In an Instant(82)

“My mouth?”

“Yep. When you first came in with the kittens, it was your mouth I noticed, the way it skewed to the left. You acted all tough and certain, but your mouth gave you away.”

She pulls him into another kiss, then pulls away. “You still like my mouth?”

“Yep. I must say, I’m a very good judge of mouths at first glance. But that’s not why I fell in love with you; that’s only what I noticed first. It was your eyes that put me over the top, the way you roll them when anyone says anything nice to you, like when I tell you you’re beautiful.”

Chloe rolls her eyes.

“Exactly,” Eric says. “They’re a strange color, mostly green, but when you’re happy or . . . you know . . . in the moment”—he thrusts his hips just slightly, causing me to grimace—“they’re soft gray.”

Chloe blushes.

“But really, who knows why any of us fall in love?” He lifts her hands to his lips, then lowers them to hold them against his heart. “All I know for certain is that my heart pounds harder when you walk in a room or when you look at me or when you smile.”

Vance was with Chloe for over a year, and in all that time I doubt he ever said anything like that. Karmic destiny or just random fate, I have no idea—the only things definite are my gratitude that the two of them found each other and my certainty that they were meant to be.

I leave them lip locked on the patio and return inside to the party, where Chloe’s playlist has everyone on their feet dancing up a storm. Everyone except my dad, who is still out of dancing commission, and my mom, who is short a partner.

Mo, who is boogying to the beat of Madonna’s “Into the Groove” with Kyle, notices my mom on the sidelines and whispers something in Kyle’s ear that sends him her way.

Earlier in the evening, in the receiving line, my mom and Kyle said hello. It was awkward and brief, my mom’s eyes darting around, Kyle unsure of his place.

“Would you like to dance?” he says, his right hand extended in invitation.

My mom’s eyes grow wide as she looks at the outstretched palm, and I feel her heart begin to race.

He continues to hold it in front of her, unflinching, an easy smile on his face.

No cold, no hunger, no thirst.

He wears a tuxedo. She wears a gown.

Chloe is not lost in the snow with Vance. My dad is not injured and bleeding. No one is waiting for her to save them.

His hand is bare, and so is hers.

Her fingers tremble as she reaches out, and that is when I feel it: the last golden thread dissolving as his hand wraps around hers and he helps her to her feet.

With the same athleticism that saved them, they glide across the dance floor, and I watch as the world lightens and the edges begin to glow, my mom and Kyle in the center, dancing in the brightness, until all that remains is light.





AUTHOR’S NOTE

Dear reader:

This story was inspired by an event that happened when I was eight years old. At the time, I was living in upstate New York. It was winter, and my dad and his best friend, “Uncle Bob,” decided to take my older brother, me, and Uncle Bob’s two boys for a hike in the Adirondacks. When we left that morning, the weather was crisp and clear, but somewhere near the top of the trail, the temperature dropped abruptly, the sky opened, and we found ourselves caught in a torrential, freezing blizzard.

My dad and Uncle Bob were worried we wouldn’t make it down. We weren’t dressed for that kind of cold, and we were hours from the base. Using a rock, Uncle Bob broke the window of an abandoned hunting cabin to get us out of the storm.

My dad volunteered to run down for help, leaving my brother Jeff and me to wait with Uncle Bob and his boys. My recollection of the hours we spent waiting for help to arrive is somewhat vague except for my visceral memory of the cold: my body shivering uncontrollably and my mind unable to think straight.

The four of us kids sat on a wooden bench that stretched the length of the small cabin, and Uncle Bob knelt on the floor in front of us. I remember his boys being scared and crying and Uncle Bob talking a lot, telling them it was going to be okay and that “Uncle Jerry” would be back soon. As he soothed their fear, he moved back and forth between them, removing their gloves and boots and rubbing each of their hands and feet in turn.

Jeff and I sat beside them, silent. I took my cue from my brother. He didn’t complain, so neither did I. Perhaps this is why Uncle Bob never thought to rub our fingers and toes. Perhaps he didn’t realize we, too, were suffering.

It’s a generous view, one that as an adult with children of my own I have a hard time accepting. Had the situation been reversed, my dad never would have ignored Uncle Bob’s sons. He might even have tended to them more than he did his own kids, knowing how scared they would have been being there without their parents.

Near dusk, a rescue jeep arrived, and we were shuttled down the mountain to waiting paramedics. Uncle Bob’s boys were fine—cold and exhausted, hungry and thirsty, but otherwise unharmed. I was diagnosed with frostnip on my fingers, which it turned out was not so bad. It hurt as my hands were warmed back to life, but as soon as the circulation was restored, I was fine. Jeff, on the other hand, had first-degree frostbite. His gloves needed to be cut from his fingers, and the skin beneath was chafed, white, and blistered. It was horrible to see, and I remember thinking how much it must have hurt, the damage so much worse than my own.