Page 161 of Under Story

“Everyone leaves,” Gloria said.

Laurel put her arm around Gloria’s shoulders. “I know. It isn’t fair. But just because I’m retiring doesn’t mean I’m leaving you. We’ll stay as close as ever.”

Gloria relaxed, but only slightly.

“What else?” Laurel prompted.

“I don’t know if I can handle this.” Gloria gestured to campus. “A professorship. It’s what I’ve always wanted, but now I have to actually do it.”

Laurel can’t help it. She laughs.

“Gloria, you’re going to be brilliant. I know that for a fact.”

Gloria wiped her nose. “What do you mean, ‘for a fact’?”

“I can’t explain it. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

Gloria rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “You keep saying that.”

—

Before she left for the Center, Laurel had dinner with Maisie and Noah. She helped her mother in the orchard, and she went to a horror movie with Tess. But there was still someone else to say goodbye to, and that was the tree. For the first time in years, Laurel drove to Cedar on her own.

She thought of the activists who had encircled the redwood in protection. To their opponents, that was just one tree, no different from any other. But Laurel knew that every tree was as distinct as any human being. She quickened, excited, at her first glimpse of the canopy. Then the woods opened up wide and she saw it, resplendent in bloom. As she came closer, the leaves gave a little shimmy. Laurel took this as a greeting, even though it could be explained by wind. It was easy to project one’s emotions onto trees. But they were what—or who—they were. Great. Unknowable. Watchers of the earth as it changed over decades, centuries. There were cypress trees in Chile at least five thousand years old. Trees couldn’t speak their wisdom, but they had other ways, if you used your senses.

Today, Laurel did nothing but sit in its shade.

May 1999

Nightfall.

The sun, a white half circle, floats at the horizon. Laurel has counted three cars, but none of them have been Eli’s.

And then a blue Acura comes around the bend.

Laurel drops the bag she’s holding. She can’t wait for him to pull into the lot—she runs to him, spontaneous, shameless. Eli veers to the side of the road. The sun is in Laurel’s eyes, so she cannot see his face—not until he parks, crooked in his haste, and steps out with open arms.

She tackles him. He’s laughing. He looks so young. She pulls him across the road, into the woods, where hickory trees offer shelter.

They’re on the ground, like puppies. He clutches her around the waist, and they hold each other, skin-to-skin. It isn’t possible to be as close as she wants. Eli puts his hand inside her underwear—puts his thumb to the place that is already swollen, holding it there, pulsing it barely. She softens and tenses both, liquid, warm. Later he moves her into a new position, one they’ve never tried, without leaving her body. She does not know where he learned to do that; the implication of another person makes her jealous and excites her.

Another person! Never again. She won’t let him out of her sight. She bites his bottom lip, which makes him laugh again.

—

Eli props his sweatshirt behind Laurel’s head. He finds her jeans behind a tree.

“What’s this?” he asks, feeling something hard in the pocket.

Laurel shows him the chocolate. “Magic mushrooms.”

The last of summer’s crickets chitter softly. Wind moves through the trees.

“Magic mushrooms,” murmurs Eli. “I bet you do them all the time.”

“No,” says Laurel. “I never have.” Eli traces his finger from her forehead to her chin. She feels wild, loosed from a pen. “Do you want to?”

It is almost the blue hour: a slate curtain chases the last streak of red. Eli raises his eyebrows.