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Donovan nods, as though he knows every nuance in the word complicated. And maybe he does. If there’s anyone who understands me, it’s him. “At least it’s a beautiful view for your existential crises.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
“Tell me I’m a good person. Please. Even if it’s not true. Just…I need to hear it.”
He scoffs at that. “I’m not going to tell you that.”
“But—”
“If you were an angel,” he says, his tone suddenly firm, “I wouldn’t like you so damn much.” He looks me in the eyes. “Screw good. You, Kenzi, are my favorite person. Because of everything that you are. The good, the bad, and everything in between. You’re perfect to me.”
I bite my lip. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
His breath crystalizes. Words unsaid trail between us like white ghosts in the early morning sky.
“I’m freezing,” I say, which is true. I can’t feel my toes.
“Christ. Of course.” There’s an urgency about him all of a sudden.
He gets me up, and we go back downstairs, closing the hatch behind us and sealing in the heat. I let the jacket fall to the floor and climb back into bed. I didn’t realize how cold I actually was, but now I can’t stop shivering.
Jason, still half-asleep, drops the whale and rolls around to wrap me in his arms instead. “You’re ice-cold,” he mutters.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Put your feet in my legs.”
I nudge my cold feet between his calves. Donovan takes off his clothes and gets into bed behind me and wraps his arms around me, his skin furnace hot. Slowly, I start to thaw.
Maybe this year will be okay, after all.
IV
The Dinner: January, 2019
64
Jason
When I was sixteen, I won the all-stars swim meet for my high school.
I swam faster, made cleaner strokes, and controlled my breath better than all my peers. On my last lap, however, I hit the wall too hard and banged up my wrist. By that point, I already had the lead, so I was still able to book it to first.
My teammates congratulated me, and so did my coach, and they gave me a trophy the size of my arm. But even dripping wet, panting for breath, I could still feel my father’s ice-cold glare from the stands.
“What happened out there?” my father asked me when we got into the car.
“It was a mistake,” I told him.
“What do you think happens when I make mistakes in the OR?”
