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I cross the clearing as fast as my feet will move.
“Faye? What’s wrong?”
She looks over her shoulder at me and her eyes are rimmed in red, cheeks wet. My stomach twists and I feel my hands clench into fists, ready to strike at whatever led to this.
“He just, went headfirst,” she says around little sobs.
I look down and realize she’s holding a bird with black wings and a white belly. And it’s not moving.
“Babe,” I say, squatting next to her. I’ve never seen her cry, not like this, and I just want to make it better.
“I came back to bring the rest of the flowers to the reception area, and this little guy—he’s a pied flycatcher. And he just dove, like he was running away from something. I couldn’t stop it.” Her shoulders are shaking and tears are dripping off her chin and onto her dress, but she’s cupping this bird in her hands so carefully. As if she can’t bear to cause it any more harm.
The bird is dead. She’s not going to bring it back to life and she’s not going to hurt it anymore. There’s literally nothing she can do, but she’s so upset I don’t dare point this out.
“What can I do?” I ask, sweeping her loose hair off her face and tucking it behind her ear. I let my hand curl around the back of her neck, sweeping my thumb back and forth along the back of her neck.
“We should bury him,” she says.
I blink. Then I look around for any signs that I’m being punked. But then Faye lets out another shaky sob, and I don’t give a shit if I’m being punked or not. This bird is getting a burial.
“Where?” I ask.
She looks around as if trying to decide on the perfect place. But then I’ll have to find a shovel and she’ll want to make a headstone and she’ll debate the inscription. “What about an at-sea burial?”
“At sea?”
“There’s a fishing pond back toward the parking lot. It has lily pads? We could push him out to sea on the lily pad?” I suggest.
She’s quiet for a second, and I wonder if I’ve gone too far. What was I thinking? Suggesting a bird be buried at sea? But then she nods.
“I think he’d like that,” she whispers.
I help her up and walk her up the path out of the trees and toward the little man-made pond. I don’t tell her it’s man-made, or that it’s stocked with so many rainbow trout that kids complain it’s too easy to fish. Instead, I direct her toward an area with about a dozen lily pads and gently take the bird from her hands. It’s a little steep and I don’t want her to lose her footing and fall in the water. I place the bird on the flat round leaf and give it a little nudge. It doesn’t really go anywhere because it’s a plant. With roots. Not a boat. But Faye lets out a breathy cry and I’m at her side as quickly as I can be.
“Do you want to say something?” I ask, wrapping an arm around her and tugging her against me. It’s hot, even in the shade, next to the cool water. And yet I can’t recall anything feeling better than her heat pressed into my side.
She shakes her head. “I just hope he had a good life.”
I nod. That’s all any of us can hope for.
Across the water, music fills the space. I recognize it as a Lord Huron song that Faye loves, and without another thought, I wrap both arms around her and press my forehead to hers.
“Dance with me?” I ask, my words coming out a little breathy.
She tilts her head, as if uncertain. Then she nods. Slowly, carefully, we start to sway. I rest my hands at the small of her back, and her small, delicate fingers come to rest against my shoulders.
As we move together, I brush my knuckles against the small of Faye’s back. A little shiver rolls down her shoulder and I pull her closer, pressing my cheek to her temple, where she naturally fits. She nestles into me with a soft hum, as if this is the only place she wants to be. We don’t talk, don’t say anything, and everything—the music, the twilight, the feel of Faye in my arms—feels so perfect that I almost can’t breathe. The rightness of this moment hits me hard, practically sucking the breath from my lungs. I could love this girl.
I could love this girl.
The thought blows me away, and I clear my throat. As if that will somehow give me some distance, perspective. She tilts her head up and crinkles her brow.
“You okay, babe?” she asks softly, rubbing the side of her thumb against my chest, as if it’s second nature to call me something sweet and intimate.
I open my mouth to respond, but my words fail. She smiles, sending my heart skittering. The truth is, I’m more than okay. I’m freaked out and overwhelmed, but I’m also dizzy and terrified that this beautiful, brainy, compassionate, irresistible girl I’m holding, might slip through my fingers. That she might not feel the same, and she might let someone else hold her like this at the next wedding, or after.
Still, my words fail, and all I can do is pull her closer, tucking her head under my chin. She rests her cheek against my chest, her perfect warmth melding into mine.
