“There is an ‘i’ in David, though,” Henry said simply, as if that negated the whole “I in team,” argument.
I laughed—a loud bark of relief that had him tipping his head toward me in curiosity. “You were doing so well, kid. I thought you were going to inspire me,” I snorted, still laughing, and relieved to be doing so.
“There isn’t an ‘i’ in Henry,” he said blandly.
“Or Moses,” I added, unable to stop chuckling. “We’re the selfless ones,” I explained.
“There’s an ‘i’ in Georgia,” Henry said, as Georgia joined us on the deck.
“Yep. And don’t I know it. Me, me, me. All the time,” I said, pulling on Georgia’s hand and bringing her in close to me. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kissed my lips gently.
“Where’s Millie?” she asked, not taking my bait.
“She’s with Tag,” Henry volunteered. “And we’re leaving them alone.”
Georgia’s eyes shot to mine and her eyebrows rose.
“Oh yeah?” There was hope in her voice.
“Yeah. And Millie wasn’t being gentle,” I added softly. But Henry still heard.
“There’s no such thing as a timid fighter,” Henry parroted. “That’s what Tag says. And he says Amelie fights every damn day.”
“Hallelujah and praise the Lord for that,” Georgia said, sounding just like my great-grandma Kathleen. They were both small-town Levan girls who had spent a good deal of their lives as neighbors. So I guess it wasn’t surprising.
“Amen,” I agreed.
“Muhammad Amelie,” Georgia joked. “Floats like a butterfly . . .”
“Stings like a bee,” Henry and I finished.
“I’m going to go check on Kathleen,” Georgia said, easing away from us. I knew she was going to eavesdrop at the guest bedroom door on her way to Kathleen, but I didn’t call her on it, hoping she’d report back. Henry stood too and wandered back out to the corral to commune with Sackett, who walked to the fence to greet him.
From the corner of my eye I saw a pulse, a shimmer, like the air above the black top on a sweltering day. My neck got hot, and instead of resisting, I opened myself up to the summoning flicker, curious instead of afraid. It wasn’t Molly this time.
I recognized her, though I’d only seen her once before. She showed me lace. Just lace. A billowing swath, and then she was gone. But I understood, and for the first time since Tag disappeared, the vise around my heart eased slightly.
I TRADED ONE room for another, holing up in different parts of my best friend’s house. But this time, I wasn’t hiding. I was healing. Or hoping. Maybe that was it. Maybe I was allowing myself to hope.
No one came knocking. No one brought food or slid notes under the door. Even Henry. He was taken care of, and Millie and I both knew it. So we stayed locked away, together.
Darkness descended outside, and the stars came out. Millie couldn’t see them, but I told her they were there, fat and bright in the sky outside the big bay window in the guest room. I told her how I’d lain beneath those stars as a boy, sleeping out on the trampoline in my backyard in Dallas. I told her how, ten years later, Moses and I had stretched out on the deck of a boat going down the Nile River in Africa. I’d looked up at that never-ending expanse, and I’d recognized that old feeling. The very same feeling I’d had as a kid. I didn’t feel insignificant under the stars. I felt huge, like the heavens revolved around me. I was bigger than the stars. I was bigger and brighter, and the world was mine. I was so enormous I could hold up my thumb and completely blot one out, hold up my hand and obliterate a whole section of the sky. Such power. Such size. I wasn’t David, I was Goliath.
As I laid in that bed with Millie, the drapes pushed aside, staring out at the winking stars over a tiny town I’d never called home, that feeling surged inside me once again. I was relevant. I was significant. I had wanted to disappear, if only so the cancer could disappear with me. But the stars whispered that there was no such thing. You don’t ever disappear. You just change. You leave. You move on. But you never disappear. Even when you think you want to.
Millie didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease me about feeling God-like. She just listened to me talk, my fingers climbing up and down the smooth skin of her back, tracing the curve of her hip and the length of her leg that was thrown across mine. And then I pulled her into me, my hand at the base of her spine, and she caught her breath and said my name, and I felt God-like all over again.
I DON’T KNOW what time it was when we finally spoke again. We had slept for hours and awoke with growling bellies and dry throats, but stuck our faces beneath the bathroom tap and guzzled water to ease our thirst, just so we wouldn’t have to leave the room. Then Millie’s mouth found mine, her lips wet and cold, water clinging to her chin and sliding down her breasts, and we began again. Sometime before dawn, I attempted to slide out of bed, untangling myself from my sleeping beauty only to have her come fully awake and sit up, reaching for me, panicked.
Her fear made me sad because I had created it.
“Shhh, Millie. I’m not going anywhere. I promise. I’ll be right back,” I whispered, kissing her forehead and smoothing her hair. “Lay back down. I promise you I won’t leave again. Not on purpose. Not ever again.”
She nodded and sank back against the pillows as I pulled on my jeans, but when I came back several minutes later, her eyes were open and she was waiting, listening for me, the sheets pulled up over her body, one arm curled under her head.