Beautiful Graves(52)

“Chewbacca!” I exclaim.

“Don’t laugh, but this cultural reference just flew past me at the speed of light.” Dom chuckles.

“You’ve never watched Star Wars? You know, The Phantom Menace? The Clone Wars?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, my God, Dom! How?”

“I don’t know!” He throws his arms in the air, laughing. “I just . . . I think I was busy doing chemo when it was big with all the kids my age?”

My smile immediately falls, and I feel like an idiot for not thinking about it. Dom notices and rushes to hug me.

“No, babe. Don’t feel bad about it. Change it. Change me.” He kisses my lips. I melt in his arms. He smells so good. He feels so good. What’s wrong with suburbia? I think. It is so popular for a reason. “Show me your ways. Teach me the magic of Chewbanka.”

“Chewbacca.”

“Yup. Her.”

“Him.” I laugh, pulling him back to the hotel. “Come on, we have a history lesson to teach you.”

“While we’re at it, I also failed anatomy in school. Just saying . . .”

I swat his chest, feeling light and happy all of a sudden. Nora is right. He is the one. He makes me laugh. He gives me joy. He is not hard and callous and difficult like his baby brother. He is not San Francisco. Filthy and hilly, with a subway—one of the worst inventions in human history (there is absolutely no freaking way I’m ever getting on a subway).

“I’ll teach you biology too,” I promise.

“Thanks, Teach.”



For the next couple of days, Dom and I eat mofongo, hit the casinos, and have lots and lots of sex. By the time we get on the plane home, I feel more connected to him. More sure of our relationship. Yes, Joe was a plot twist. A bitter reminder of what could have been. Of the past. I’d lost my footing when we reconnected, but I’m back on the horse. I’m not going to let Joe mess with my happiness again. Next time we talk, I’ll be the one encouraging him to date Presley. Maybe we could even double date. Nip all the doubts in the bud.

The universe provides, and after we land back home, we catch a cab instead of having Joe pick us up. I don’t ask why Joe hasn’t arrived to collect us. Dom explains, anyway.

“It’s Mom’s birthday tomorrow. The big six-oh. Joe’s in Dover for the long weekend. I know I’m springing this on you last minute, but would you mind very much if we head over there tomorrow evening for dinner? I know it’ll mean a lot to her.”

“Of course!” I beam at him.

“Thanks.” He picks up my hand and kisses my knuckles.

When we get to Salem, I ask the driver to drop me off first. I need to make sure Loki is okay. In the apartment, I find a note on the fridge from Nora.

Sleeping @ Colt’s

Hope you had fun in PR.

Love you xoxo

I pluck it and throw it in the trash on my way to find Loki. Nora has been feeling a lot less guilty about spending time with Colt. I’m happy for them. To be honest, I no longer feel like I’m drowning. It would probably be okay if she moved out at the end of the month. I make a mental note to actively encourage her to do so.

I find Loki sprawled in my bed. He stares at me with great enthusiasm, which for a cat means he blinks at me once, to acknowledge my presence in the room. When I reach to stroke him, he gives me his belly and tilts his chins up so I can rub his throat the way he likes.

“Missed me?” I ask tiredly. He rolls his eyes, stands up, and exits the room.

I grab a shower, do my laundry, try to call Dad (and get his voice mail. Again), and enjoy a balanced meal of Reese’s Puffs. There are still grave sketches hanging on my pinboard from the week after I met Joe. I glance at them, and something inside me wilts, because Joe was right. When we don’t see each other, we don’t create. And when I don’t create, I feel underwater.

It is only when I go back to the living room to turn off all the lights before I slip into bed that I see there is something I missed all along. A batch of A4 papers that’s been shoved through the crack under the door. One of them is even stamped with my boot print. I fall to my knees and collect them. I don’t need to guess what they are. What they mean. I know.

I grab the scattered pages. They’re out of order. Of course Joe wouldn’t bother with a stapler. It’s all handwritten, a violent cyclone of blue and black ink. He must’ve gone through several pens.

After picking up the pages with shaky hands, I start reading snippets.

. . . it was Kerouac’s fault, of course. He was the one who said that writers needed new experiences like flowers need the sun. He was the one who made young Jack hit the road and drive past state limits, past cornfields and skyscrapers. Past horizons. And so, inevitably, he was the one who pushed Jack to meet her.

. . . some nights, after Jack lost his car and had to hitchhike his way, he’d lay on a patch of grass, staring into the sky. He dreamed of ripping a hole in it. Slipping through it. Disappearing into another, better universe. One where people who should be together stay together. He’d bathed in dirty ponds and ate from trash cans. And yet, his most desperate moment had occurred under the night sky. So clear and pure and full of stars. He closed his eyes and saw her. A girl. Or maybe she was a woman at this point. Whoever she was, he belonged to her. But she no longer belonged to him.