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She laughs, but the sound is wet, and I realize only then she’s crying.
In my grip, I hold Robert Fanning’s “Song of the Sea to the Shore,” a twin to the poem I know she holds—Fanning’s “Song of the Shore to the Sea.”
I’d chosen my poem for her before discovering it had a twin, mere lines into my first read. To know she felt not only the same, but to gift me its mate? It feels almost surreal in its grand romanticism.
I love her. I’m in love with her.
She doesn’t make me wait, running the few steps between us to collapse into my arms, her kiss frenzied. I calm her, holding on to the length of her braid—the one done by my hand earlier—and slow her with my own kiss. Harnessing the control I feel so desperate to hold when we are intimate.
She softens easily in my grip, like melting down her sometimes-frozen exterior to the watery vulnerability beneath. The parts of her I care for and always will.
• • •
“What’s that?”
I nearly jump at the boom of my dad’s voice as he returns from the kitchen to the main living room. A small Christmas tree sits in the corner, filled only with handmade ornaments from my grade school years, some cheesy hockey figurines, and a few framed ornaments of us and the Koteskiys.
“It’s a poem, from my . . . girlfriend,” I say, testing the word on my lips.
My dad’s eyes glow and he tries to hide his blinding smile, lifting the wine glass to his mouth for a long sip. “Girlfriend? Is it Paloma?”
I nod. “We haven’t said it yet . . . but yeah.” I’m feeling a little ridiculous at not having asked her. “She’s . . . really great.” The words feel inconsequential for how she makes me feel.
“Did you want to invite her?”
The answer is easy—yes—but I never wanted to overwhelm her or force her to fit into my complicated only-child-with-divorced-parents holiday. We don’t celebrate with some large, overflowing loud family. It’s quiet and peaceful, just my dad, Seven, and me.
“Yeah. I might call her,” I say, stepping toward the stairs. “Just . . . to say Merry Christmas and make sure she’s good.”
My anxiety over her hasn’t calmed since I left. I’m not a text type of person, but I haven’t been able to stop myself from bombarding her with texts every now and then. Just to check on her.
She answers on the first ring.
“Hey!”
Her voice is so happy, so pleased—as if my call is the one she’s been waiting for.
“Hey, P,” I breathe, a smile spreading across my lips. “I miss you. How are you?”
“I’m good. I’m just—”
A long, loud alarm starts blaring in the background. I almost drop my phone to get away from the noise, standing from my relaxed position.
“Paloma?” My voice is louder than I intend. Seven perks up at her name, leaving his bed in the living room to come sit near my legs. “What is that?”
“Fire alarm,” she projects over the vibrant noise. I grit my teeth. “Sorry—they sent an email that they’re doing maintenance and to ignore it, but it’s very loud. I’m sorry.”
“What?” The words feel strange and off. “Where are you?”
She’s silent for too long; my fist grips the phone so tightly I’m afraid it might snap.
“The dorms,” she confesses. “But I’m fine! I promise, Bennett. I’m good!”
“I thought you were going home,” I say, already grabbing for my shoes and my coat, heading down the stairs. “Paloma—why wouldn’t you—why would you lie about that?”
“I’m sorry—I know. I just . . . I don’t talk to my mom. But I didn’t want to crash another holiday for you. You have family, and I—”
“Paloma,” I cut her off, fingers pressed into my now-aching temple. “Pack your stuff. I’ll be there in a half hour.”
