Rain drowned the world in white noise. Sarah would have preferred snow, to muffle the world into a tensionless silence, but it didn’t snow here. Rain was rare enough. She listened to it tap against the window, hum on the roof, and decided to be grateful for the way it barred her from everything outside her living room walls.
She didn’t have an easy time keeping herself away from others; she invited them into every moment. Her phone was always in her hands. Her car was always gassed up. She left work, exhausted, and took her rest in a shared drink and a long, loud conversation. Alone was never a state she wanted to settle into, but she knew she needed it just now. It didn’t matter how quick she had trained herself to be, how easy she had made it to keep her own mind sitting right next to another opinion.
She was uncertain now, and she needed the quiet.
When mountain ranges cut across the horizon before and behind her, and the blue Toyota still hovered in her rearview mirror, Terrin’s better judgement gave way to curiosity. She tapped the break lightly. The car seemed to hesitate, just a moment, as cruise control disengaged, and then she eased the car into a speed that might be described as grandmotherly. At least to other people. Her own grandmother collected speeding tickets like fine china and had recently begun wall-papering the dining room with them.
Dalia looked up as the car decelerated, glanced at Terrin, then the side mirror, and shook her head. “Don’t do it,” she said.
Terrin took her eyes off the road for half a second to purposefully give her an innocent look. “It’s not illegal to go under the speed limit.”
Alex did not consider himself a particularly panicky person.
Honestly, he was the kind of person who drove his gas tank down to fumes, and ate pork after the sell-by date on a regular basis. He took police sirens behind him in stride because, yeah, he had been speeding. He woke up late and still ate a full breakfast. He heard strange noises outside his window at night and assumed it was a stray cat before burglars or ghosts even crossed his mind. He understood that when his mother called him three times in the space of an hour, she probably was not calling to tell him about a funeral. He was, he thought, very close to unflappable.
But he still froze when the bathroom door squeaked open while he was in the middle of his shower. The water continued streaming down from the showerhead, noisy, and almost instantly unwelcome as he heard one sharp footstep on the tile, and a few muffled ones on the bathroom rug.
It was getting irritating, listening to well-meaning statements about what was and was not possible. Lowri read it in Braelyn’s face while her little ring of advisor’s alternately offered their advice and slapped it into the dim, echoing hall. She listened to all of it in the same diplomatic silence, hands folded, back elegantly straight. But one corner of her mouth was tilting up, moment by moment, sharpening a crooked smile that Lowri loved and hated.
Hello, world. My name is Gwendolyn and I have been engaged for almost two months. I like the feeling, waking up every morning with a ring on my finger and knowing that I get to spend an uncounted number of days with a man who loves me, respects me, fights for me, laughs with me, and wants to make a promise to never leave me. This is a beautiful reality.
In the last sixty days, however, I’ve learned that being engaged can lead to peculiar questions from complete strangers. And I always come up with better* answers an hour later:
“Are you mad he didn’t buy you a diamond?”
The answer I gave: “No. We picked the ring out together, actually. It was a fun day.”
The answer I wish I gave: “Do you see this sparkly ring on my finger, with its tear-drop sapphire, and shiny-brilliant halo, looks like he cut me out a piece of the starry, night sky? I love it. The old lady from the Titanic walked past me yesterday and had a heart attack because she swore she threw it in the ocean already.”
What I said to my fiancé later: “We did good.” Continue reading
The knife slipped, cutting through the apple and hard into her palm. For a moment, it didn’t hurt, in that magic way of sharp knives and tender skin. Her gasp was all surprise. The two uneven halves of the apple fell to the floor. One slapped on the kitchen tile and the other bounced. Daniel leaned around the doorway curiously.
He capered across the wall, and those rising to start their tasks looked away from him. He cracked a grin at the back of their heads. It always pleased Omri immensely to watch his little magicks work on them. Dressed in a bright yellow coat that caught the sun and made it jealous, in blue and purple pants, in boots almost too white to exist, they were still compelled not to notice. It was freedom in every magnitude, and Omri loved it.
He landed on the ground with a thud that should have halted their work, and they ignored him. He sauntered across the manor’s overgrown lawn, pants and long grass hissing and hushing. He whistled a little. No one cared, but when he passed just behind a boy bent double to rip weeds from the edge of the path, there was a small shudder in the boy’s spine.
Once, when Karleigh was younger, a boy had climbed the elegant façade of her uncle’s house to tap on her bedroom window. It had been a deeply moonlit night, so she had caught his shadow across the glass before he knocked for her, and his hair had a silver sheen like something precious, and her stomach had gotten butterflies just from the storybook timing.
A year later, she realized it wasn’t romance in the stories. It was just practicality. Dashing young men who tried to climb on darker nights, probably fell and broke their backs. Even if the pretty girl was only on the second story.
She almost didn’t answer the call. Miracles happened, of course – lepers were healed, blind men were given back their sight, the dead were raised – but they were usually things more easily accomplished than waking Avery before noon.
In her dream, she was driving a fast car on a cool, sunbright road when a passenger appeared in the seat next to her singing robotically. It was annoying, but familiar. She had the vague notion that it would stop soon, and she was delightfully unbound from physics on this snake-back road.
The pavement was smooth as ice and every turn was a breeze and a thrill. The singing would stop. It only occurred to her after burning rubber smelled sweet, like a marshmallow lit on fire, that none of this was real. Except the tinny repetition of her ringtone.
Avery rolled over, caught her phone on the last few seconds of the song, and put it to her ear before she opened her eyes.
“Good morning,” she said. Because it was morning, and even half-asleep she knew it was a rare opportunity to give the greeting correctly. It was only half intended to chastise the caller.