The Edge of Always(43)

Instinctively, I reach up and move my disheveled hair away as he slips the necklace around my neck. “It’s perfect, Andrew. I more than like it. I love it.” I look down once he clasps it in place and hold the shiny silver pendant in my fingers.

I turn around to face him and push up on my bare toes to kiss him deeply.

I just can’t see how something like this didn’t cost a boatload, but he’s telling the truth. I think…

“Thank you, baby,” I say, beaming.

Suddenly, he smacks me on the butt and says, “We’ve gotta get out of here today. I’m sick of hiding out in these rooms. Sick of this cold weather. I wish we could hibernate.”

“You and me both. What exactly are we going to do?” I grab a clean outfit from my bag by the TV.

“I don’t know. Anything,” he says. “Just dress warm.”

He didn’t need to tell me that, really. Not even being on the coast and farther south has done a lot to keep us warm the past several days. We both dream of spring and summer, so much so that it has gotten to where it’s all we talk about anymore. I complain a lot about not being able to hang my bare feet out the car window without freezing us out, and he complains that we still have yet to accomplish sleeping in that field under the stars. Of course, I won’t say it out loud because it’ll just make him want to do it even more, but I’m really not looking forward to sleeping under the stars. Ever. Not after what happened the first time we tried. No. I think I’m content with the hotel beds. No snakes in those.

Winter is depressing. I think it’s why the suicide rate is so high in Alaska. Beautiful state, but give me the sweltering heat of a southern desert state any day.

I dress extra warm for my birthday: thick coat, scarf, gloves, you name it I’m wearin’ it. And I’m still frickin’ cold.

*

Andrew, he kinda makes winter hot. I’ve always thought guys with beanies are sexy, but the way he looks in his black designer jacket and knit beanie, dark gray sweater, dark jeans, and Doc Marten boots is really all the birthday present that I need. I smile to myself as we walk hand in hand through a small crowd of people, all shuffling into the lighthouse and out of the cold when three girls, probably tourists like us, gape at Andrew as we walk by. That happens a lot, and I should be used to it by now. I gloat privately, but who wouldn’t in my situation? He’s the sexist thing I’ve ever seen. No wonder he was a model at one time. He hates talking about it, so naturally I often bring it up just to see him squirm. He’s been shaving less, too; he’s got that whole sexy stubble thing goin’ on.

We climb the spiral stairs up into the lighthouse overlooking the ocean and we gaze out at the view together. Because it’s something to do. We’ve just been playing it by ear—driving around town and picking something as we see it. Though, in the cold months, even that is a hit or miss. We hang our arms over the railing and move closer to each other to keep warm. The cold wind batters us, being so high off the ground, and I know my nose and cheeks are probably red.

It takes us all of five minutes to say “Screw this,” and we practically run back to the car.

“Maybe we should just go to a movie,” he says in the driver’s seat. “Or… OK, I say we just hibernate.”

We sit here for a long time just trying to figure out something to do.

“Let’s just drive around some more,” I say, coming up short.

“Maybe we should just leave.”

I shrug. “If you want to.” Then I see a sign that reads Fleas & Tiques Flea Market & Antique Store.

“Let’s go shopping,” I suggest.

Andrew doesn’t look enthused. “Shopping?”

I nod and point to the sign. “Not the mall or anything,” I say. “You can find some great stuff in flea markets.”

His expression is still flat, but I guess he realizes it sure as hell beats walking around outside in the cold, or sitting in this car doing nothing at all.

Giving in because, face it, he really doesn’t have much of a choice, he backs out of the parking space, and we follow the signs to the flea market. We find a bit of everything: stupid-looking hats, old-timey dental tools, handmade quilts, VHS tapes, and records. Andrew didn’t care for much until the wooden box of records came into view.

“I haven’t seen an actual Led Zeppelin record in years,” he says, holding one in his hands. The cover is so beat up and faded it looks like it’s been sitting in an attic for thirty years, but he holds it so carefully you’d think it was in mint condition.

“You’re not planning on buying that, are you?”

“Why not?” he asks, not looking at me.

He turns it over in his hands to look at the back side.

“Because it’s a record?”

“Yeah, but it’s a Led Zeppelin record,” he counters, glancing at me briefly.

“Yeah, and?”

He doesn’t answer.

I go on, “Andrew, what would you play it on?”

Finally, he gives me his full attention. “I wouldn’t play it.”

“Then why would you buy it?” I ask, and then answer for him sarcastically, “Oh, it’s a collectible. I get it. You could mount it somewhere in the backseat of the car.” I smirk at him.

“Or, I could put you in the backseat and mount it in the front.”