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I shut my eyes, try to pretend that she’s not lying on me.
“That’s the part that everybody bullshits you about. They’ll say one year, two years.” My voice sounds hard. “And then you go on forums and it’s five, ten. Never.”
/> I suck back a breath, and she lifts her head, frowning. “What do you mean?” Her brows and mouth are pinched.
“People don’t get better. Sometimes. You got hooked for a few years—yeah. Five years, six years, seven. Fine.” I shake my head. “If you’ve used a really long time, like me, people don’t come off the subs. They don’t stop taking Valium.”
I can see the wheels in her head turning. I’m kind of impressed at how she keeps her face so clinical. “Why does it matter, that bit? Is it a poor quality of life? If you don’t…stop it all entirely, that is?”
I swallow back a dry laugh. “It depends on who you ask. And how they do on that.”
“On what?”
“A maintenance dose.” I air-quote that shit.
She gives me a little frown, then tilts her head as her lips press together. “What’s the difficulty? Sticking at that dose?”
I nod. Someone like me—I can’t stick to it. I always want more. I drape an arm over my eyes and chuckle hoarsely as I feel her tuck the blankets back over my chest. I peek at her from underneath my elbow, watching her moonlit features as they shift between troubled and concerned.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re a fucking angel,” I whisper, smiling at her. “Not a siren.”
I watch as her face lights up. She sits up straighter, then adjusts what I think is an invisible crown. She moves her shoulders so they’re more squared, and I swear, I think she’s miming wings. It’s so fucking funny that I forget myself and sit up.
She blinks her eyes a few times fast, and lifts her chin. I wrap my arms around her, then lay back again, pulling her down atop me. I kiss her cheeks…her lips. She’s pushed up on her arm now. She pulls gently away, smiling down on me.
“I won every schoolhouse game of mime for many years.” She gives me a huge grin, then laughs. I urge her head into the corner of my shoulder and wrap my big leg over both of hers.
“Am I imprisoned?” She giggles.
“You bet your ass you are.” I squeeze her ass for emphasis.
About that time, I see a shooting star. It’s like…a shooting star, I guess. It’s big, dark gold, and unmistakable. And right above us.
I laugh at the sight. She frowns at me, but I don’t explain. I inhale. It’s easy. I can breathe. Like, really fucking breathe. I feel…good.
It’s like Cinderella’s carriage. Doesn’t last more than those few hours. But I know how to get the magic back. She comes over every day when I get home from laying line. And usually, she stays the night.
* * *
Finley
Every afternoon or early evening when I knock at the cottage, he pulls the door right open—no delay. It takes me nearly two weeks to realize that the only way this is explained is if he’s waiting by the door. One night, he’s awake in the wee hours, feeling poorly for the first time in a few days, and I ask about this.
“Yeah.” It brings a smile to his tired face. “After I shower, and I change Baby’s—you know—the thing…”
“Lappy.” I laugh. “A lamb nappy, that’s what it is.” Ever since she’s been staying as a pet at Gammy’s, this is what we do for her.
He shakes his head. “Yeah. Anyway, Baby and I wait for you.” His arms squeeze around me. “Is that too much?” he asks softly.
“I adore it.”
When I began my nightly visiting, the Carnegie couldn’t cook—he’d burn toast—but as time passes, we begin to cook each evening after we make love. By perhaps the third week of this, he’s learning. One night, I arrive later than usual on account of Mrs. Dillon slicing her thumb open, and I find dumplings in the boiler pot.
We twirl around the kitchen, with me giggling because I’m so tired and he’s so lovely, and my Carnegie trying not to grin with pride about his dumplings.
“You’re adorable.” I pinch his cheek, and his face reddens.
“Dudes can’t be adorable.”
