Dreamology(62)

And suddenly I think I know what’s happening. “Wait,” I say.

“What?” He turns and looks at me, confused.

“I don’t think you should be in here.” The words come out a little desperate before I even have a chance to decide if I want to say them or not. He is just too close, and he looks so good. And if he’s still not sure what he wants, or if he’s just going to choose Celeste after everything, I really need him to leave.

Max looks at me now, straight into my eyes. And then he just says, “Why?” And my heart starts to pound a million miles a minute, because him asking why he shouldn’t be here is like an acknowledgment of everything that is happening.

I swallow. “I thought you wanted to be alone,” is all I can manage to say.

“I did say that,” Max says now, his eyes not leaving mine. “So,” he tries again. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve been walking around campus, wracking my brain, trying to figure out what to do. Because I want to get better, really. I know we have to get better. I know the dreams have to stop. But I also don’t want to lose you.”

You could hear a spider sneeze in the room right now, it has gone so quiet. No party music, no footsteps on dorm stairways, no shouts of revelry. Just silence, and my eyes and Max’s eyes and Max’s perfect mouth and the feeling that is welling up from the bottom of my stomach up through my chest and neck to the tops of my ears.

“I can’t lose you, Alice,” he says again. And then before I can help myself, I have leaped across the bed to kiss him and fall into his arms, my legs circling his waist. And he accepts me, his arms coming up around to support my back while his hands grip the base of my head, under my hair.

“I can’t lose you,” he says for a third time, in a whisper. And I take his face in my hands and push his hair behind his ears, as I stroke his jaw with my fingers.

“You will never lose me,” I say. “I’m right here.” And I kiss him again.





OCTOBER 18th




“Here’s a good one,” I say, leaning over to hold the slide viewer in front of Max’s eyeball. We’re back on the crew docks at school and it’s twilight, the most perfect time of day. In front of us the Charles River rolls by, bright turquoise. I’ve got a pile of slides in my lap and am sifting through them, placing them one at a time into the antique wooden viewer and holding it up to my face, before passing it on to Max, who is lying on his back, holding a book over his face with one arm, while the other rests behind his head.

He closes his other eye, dramatically scrunching up his entire face as though it helps him see better. I know he isn’t that interested; he’d rather be reading. He’s just doing it to make me happy.

“Ooooh, that is a good one.” Max nods in agreement. “Put it in the keep pile.”

To the right of my knee is a neat stack of slides, the ones we have decided to save. For what reason, I’m not sure.

I lift another slide up to my eye, making a face of my own at what appears to be a professional portrait of someone’s obese cat, and then replace it with another. The next one is a succulent wall, looking green and glossy and very much alive, but I don’t show that one to Max because it reminds me of Celeste. And then I get to a yurt made of sunset red canvas, on the edge of a snowy ledge, facing what looks like the Alps. Two sets of skis are stuck into the snow, and you can just make out a fire glowing from behind the flaps.

“This,” I say, holding it up for Max, “is absolutely perfect.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Max says, holding his book aside and readying himself for the slide viewer again. As he examines the photo, I examine his face. The crease between his eyebrows when he’s really focusing on something, the curve of his jaw, the slight dimple in his right cheek. Then I watch his eyebrows rise. “Wow,” is all Max says. Then he moves the viewer away from his eyes so he can look directly into mine.

When I finally look away, I see we’re no longer on the dock. We’re in the snow. I have a puffer jacket on and hot-purple ski pants, and Max has the same, but his parka and pants are shades of blue. About twenty feet away and glowing with light is our sunset yurt.

Max is giving me a look I know well. A look that makes me say, “Please don’t.” But he keeps smiling mischievously. “Please don’t,” I try again, this time louder, but he doesn’t listen. He throws a snowball right at my face.

I glare at him. “What are you, five?” I ask.

“Yup,” he says with a grin. And then he leaps up and tackles me to the ground. The snow is incredibly soft, cushioning me as I fall backward.

Max wipes at some of the snow on my cheek, but leaves a little bit. “How could I have done such a horrible thing?” he says dramatically. “Here, let me help.” He leans in and slowly kisses my bottom lip, taking some snow with him. Then his eyes go wide.

“I know, I know. I’m a really good kisser,” I say.

Max rolls his eyes. “Here. Open wide.” He picks up a bit of snow and sprinkles it in my mouth. It tastes like lemon shave ice.

“Yum,” I say, and bite my lip.

“Yum,” Max says, and kisses me again.





30


The Fuzzy Fish