Another Day (24 page)

In the end we have a kale salad, garlic bread, a huge pasta primavera, a quinoa and apricot salad, and a pan of lemon squares.

“Not bad,” A says. And what I want to tell him is that now I understand why people want to share a life with someone else. I see what all the fuss is about. It’s not about sex or being in a couple when you hang out with other couples. It’s not for ego gratification or fear of loneliness. It’s about this, whatever this is. And the only thing wrong with it right now is that I’m sharing it with someone who’s bound to leave.

I don’t say any of this. Because the last part makes all the rest of it harder to say.

“Should I set the table?” I ask instead. The Lins have a very nice dining room table, and a feast like this seems fit for a very nice dining room table.

A shakes his head. “No. I’m taking you to my favorite place, remember?”

He looks through the cupboards until he finds two trays. The food we’ve made barely manages to fit on them. Then A finds a bunch of candles and takes them along, too.

“Here,” he says, handing me one of the trays. Then he leads me out the back door.

“Where are we going?” I ask. I don’t even have my jacket. I hope we’re not going far.

“Look up,” he says.

At first, all I see is the tree. Then I look closer and see the tree house.

“Nice,” I say, finding the ladder.

“There’s a pulley system for the trays. I’ll go up and drop it down.”

These parents have thought of everything.

As I balance the trays, A heads up the ladder and sends a platform down. I’m not sure how balanced it’s going to be, but I put one of the trays on, and A manages to pull it up without anything falling off. We repeat this for the second tray, and then it’s my turn to go up the ladder.

It’s like something I’ve read about in a book. It never occurred to me that kids could actually have tree houses in their backyards.

There’s an open door at the top, and I climb right through. A has lit some of the candles, so the air flickers as I pull myself inside. I look around and see what’s basically a log cabin stuck in the air. There isn’t much furniture, but there’s a guitar and some notebooks, a small bookshelf with an old encyclopedia on it. A has put the trays in the middle of the floor, since there isn’t any table and there aren’t any chairs.

“Pretty cool, isn’t it?” A says.

“Yeah.”

“It’s all his. His parents don’t come up here.”

“I love it.”

I take the plates, napkins, and silverware from one of the trays and set the table that isn’t a table. When I’m done, A serves—some of everything for each of us. As we sit across from each other, we comment on the food—it’s all turned out better than it has any reason to be. The sauce on the pasta primavera tastes like a spice I can’t quite identify—I ask A what it is, and he doesn’t remember. He thinks I might have put it in. I don’t remember, either. It was all just part of the improvisation.

There’s a carafe of water on one of the trays, and that’s all we need. We could have wine. We could have vodka. We could have Cherry Cokes. It would all be the same. We’re drunk on candlelight, intoxicated by air. The food is our music. The walls are our warmth.

As the first candles diminish, A lights more. There isn’t brightness, but there’s a glow. I’ve just taken my first bite of a lemon square, its tartness still on my tongue. I catch A watching me and assume I have some powdered sugar on my face. I move to wipe it off. He smiles, still looking.

“What?” I ask.

He leans over and kisses me.

“That,” he says.

“Oh,” I say. “That.”

“Yes, that.”

We hang there, waiting for the kiss to leave the room, to float off into the night.

I have no idea what I want.

No. Not true. I know exactly what I want. I’m just not sure if I should want it.

“Dessert,” I say. “You need to try a lemon square.”

He smiles. It’s okay to let the kiss leave the room.

Already, I feel others knocking on the door.

I look at his lips. The powdered sugar on his lips.

I remind myself they’re not really his lips.

I’m not sure I care.

When we’re done, I gather up the dishes. I put everything on the trays, and then I push the trays aside. We’ve been sitting too far from each other. I want us so much closer.

I move right next to him. He puts his arm around me, and I take the pad of sticky notes out of my pocket, along with the pen. Without saying a word, I draw a heart on the top sticky note, then put it on Alexander’s heart.

“There,” I say to A.

He looks down at it. Then back up at me.

“I have to tell you something,” he says.

For a moment, I think this will be the
I love you
that’s even greater than the others. If he says it, I will respond.

But instead he says, “I have to tell you what’s been going on.”

Instead of leaning in to him, I move so I can see his eyes.

“What?” I ask. Irrationally, I wonder if he’s met someone else.

“Do you remember Nathan Daldry? The boy I was at Steve’s party?”

“Of course.”

“I left him on the side of the road that night. And when he woke up—he knew something was wrong. He suspected something wasn’t right. So he told a lot of people. And one of the people who found out—he calls himself Reverend Poole. But he’s not Reverend Poole. He’s someone in Reverend Poole’s body.”

“This is what you were talking about when you emailed and said you thought you weren’t the only one.”

A nods. “Yes. But that’s not all of it. Whoever’s inside Poole is like me, but not entirely like me. He says he can control it. He says there’s a way to stay in a person’s body.”

I try to wrap my mind around what he’s saying. “Who told you this? Did you email him? How do you know he’s real?”

“I saw him. I met him. He used Nathan to set a trap, and he almost got me. He says we’re the same, but we’re not the same. I don’t know how to explain it—I don’t think he uses the same rules as I do. I don’t think he cares about the people he inhabits. I don’t think he respects what we are.”

“But you believe him? When he says you can stay?”

“I think so. And I think there might be others, too. On the Internet—I think I’ve found others. Or at least, other people who were inhabited, like Nathan or you. You at least know what happened. And Nathan knows now. But most of them never know. And if Poole’s right, there may be others who’ve been taken over permanently. Someone like me could go into them, and then not leave.”

“So you can stay?” I ask, not believing this is what he’s telling me. Suddenly anything is possible.
We’re
possible. “Are you saying you can stay?”

“Yes,” he answers. “And no.”

It can’t be both. I don’t want to hear it’s both.

“Which one? What do you mean?”

“There might be a way to stay,” he tells me. “But I can’t. I’ll never be able to stay.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d be killing them, Rhiannon. When you take over someone’s life, they’re gone forever.”

No. He can’t be saying this. He can’t be saying it’s possible and impossible at the same time.

I can’t deal with it. I can’t. I have to stand up. I can’t be sitting on the floor in the middle of a tree house having this conversation with him.

Once I’m up, I start to boil over. “You can’t do this!” I’m telling him. “You can’t swoop in, bring me here, give me all this—and then say it can’t work. That’s cruel, A. Cruel.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s why this is a first date. That’s why this is the first time we’ve ever met.”

Not fair. This is not pretend. This is life.

“How can you say that?” I ask. “How can you erase everything else?”

He stands up and comes over to me. Even though I’m mad, even though I don’t understand what he’s doing, he wraps his arms around me. It’s not what I want, and I try to tell him I don’t want it. But then I feel the shelter of his closeness and I want it, and I stop trying to pull away.

“He’s a good guy,” A whispers in my ear. “He might even be a great guy. And today’s the day you first met. Today’s your first date. He’s going to remember being in the bookstore. He’s going to remember the first time he saw you, and how he was drawn to you, not just because you’re beautiful, but because he could see your strength. He could see how much you want to be a part of the world. He’ll remember talking with you, how easy it was, how engaging. He’ll remember not wanting it to end, and asking you if you wanted to do something else. He’ll remember your asking him his favorite place, and he’ll remember thinking about here, and wanting to show it to you. The grocery store, the stories in the aisles, the first time you saw his room—that will all be there, and I won’t have to change a single thing. His pulse is my heartbeat. The pulse is the same. I know he will understand you. You have the same kind of heart.”

No. This is not what I want. Can’t he see what I want?

“But what about you?” I ask, my voice stained by my sadness. I can’t keep it away from him.

“You’ll find the things in him that you find in me,” he answers. “Without the complications.”

He says it like it’s easy.

It’s not easy.

“I can’t just switch like that,” I tell him.

His arms draw me closer. “I know. He’ll have to prove it to you. Every day, he’ll have to prove he’s worthy of you. And if he doesn’t, that’s it. But I think he will.”

A’s giving up. Whether or not I want him to, he’s giving up.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“Because I have to go, Rhiannon. For real this time. I have to go far away. There are things I need to find out. And I can’t keep stepping into your life. You need something more than that.”

I know this makes sense. But I don’t want to make sense. I don’t want anything to make sense.

“So this is goodbye?” I ask him.

“It’s goodbye to some things,” he says. “And hello to others.”

This is where I turn.

This is where I stop being held and decide to hold.

This is where I loosen myself from his arms, but only to unfold my own arms and welcome him there.

I am not saying yes, but I am agreeing that there’s no point in me saying no.

I hold him with everything I have. I hold him with so much that he will have to remember it. He will have to remember me, wherever he is.

“I love you,” he says. “Like I’ve never loved anyone before.”

“You always say that. But don’t you realize it’s the same for me? I’ve never loved anyone like this, either.”

“But you will. You will again.”

This is where it stops. This is where it begins.

Every moment. Every day.

This is where it stops. This is where it begins.

I haven’t been looking at the clock, but now I look at the clock.

It’s almost midnight.

Where it stops. Where it begins.

“I want to fall asleep next to you,” he whispers to me.

This is my last wish.

I nod. I’m afraid to open my mouth. I am afraid I will not be able to say what he wants me to say.

We leave the trays in the tree house. It doesn’t matter, if this is what he’s going to remember anyway. Climbing down the ladder. Running back to the house. Heading to his room.

We will remember this together. All three of us.

I want to stop time. I know I cannot stop time.

Holding hands. Then, inside the room, stopping to take off our shoes. Nothing else, just shoes. I crawl into the bed. He turns off the lights.

Only the glow of the clock. He gets into the bed next to me, lying on his back. I curl into him. Touch his cheek. Turn his head.

Kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

“I want you to remember that tomorrow,” I say when we come up for air.

“I’ll remember everything,” he tells me.

“So will I,” I promise.

One more kiss. One last kiss. Then I close my eyes. I steady my breathing. I wait.

If I could hold on to him, I would.

Lord, if I could hold on to him, I would.

I do not sleep. I wish I could sleep. But I cannot sleep.

Instead, I lie there, eyes closed, safe in the dark.

I feel him reach over and touch my heart.

I hear him say goodbye.

I feel him close his eyes. I feel him fall.

I open my eyes. I turn.

I look for the moment. I want to see the change.

But instead I find a beautiful someone, beautifully asleep. Left behind by another beautiful someone, now also asleep in some other house, in some other bed.

I want to wake him. I want to ask him if he’s still there.

But I don’t wake him, because I don’t want Alexander to ask me why I’m crying.

It isn’t until I’m turned back to the wall, until I’ve decided to will myself to sleep, that I feel the sticky note on my shirt.

The heart I gave him.

He’s taken it, and given it back to me.

I open my eyes. There is sunlight.

“Good morning,” Alexander says.

At some point in the night, I must have turned toward him. Because he’s right there in front of me, also waking up.

“Good morning,” I say.

He doesn’t look confused. He doesn’t look surprised. He understands why we’re in his bed, fully clothed. He remembers the tree house. He remembers meeting me in the bookstore. It’s unusual, for sure—it’s not the kind of thing that happens every day. But it’s possible. On a very lucky day, it’s possible.

He looks so happy. And completely unafraid to show it.

“Why don’t I make breakfast?” he says. “I seem to recall my parents left us with plenty of breakfast options.”

“Breakfast would be good,” I say, sitting up and stretching out.

“Okay,” he replies. But he doesn’t make any move to go. He just looks at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, bashful. Then he corrects himself. “No. Not nothing. The opposite of nothing. I’m just really glad you’re here. And I’m looking forward to another day with you, if you’ll do me the pleasure.”

“Breakfast first,” I say. “Then we can figure this out.”

“Sounds good,” he says, bouncing out of bed. “Help yourself to clothes, towels, shampoo, books, Post-its—whatever you need.”

“Will do.”

He teeters in the room for a moment. He looks so sweet.

“I love this, whatever it is,” he says.

I can’t help but smile back at him. “Yes,” I say. “Whatever it is.”

“No oatmeal, right?”

“Yup. No oatmeal.”

He whistles as he heads downstairs. I listen until he’s too far to hear.

His laptop sits on his desk, beckoning me.

I know what I should do. I know what A wants me to do.

Only, I’m stubborn now.

I like Alexander. But I want A.

I want to find A.