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I take his hand. It would be cruel to not take his hand, to withhold that.
“Look,” I say. “How about this? Let’s do this again tomorrow. Kidnap me again. Ask me again. Give me the night to really think about it, and what it means. Tomorrow I’ll know more.”
This isn’t the answer he wants, but it’s also not the answer he fears, so he’s willing to go with it. We exit the rollercoaster and walk around some more. But the magic of pretending has gone, and neither of us wants to insult the other by pretending otherwise. We walk in our own thoughts, knowing those thoughts have almost entirely to do with each other.
When he locks the gate behind us, Sam calls out, “See you tomorrow, Funland!”
I do the same, even though I won’t be seeing it tomorrow.
How can I let Mark know? What can I do that will make him realize what’s happened? Will there be some remnant of today when he wakes up tomorrow?
I can’t write him a letter, or even leave him a note. That would be weird.
Instead, I pace his orderly room. I am the only thing out of place.
Belonging. Togetherness. These words are as complicated and confusing as the word love. It’s probably all the same thing. Or it would be if we let it be. I can only guess from observation.
I don’t know what will happen with them. All I know is this:
As bedtime nears, Sam texts Mark a simple Good night. But in it I can sense the belonging, the togetherness, the love.
I text back my own Good night.
Then I leave it there, for Mark to find when he wakes up.
