When My Heart Joins the Thousand(87)

“Keep going.”

He does.

For a brief moment, I find myself thinking about the nature show that first gave me the idea to proposition him—the polar bears rutting in the snow, how businesslike and unceremonial it was, and how at the time that had appealed to me because it seemed simple. This is different. I should have known it would be different. His breathless, intent focus, the way he looks at me through wide eyes, as though I am the only thing in his world—I feel seen. Every move, every breath, is significant. We are both so vulnerable, so open to each other, and for once, I don’t feel the urge to look away.

Stanley, I think. Stanley, Stanley . . .

Then everything goes white.

When I come back to myself, I’m lying next to him, his arms around me. There’s a sense of weightlessness, as if I’m lifting out of my body, looking down at both of us in the bed.

He holds me tighter. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” My skin is damp with sweat, my head is spinning; it’s too much to absorb, too much everything, and for a moment I want my Rubik’s Cube, the cool comfort of plastic beneath my fingers, the straightforward simplicity of rows of color clicking into place. Instead, I focus on the gentle pressure of Stanley’s arms around me, the heat of his skin.

For now, this is enough.

His hand brushes my leg. I curl against his side, resting my head on his shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispers, his lips moving against my ear.

I open my mouth. At first, the words don’t want to come out. Even now, my throat closes up, my body resisting through sheer force of habit. Then something inside me relaxes. “I love you, too, Stanley.”

He holds me close and tight, his arms a sheltering burrow around me, and buries his face against my hair.

I hear a low, peculiar sound, almost like the cooing of a dove, so soft it’s nearly inaudible, and I realize it’s coming from my own throat. It’s the same sound that rabbits make when they’re happy.





CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE


“Are you sure about this?” Stanley asks.

I look around the condo. It’s empty, save for the stacks of cardboard boxes labeled BOOKS and DVDs and MISC. STUFF. “I’m sure. Anyway, it’s a bit late to be questioning our decision.”

The movers will drag in the rest of our furniture tomorrow. For now, all we have is a bed and a TV. And Matilda’s cage, which sits on the floor. She’s nibbling a food pellet, seemingly oblivious to the change in scenery.

I sit on the edge of the bed and turn my Rubik’s Cube over in my hands.

Stanley limps over, leaning on his cane, and sits next to me. “I know that change is a big deal for you,” he says. “And I know you liked my house.”

“This is closer to Elmbrooke, and to your school. It’ll be easier.”

A few boxes labeled MOM’S STUFF sit next to Matilda’s cage. “What are you going to do with those,” I ask.

“Probably donate them to Goodwill.”

I nod and look at him from the corner of my eye. “How does it feel.”

A smile quirks at one corner of his mouth. “Terrifying. But in a good way.” He looks around the condo.

He’s been getting a new treatment, a series of injections designed to strengthen the collagen in his bones, and his sclerae aren’t as noticeably blue now. But I can still see a faint tinge, like the sheen on a pearl. “Yes.”

Sunlight pours in through the picture window in the living room, illuminating the white walls. Everything here feels so bright. It will take some getting used to.

“The kitchen stuff is still in boxes,” he says. “Want to go out for dinner? I think there’s a pancake restaurant around here.”

I nod and slip into my hoodie, and we leave the condo. On the way, we pass a park. It has a small pond, and a bench. “Wait,” I say.

He parks, and we get out and sit on the bench, side by side. A pair of geese glide across the water. A rabbit is digging in the grass. She stops and looks up, ears alert and quivering.

We sit, comfortably quiet. Beneath our feet, the winter-brown grass is squishy from the melted snow. A few tender green shoots are visible, pushing their way toward the sun. I breathe in the sharp, cool air. It holds a smell that is familiar yet new.

“It’s funny,” he says. “I was just thinking, about that phrase from Watership Down . . . ‘My heart has joined the Thousand.’ I know it’s about mourning, but to me, that part of it always sounded kind of . . . hopeful. Like it’s about becoming something bigger than yourself. About connecting with other people, or the world.”

Overhead, the sky arches, blue and clear, and there’s a sensation of lifting in my chest—a sense of opening. My heart has joined the Thousand, I think, trying out the new meaning. It feels accurate.

I remember the first time I saw Stanley, sitting on a bench in a park just like this. I was upset, I recall, because a stranger had invaded my territory and disrupted my carefully planned routine. I thought about getting up, walking away, and never coming back. I came so close to doing it. But something stopped me. Something—what?

A hint of curiosity. A random pulse of electrical activity in some deep, hidden fold of my brain. The opening and closing of an ion gate on a single nerve cell. The spin of a subatomic particle within that ion gate. Something so small, so seemingly random. And now Stanley and I have a home together. Being with him feels easy and natural—like something that could last forever.