather cut off your own leg with a rusty spoon.”
“Well . . . I thoughtyoumight like it,” I say, holding my breath.
She smiles up at me. “Oh, the sacrifices a son is willing to make.”
We settle on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, queueing up the film. Jessamyn has scooped us each a bowl of ice cream (which, frankly, is one thing this world has going for it that puts the fairy tale to shame. And here I thought “melt in your mouth” was simply figurative language).
“It’s hard to believe that in a year, you’ll be going off to college,” Jessamyn muses.
I turn to her, horrified. “What if I don’t want to go anywhere?”
“Edgar, since you were ten, you’ve dreamed of going to the University of Southern California to major in video game design.”
Thanks to social studies class, I know that California is about as far away from New Hampshire as one can go in this kingdomwithout falling into an ocean. If I thought Delilah and I were separated when she was here and I was merely on Cape Cod, how could I ever withstand this distance?
“I can’t leave here.”
Jessamyn puts her arm around me. “Edgar, we’ve been through this. You shouldn’t be worrying about me. What would make me happiest is knowing that you’re following your dreams.”
But my dreams have changed, now that I’m not Edgar.
