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I wish I’d told her.
I probably wouldn’t now.
It sounds silly, thinking it. Even in my head, it sounds like a fucking poem.
That she, Wynona Cowell, can’t be described with just a name, or a word, or a string of them. That throwing some meaning from some name on her would just pigeonhole her, try to categorize what can’t be categorized.
Because she’s every word and its reverse.
And just when you think you know her, she throws you for a loop.
And when it comes to her, I don’t have the slightest fucking clue what I’ll find when I get to her.
Maybe it won’t be good—probably.
But to know Wynona is to know that you have to try.
And all at once, I’m there. It’s a relief.
These thoughts I’m having, they don’t feel like mine. They feel too lyrical, like some author’s tossed a few phrases into my head to make the story beat flow.
But what the hell do I know?
Her place is a chic glass condo building between a pizza shop and a sandwich restaurant. 314 Clair Creek Blvd.
I go in and stare at the intercom. I scroll down until I get to her name. I press in the numbers on the dial pad. I wait.
I didn’t bring anything for her, I realize. No peace-treaty gift. No nothing.
She doesn’t answer.
There’s mud on my shoes, still, from the trip. And I never noticed.
I dial the numbers again, call her phone too. She picks up.
“Emerson. I don’t want to—”
“Just hear me out. Then I’ll leave you alone.”
She tries to out-silence me, one second... two seconds... three... four... loses.
“Fine,” she says. “I’ll come down.”
She comes down, nods to me, walks on past.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“I know a place,” she says.
Her nearness, her coolness. She’s wearing red and black velour sweats, and of course, her ass looks great.
My cock flexes.
She doesn’t so much as look over her shoulder.
I don’t so much as try to keep pace.
Her place is a bench on a patch of grass that apparently exists only for dogs to do their business. She sits down on the far left. I sit down on the far right.
“You just left,” I say.
“I had to,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“You don’t understand.” She’s talking to her swinging red-lace Doc Martens. Didn’t realize I missed them until I saw her, here and now. “I had to do it then, otherwise I wouldn’t have.”
“Even better.”
Her head jolts so she can fix me with those frustrated blue eyes. They look softer without their usual black shadow, more fragile somehow. “No. It wouldn’t be. I stand by what I said. I won’t have you stay here and miss out on the tour on account of me.”
“And I won’t go,” I return easily.
She turns away. “I can’t do this. Not unless you go.”
I find myself on my feet. I can’t sit and say this, deal with this. “C’mon. Really? You’re going to blackmail me into going? Go or we’re through, is that it?”
She turns to look at me sadly, like I’ve gotten the completely wrong answer on the test I didn’t know I was taking. “No, Emerson.”
“Then what?” I almost laugh with exasperation. “What the hell is it, then?”
She rises too and speaks to a point between me and her. “You know I’m right.”
“No,” I say. “The only thing I know is that I want to be with you.”
Her eyes flicker to me, a half-answered question in them. “Even if... even if it means waiting?”
“Not like that.”
She turns away. “I think we both know. That’s the solution. We separate for a time, while you do this contract. And then, when you come back—”
“You can’t be serious,” I say hollowly.
She speaks to the ground, the cracked sidewalk beside the sparse patch of grass. “I don’t see any other way. Do you?”
“I see every other way but that.”
She frowns. “If we can’t get through this, then what’s the point?”
“What are you saying?” I take a step toward her. “Jesus, Wyn. You’re carrying my child, our child—”
“Don’t,” she whimpers, turning away. “Just please listen to me, Emerson. If we can’t do a few months apart, then what’s the point? It’s not like this is a long-term arrangement. You go, do the tour, then you come back. Being a couple is full of difficult situations. If we can’t overcome this most basic one, then what’s the point?”
My hand clenches on the back on the bench like it’s to blame. “But you’re saying that we aren’t doing this as a couple. Isn’t that what you’re saying?”
“Wouldn’t that be for the best?” she asks. “I’m not saying I’ll date other people or that I want you to. Just... your whole fear is repeating what happened again. So, we won’t have to check in every day, or even every few days.”
As I watch her, it gradually dawns on me.
