

Bittersweet: A Short Story Anthology. Please do not reproduce, copy, or download any part of this work without permission. Short sections may be used or quoted for the purposes of reviewing. This story is protected by Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 Canada (CC BY-NC-ND 2.5 CA), 2015.

***SMASHWORDS EDITION***

Cover art copyright Katie de Long, 2015. "Queen of Clubs: Ariel' copyright Katie de Long, 2015; "Cardinal Sins" copyright Virginia Carraway Stark 2015; "Transitory" copyright Nicolas Wilson 2015; "Bad Things That Happen to Girls" copyright Michelle Browne 2015; "Zen and the Art of Safe Sex" copyright Mags Carr 2015; "Julie and Roman" copyright Tina Traverse 2015. All stories have been used with permission of the authors and may be reprinted at their discretion only.

Caution: the book you are about to read includes scenes of violence and explicit sex which may not be suitable for all readers. This collection carries a trigger warning. On a less serious note, Canadian spellings also appear in Bad Things That Happen to Girls, Cardinal Sins, and Julie and Roman.

For those loves that teach us something, even if it's not exactly the lesson we thought we were learning.

# Queen of Clubs: Ariel—Katie de Long

She's beautiful, in a way that doesn't remind me of my daughter, despite her features. She's got the same round face, full lips, and open smile, but the difference starts in her eyes and twines around her so thoroughly that she's alien from any person I've known before. Even with her clothes on.

She smells like a birthday cake. She says she bakes to relax before a shift. It probably comes in a bottle. But I can't bring myself to disbelieve her. I'd rather imagine her slaving over a batch of cupcakes, stacking them delicately on a plate, and coming to work with that sweetness still infused in her hands.

Sometimes, when I kiss her breasts, I can taste it. She pretends she doesn't notice, because I know if she let on that she did, she'd have to tell me to stop.

I want to give her everything. I want to take everything she'll give me.

Even though my head knows that's nothing.

I've got the perfect gift for her tonight. There was a bra and panties set on her Amazon wishlist that looked intriguing, and when I snagged it, I saw another in red. She'll look amazing in it.

They're both in the back seat, in a gift bag. I wanted to wrap them, see her face light up when she tore the paper away, see if she'd put the bow on her head like a unicorn horn or braid the ribbons into her hair, but all the wrapping paper at home is for children or Christmas. If I came home with a roll of rose-print paper, Marlene would have a fit.

The woman working the bar nods at me as I step in. I've never introduced myself to her, but she recognizes me. "Ariel around?"

She nods. "Not on the rotation yet, but should be within a half hour. Want me to let her know you're here?"

I can't restrain a grin. "If you could."

She dodges in back, and a minute later, a whirlwind in Lycra throws herself into my arms. "Eddy! Long time no see."

Just like that, the soreness and anxiety of the hour and a half drive here fades.

It started six months ago. My youngest brother was getting married, and his new brother-in-law insisted on a bachelor party. So I found myself here herding a gaggle of drunk guys and trying to avoid the girls' eyes. Nothing against them. But I was a married man. If I wanted to lie to myself, I'd say happily married.

But I don't have it in me to lie anymore. I haven't been able to since I looked up to track down one of my errant flock and saw him talking to a shy creature in vintage lace.

She didn't carry herself like the others—her smiles were hesitant and small, no teeth to show. Her body language wasn't last-call flirtatious. In a world of sterile artifice, she was the weed poking through the concrete.

She looked up at me as her companion jerked his chin my way. And my heart sped up as he led her back to the group.

I lost track of the rest of the night. At some point, my brother paid her to dance for me, and I saw more of that curvaceous body than I could have ever hoped to see. But that's not what I remember most.

It was her smile as she talked about Mystery Science Theater 3000, and the animation in her hands as she explained how she got her name.

### ***

I can only steal by to see Ariel once a month or so. So I make it count. I hang off her every word to find little ways to show her how much she was in my thoughts. Like the lingerie, or the DVD collection next to them. It feels good, probably better for me than it is for her.

I miss the days when I could do the same for Marlene. Now, I'm as likely to get a retort about the value of our money as a thank-you. When we were young, we promised our lives to each other, but beyond making one beautiful little girl, that hasn't really happened.

I know she's cheating on me. I can't muster any emotion for that admission. I cried the first time I folded laundry and found the lingerie I bought her for that anniversary in the freshly washed clothes, though she hadn't worn it since the night I gave it to her. After that, nothing. We are high school sweethearts who made a good run of it, and haven't learned when to quit. We are cornered animals chewing off our limbs, but still unable to get away.

I promised my life to her, and I stand by that, but after twenty years of being glorified roommates, I've lost the ability to react to her little betrayals.

Every night, I pray she'll take that step, file for divorce. I can't. I promised my life to her, even if that means I spend every night sleeping next to her and pretending not to notice when her lover sends her a text.

A man's nothing without his word.

Ariel squeals as I offer the bag to her. There's shoes in there to match both sets of lingerie. I have her shoe size memorized. In this environment, there's no 'aww, you shouldn't have' demurral. Just her elated look as she unpacks my offerings, another tight hug, and a "You're the best."

She says the club won't let them wear outside shoes onstage. But I've figured out how to circumvent that. If I bring her new shoes, then for that night, until she takes them home and wears them God knows where, I can see her in normal shoes, and can believe there's more to us than a nearly-nude girl in platforms playing sympathetic to take my money.

I need that belief. It's what keeps me going.

This is almost ritual by now. She looks at the shoes in the box and passes it back to me. I remove them, one by one, and strip her Lucite uniform off her feet. I slip one, then the other, onto her as she balances on the bar stool. She stretches her feet, stands, gets the feel of them before sitting again. Then, she rubs her foot against my calf as she thanks me.

Just that little bit of contact is more affection than anyone other than her has offered me in years. I fight to maintain my composure, and not be too awkward about the erection already making itself known despite the dim lighting.

"Which one do you want me to wear first?" She grins, showing teeth a little. She only smiles like that when she knows she has me wrapped around her finger.

"Surprise me."

I buy her a drink while she changes. She comes out in the second set, the one I chose, to a fresh whiskey. The red color glows against her tanned skin. When she moves, the lace pulls taut, away from the skin in some parts, casting filigree shadows on her breasts and hips.

She spins in place, showing it off for me, not with the sexuality of her stage work, but with bouncy little steps that remind me of my childhood. Then, she tosses back her whiskey with the confidence of a seasoned lush.

I've never had the courage to ask how old she is.

### ***

She's on stage now, dancing precariously on that tip rail in my shoes. Every time she sees me, she throws a broad wink my way. They're a little loose in the heel—if we'd shopped for them together, I would have snuck out to grab a pair of foam liners. It's a little reminder that we're only playing dress-up together.

No matter how she cuddles into me, wiggles herself into my arms, presses herself against the constant reminder of my need for her, none of it's real.

She's acting for me, putting on the show that Marlene hasn't been willing to for more than a decade.

I think she likes me as a person. And there's some warmth in that knowledge. She does little favors for me, quoting me a rate for the back room that's far below the going rate—I know, since I've watched her slowly ease the price down. It was double this the first time she took me back there. Each time I see her, she knocks another twenty, fifty, seventy off her going rate. She knows she'll get it back anyways, in my gifts or in me overstretching myself from my original budget to pay for another chunk of her time when we run out.

She knows my daughter's name and age. She knows how I'm struggling at work. I don't have time off enough to get my knee injury treated, and the constant time on my feet is steadily making it worse. She could probably walk into my house and be right at home, except that I've never given her the address.

I don't think she wants to hurt me.

It's not her fault that I hurt every time I leave.

### ***

The lights are out when I get home, though there's a flicker from the family room TV. I'm admittedly a bit later than I planned to get here, but still well within the bounds of my 'working late' bluster. Elsie is in bed already. Marlene's car is in the driveway, but she's not there at all. I consider her leaving our ten-year-old child home alone so she can sneak off to romp in someone else's bed. Fury begins trickling through me.

This play-pretend isn't worth it. If we were divorced, Elsie would always be looked after, because Marlene wouldn't have to hide her activities from me. Hell, I'd offer to be the on-call babysitter every time she had a hot date lined up. I haven't laid claim to her body in a long time.

I can't sleep, and my anxiety prevents me from fully enjoying the afterglow of Ariel's presence. Any other night, I'd be in the spare bedroom while Marlene slept, imagining Ariel's lips wrapped around me in a couples' thank-you, or those curvaceous legs locked around my waist....whatever image floated to the top after an eternity of staring at her adorned in my gifts.

I try not to let that make me resentful; my blue balls and the money spent having a night that might end in something other than blue balls are beside the point.

The point is Elsie, unaware she's alone because the TV is on outside her door.

The point is that I would give up anything for the wellbeing of my child, even my word.

I'll break my promise tomorrow. I'll take my life back from Marlene and renew the promise I made to Elsie.

It's the right thing to do.

No one in our social circle is divorced—the joys of living in a country community, I guess. I have no one to turn to for advice. But I've done far braver things on my own. This is just another one for the tally.

Marlene isn't gone long. I'm somewhat relieved she wasn't planning on staying out all night, but that's not much of a mark in her favor. She must have planned to be back before me.

"Ran out for more dish soap. We're out."

I look away from her. At least she put in the effort of lying.

"You don't have to lie to me. I've been here a half hour." I fight to keep my voice level. "We can't do this. If it was just me you were hurting, that would be fine."

She reddens through the heavy foundation on her face. She's wearing more makeup than I've seen on her in quite some time, though the lipstick is smudged to nonexistence. She sighs, and her face falls. "I was planning on saying that after you got home, and dodging out while you put her to bed. You were late."

I shrug. "How long were you gone?"

"Yeah, and where were you?" She sidesteps. "Got a whore on the side?"

I stand. "There's no discussion on this. I'm divorcing you. Please uphold your responsibilities to our daughter until it's final. I'll see whose couch I can steal tomorrow, so you don't have to leave Elsie to live your life."

She bites her lip, still raring for a fight. I walk out of the room, and nearly make it to the spare bedroom when I hear her.

"I'm sorry, Ed. I just didn't know what that promise meant when I made it."

"Neither did I."

### ***

The first thought I wake up to is that I can't wait to tell Ariel the news. I know I shouldn't spend money, since it might be tight soon, but I want the excuse to see her, so I find myself in the shoe section again, seeing what they have in her size. The perfect pair of strappy stilettos winks up at me, all elongated curves and shiny reflections.

I'm not even entirely sure if she's working. Technically, I'm friends with her on Facebook, but I'm not deluded enough to think it's actually her Facebook. Mostly, it's a place for her to post her schedule when she remembers, or additions to her wish list. She keeps her friend list private, so I have to assume the only people who have it are those who've spent money on her. There's not even a picture of her on it, and right now I'd give anything to see that reserved smile.

Marlene didn't have it in her to glare at me when I left to kill some time before work. But it was the least hostile silence we've had in years. Before it was time to walk her to the bus stop, Elsie filled in the gaps.

I still don't know how I'm going to tell people, or who I can trust to handle my portion of the legal scuffle. That's something for another day, though. Right now, I want to be absorbed in thoughts of my future. Some part of me recognizes that it's stupid to get my hopes up, but the rest of me can't help it. Ariel was the first woman to treat me like I mattered after Marlene and I grew apart. I have to at least ask if she wants in on the ground floor, now that I have the opportunity.

I debate stopping for a gift bag for her shoes, but my eagerness wins out in the end. I tuck the box under my arm and enter the club to ask for her.

It's the end of the month, which works out in my favor. Ariel usually only works evenings, and it's still early yet. But at the end of each month, she gets panicked about the chunk of change leaving her for rent, and comes in early for all her shifts.

She's there now, though, smiling coyly at a young man with dreadlocks just as long as her glossy curls. Her eyes register surprise when she notices me, but she hides it well. She's still working, after all, so I won't interrupt.

I try to avoid watching her lead him to the couches and sit in his lap. I want to analyze it, look for each tell that says that she's not enjoying him the way she would enjoy me. I know what a horrible, horrible idea that is, though, and I'm not that much of a masochist.

I just concluded a decade watching a woman I cared about throw herself at other people. I'm not about to start doing that again.

That touches off a hint of anxiety—what the hell am I going to ask her? That admission says it all; if I'm asking her to be more than my fantasy, I'm asking her to stop being others' fantasies. I've never asked her whether she likes stripping, what her other career options are. I'm demanding a lot from her.

I can't do it. I can't ask another woman to make the same choice Marlene did. I can't ask another woman to give her life to me, not knowing all that that will mean in the coming months, once the legal wrangling starts.

Ariel slides into the seat next to me. "Long time no see." She raises an eyebrow. "I had no idea I was that addictive."

I memorize every curl of her smile. "I'm on my way to being a free man, and I wanted you to be the first to know."

Her smile falters. "What?" I realize the same thoughts that ran away with me a minute ago are now terrorizing her. She knows what I want to ask her, and what her answer will be.

"I'm getting a divorce." I shouldn't sound as happy about that as I do. Just saying the words to someone else ignites a cocktail of adrenaline and guilt in me. Was I a bad husband, to have failed my marriage? Is my joy at the decision an expression of some dark side that will taint all I do, for the rest of my life?

Her smile widens again, sets into something halfway between her working smile and the full grin I tried so hard to earn. "Congrats."

The bartender sets her whiskey in front of her, and I slide my card over to him without question. Everyone knows I take care of her here.

I offer her the shoes. "For your patience."

She beams at them, but I make no effort to put them on her. "I'm only here for a minute, so don't worry about showing them off."

I can't take that control over her. I'm not sure I can walk away from her if she's not in her platforms, in the uniform of the life she's built for herself. I can't mark her anymore.

She seems to understand, and I realize I'm probably not the first who has left her with a parting gift. She leans in to hug me, and I savor her body pressed against me for the last time.

She's beautiful in a way that reminds me of my daughter, her guileless smile and the awkward way she twists her hair. In the joy she takes at seeing me smile.

She smells like a birthday cake. But I will believe it's from a bottle.

I want to give her everything. I want to take everything she'll give me.

### ***

### About The Author

Katie de Long lives in the Pacific Northwest, realizing her dream of being a crazy cat-lady. As a kid, Katie flagged the fade-to-blacks in every adult book she encountered, and when she began writing, she vowed to use cutaways sparingly. After all, that's when the good stuff happens. And on a kindle, no one asks why there's so many bookmarks in her library.

Katie is currently publishing _Queen of Clubs_ , a series of standalone romantic novellas following the staff and patrons of a strip joint.

Stay in touch with Katie:

Twitter: <http://twitter.com/delongkatie>

Facebook: <https://www.facebook.com/katie.delong.12>

Goodreads: <https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8158089.Katie_de_Long>

Website: http://delongkatie.com

Mailing list: <http://eepurl.com/CSk3n>

# Cardinal Sins--Virginia Carraway Stark

My entire life, I felt alone. For most of my life, I tried to fit in, and I didn't embrace the things that made me different. It didn't help. Nobody believed that I was normal, and when they did believe the facade, it didn't fix that empty feeling.

It was like a punch to the solar plexus. I could be at a party with some guy I was dating, or talking to my parents and it would thunk into me. My stomach would sink and I would feel tunnel vision descend. I tried to keep a straight face, but all I wanted was to break down in tears and shout at them, 'Love Me!' The outer edges of my eyes would squinch a bit as I struggled to hold off the pain I was feeling, try to repress, try to maintain...but it was there, and I knew that I wasn't passing.

I longed for something other than the distance that made me certain l I didn't belong in my family, in my school, in my town or on this planet.

I worked at Tim Horton's and stayed in school. I kept most of the money I made; my parents bought me anything that I wanted. I don't know why I even got that job. I think I had vague ideas about free donuts, and then it was easier to keep working than to quit. I kept all my money in the bank and told everyone I was saving up for university. I told myself that as well, and most of the time, it felt good to do it.

I was winning. I was doing well at school, and I had to study hard, but I knew that I could 'go places' in life. Everyone told my parents that they should be proud of me, I was such a good girl. I never got into trouble, I never started fights; I played on the soccer team and I dated a couple of non-offensive boys from my school.

I wasn't living, though; I was surviving. My every move at work or school was learned, formulated from watching the others to make sure that what I said and did would make me seem as much like them as possible. I modeled my cadences off of the other kids and off of TV. And movies. I should have been elated by the results, but I wasn't. I came to the conclusion from watching them respond to my cloned behavior, appearance, motions, that I was truly as different as I had feared. If I had to modify myself to this degree in order to fit in, then I must be a freak.

Graduation was coming up. I had already had the 'prom experience'. I got dressed up, got in a limo, got drunk on something that someone had put in the punch, got groped behind the bleachers, went home before everyone else. Prom was the penultimate experience of North American youth, after all and I think it was going home early that started to make me give up the great normalcy experiment.

I was dropping the ball long before that, to be honest, but it wasn't in any way that anyone had noticed yet, and I was devious in covering up my mistakes. Then I forgot to apply for university. I missed the deadlines, and when all my friends started getting their acceptance or rejection letters I made elaborate forgeries to fool my parents. I stole an acceptance letter from my boyfriend (Lawrence, he who would later grope me behind the bleachers), and a rejection letter from Kaylee's garbage can. I scanned them and replaced my name for theirs, and then modified the headers using other universities that I had claimed to have applied for.

I had no concept of what I would do when I didn't go away to university next autumn. I pushed that to the back of my mind and accepted my mom and Brian's hugs and congratulations over acceptance UBC and Queens. They commiserated with a trip to Dairy Queen over my rejection to UVic and University of Toronto. Those two rejections came on the same day; really hit me hard.

I began to worry about my mental state more as graduation came and left and made no impact on me, one way or the other. I was done school. It was over. I was free of my parents, free of being a kid, and all my friends were celebrating and happy while I was just numb.

I kept working at Tim Horton's, and the mask I had put over my nature was slipping more and more often. I hadn't realized how badly I was slipping until Brianna at work playfully called me 'quirky'. I walked home so angry I could barely breathe. For the first time I could ever remember, I didn't care who saw what I was feeling. I wanted to yell, to rage, to kick, and to break something beautiful. I settled for slamming my door and putting my music on loudly. No one was home to notice, and no one knocked on my door and asked me if I was OK.

I looked up at the stipple on the ceiling and tried to be rational. It was hard because the artificial me I had built up over the years had a life, a name, friends, a boyfriend, and parents, but the real me was a shunned ghost.

I sat in front of the mirror and looked at my reflection. I knew that I lived in Vanderhoof, British Columbia. I knew that my mom and Brian loved me and that my Dad couldn't be bothered with me. I knew I was good at school. That was Lyndsey. She didn't have a lot to say, but she was nice and people liked to be around her.

I looked at my reflection closer, and I thought that I could see a glimpse of the other girl in my own eyes.

Her dark hair was messy, and she wore rags; her eyes were huge and black from never seeing the sun. I wished I knew her name. She was huddled up against a stone column. She was sobbing, and I saw that she was biting her knuckles; they were bloody from it.

"Hey! Can you hear me?"

The girl didn't look up, but I thought she paused for a moment. Her skin was pale and dirty. I couldn't believe I had done this to myself. No wonder nobody could love me; I was a monster. I had left myself to die.

"Please, what's your name? I'll help you, but I need to know your name."

She stopped crying. My music had turned off and in the silence her voice was loud, it was rusty and grating from crying and not being used for speech.

"Cardinal."

That was all she said. I put my fingers to the glass to reach for her as she vanished from sight. Her gaze was bleak, and I knew as her black eyes vanished from sight that she didn't believe I would help her. I had to do something. I had to...I had to get away. I threw some clothes into a bag and grabbed my wallet. I didn't deserve anything with sentiment attached to it; that was all part of my destruction of Cardinal. It was all part of how I had ruined her life.

Vanderhoof was a small town. I just went down a hill and across the train tracks, and then past the 7-11 to get to the bus depot. The next bus was leaving for Prince George in two hours. I bought my ticket and spent the next couple of hours waiting, hoping no one would notice me. I ran to the bank and withdrew my cash.

I knew that I was too old to be a runaway, but I felt furtive and illicit. Something in my heart had sprung loose, and I felt that destroying the life I had so carefully crafted was the only way to make amends.

I got on the bus, and nobody gave me a second look. There weren't very many people on the bus, and I crammed myself against the window in the very back, by the toilet.

I had plenty of money; that was the least of my problems. I got off the bus in Prince George and walked to The Second Cup for a cup of coffee. I decided that I would stay here for a few days. Some part of 'Lyndsey' was trying to wake up, trying to come to my senses and stop the sabotage that had begun. I thought of Cardinal's eyes and shivered. I had to help her.

Even though money wasn't a problem, I didn't want to spend any more than I had to. I asked the barista behind the counter where the cheapest place in town was.

"The cheapest? The Queensway Court...but you probably don't want to stay there. I hear it's nasty."

I stared at her in fascination. She had dark hair like me, but she had streaked blue in big chunks. Her eyebrow and nose were pierced. She was heavier sent than me, and I liked how comfortable she looked in her skin. She happy, or at least content.

"I need to stay somewhere."

"Are you new to town?" She looked at my bag, sitting on my chair.

I nodded. "I like your hair," I blurted.

She smiled at me, showing her teeth when she did.

"I know, huh? I did it myself; it costs too much if you get it done professional. I have to order the dye off the internet. Wicked, huh?"

"I love it."

"You know, if you want, you could come by my place if you just need a place for a few days...I have lots of friends who end up sleeping in my living room, and it's better than the Queen-sway..."

"Sure, you seem cool. Just hang on one minute."

She went into the back, came back a moment later with a key, and wrote something on a piece of paper.

"2045 Oak Street," I read out loud.

"Yep, your home away from home. That's my key, so if you change your mind or anything, you have to give it back to me before I'm done work. You know, it's a tree street, but if you're cool with staying on Queensway, this is better than that."

"A tree street?" Her largesse had made me feel stupid somehow.

"Yeah, a street named after a tree. That's synonymous with 'bad neighborhood' in PG, but it's really cool; everyone I know is cool. Just keep walking up that way," she pointed south, "and then go two blocks over."

"You're okay with giving me your house key?"

She laughed. I liked the sound of her laugh: it came from her belly, and she didn't care who heard it. "I don't have anything worth stealing, if you're that hard up, than you probably need my plastic beer steins more than I do. You don't do drugs, though, do you?"

"No, never."

"Okay, well, I smoke some pot, but you know, just don't bring the hard shit around. I don't want to get into trouble." She popped a bubble with her gum and then stuck out her hand. I was shaking it before I knew it. "I'm Mandy, by the way."

"Oh, yes, I'm..." Black eyes darkened my vision briefly, and the 'L' I had been forming died on my tongue. "I'm Cardinal."

"Cardinal, great to meet you. Please don't fuck me over. I'll be off work in another three hours."

I walked up the street in the direction Mandy had directed me. It was a beautiful day, but the air smelled like cabbage and farts. I couldn't imagine how anyone could live in this town with so many pulp mills and asphalt mills for long; it was horribly polluted. I paused outside a McDonald's and briefly considered going back to the bus depot and jumping on a bus to Vancouver, or maybe somewhere east.

It was exotic, but not as exotic as the idea of taking Mandy up on her offer to stay with her for a few days. I had never lived anywhere except in the house I had grown up in in Vanderhoof. Dad had left when I was eight, and Brian had come into my life when I was twelve; that was the biggest change I had ever seen. But here I was.

The houses on Oak Street weren't bad houses. I didn't understand the feared 'tree street' reference that Mandy had made. Except for a few unmowed lawns and a couple of beer cans under a bush, it seemed like a nice, normal neighborhood, with single family houses on lots with large old trees growing on them.

2045 was up a hill. I was tired from the bus, and tired from being somewhere else, and most of all, tired from carrying my heavy bag up the hill. I didn't feel much like Cardinal at the moment. I felt as drab and sweaty and gross as it was possible for 'Lyndsey' to feel.

I knocked on the door, and nobody answered. I tried the key, and the door opened smoothly. From the outside, the house looked as normal as the next. The lawn was mowed and lilac bushes edged the border, while an old rowan tree had grown up to shade the house. The only clue of what was inside was the fact that a sheet covered the big picture window on the front instead of curtains. Inside, it was clear that kids lived in this house. The garbage was overflowing, and had been tapped down numerous times, judging by the bulge in the plastic container's walls. The sink had a line of dishes waiting to make it to the dishwasher; the dishes were almost exclusively mugs and glasses and various plastic novelty glasses.

It wasn't exactly filthy, but it was a long ways away from clean. The carpet was covered in random debris, and an old couch without feet sat in the middle of the living room floor, as close the television as it could get. It was an older television as well. I could see why Mandy wasn't worried about me stealing anything in the house. Everything was sort of dirty and fairly second-hand. I sat on the couch and wondered if it was safe to lie down on it. I wondered if I was better off at a cheap hotel after all.

"Hey! Anyone home?"

I hadn't locked the door behind me, and it was already open. From the sound of it, whoever was invading was already as far in as the kitchen. I stood up guiltily as the oddest girl I had ever seen walked into the room.

"Oh, hi, you must be Cardinal? Mandy called and said you might be here when I got home."

The girl who faced me had hair the color of cotton candy, and her pupils, irises, and the whites of her eyes were uniformly dark blue. Her voice was high and reedy and sweet. She smiled at me with the whitest, sharpest little teeth I had ever seen.

I blinked a few times and then found my manners. "Yes, I'm Cardinal. Mandy didn't say that anyone else lived here all the time. Are you alright with me being here?"

She smiled again with thin pink lips. "I'm Tattu. I don't mind if you stay here at all. The couch folds out into a bed if you're tired."

"I am tired, but I think I'm the 'not ready to fall asleep yet' sort of tired."

"Okay, that's great. Maybe we can get to know each other a little bit." She wandered off into the kitchen as she was speaking and returned with a small stack of takeout menus.

"I'm hungry. I bet you are too."

"I am."

We started to sift through the menus. It was hard to concentrate around Tattu; she smelled like something familiar, and it was distracting me. I didn't know where to look when I was talking to her. Her eyes had no discernible pupils in them, and I couldn't see where she was looking very easily. We had decided on pizza, and I was getting my share of cash out of my wallet before she mentioned it.

"It's my eyes, isn't it?"

"Your eyes?" I said dumbly, stalling for time to come up with something, anything, polite to say. Despite her oddities, Tattu was the first person I'd ever met that just wanted to like me. I felt like if Tattu liked me, the rest of the world could just go to hell, and I wouldn't care that I was weird.

"Yes, my eyes. I know they're kind of strange."

"They...they are...but they're also beautiful."

At that moment, she gave me the oddest look, and several beats of silence rested between us.

"I'll go order pizza."

She came back a moment later and sat down on the couch beside me again. Her aroma wafted over to me, and I thought that I would do anything for her. Anything at all.

I was startled and upset. I was in love. I was in love for the first time ever, and she was a girl! The oddest girl I had ever seen.

"I'm not a freak or anything," she said in her high voice.

"I, I didn't think you were."

"Okay, that's good. I just mention it because of the eye thing. Also, you know, I have pink hair."

"I did notice that. I like it."

Her hair came just past her shoulders. I couldn't see any roots, only the tender pink of her scalp, which was even pinker than her hair. Everything about her was pink and white, except for the blue of her enormous eyes.

"It's a tattoo."

"Your name?"

"I'm also named Tattu, but that's actually my name...I mean, my eyes. It's a special tattoo I had done."

"For real? Didn't it hurt?"

"No, not at all. I didn't feel a thing."

"Why? Why would you do that?"

"You said you thought they looked beautiful," she said defensively.

"They are...I don't understand, though. Weren't you scared? You could never go back to having normal eyes again."

She looked at me and I felt something fly through the air between us. Something seemed to hit my brain. I knew things that I had never known before and felt distended and uncomfortable.

"Normal is terribly overrated, don't you think, Lyndsey?"

"How...please don't call me that."

"I won't call you it so long as you don't try to tell me how much you like to be normal, Cardinal. So many years you lost because you consigned yourself to being normal. You might as well chop off an arm or two while you're at it. I think you probably would have gone to measures as extreme as that if you thought it would finally fix you. You can't fix yourself that way, Cardinal. There's only one way to fix anything: embrace the weirdness within. Namaste."

"Namaste?"

She laughed, and the dark solemnity that had fallen over us went away as easily as her laughter came. "Namaste. It means, 'the weirdness in me salutes the weirdness in you'. Well, that's the short answer, anyway."

The doorbell rang, and Tattu grabbed the money off the coffee table and jumped up. "Yum, pizza time!"

The rest of the evening was much more normal. Mandy showed up after a while and foraged for cold pizza. By the time we all decided to go to bed, I felt like I had been friends with both of them my whole life.

We decided that I could have the spare room in the basement, since Tattu was willing to share. My room was right beside the washer and dryer. It was absurdly small, and had a mattress thrown on the floor and a secondhand dresser that someone had started to paint and then given up on, so in one big patch, it was dark blue over taupe.

I fell asleep and had strange dreams that I couldn't remember in the morning. I woke up knowing that I had to deal with the situation with my mom and Brian or they would report me missing by tonight. Our schedules would make it so that she wouldn't be sure if I had come home last night or not. By today, she and Brian would concur and agree that I hadn't been home. Then they would start making phone calls. I had to figure out what I was going to do and what I was going to say.

"Just tell them that you needed a change."

I looked up, startled awake by the strange voice. I wasn't used to people coming into my space in the morning.

"How did you know what I was thinking?"

She smiled at me. It was a sad little smile. She came and sat on the mattress; I moved over to accommodate her. "I just do, Cardinal. Is that okay with you?"

"Well, what would change if I wasn't okay with it?"

"It would make me sad, and I wouldn't say anything, but I'd still know."

"I guess I'm okay with it. It's just weird."

"You mean that I'm just weird."

"No!"

"You can't have it both ways, Cardinal. If something I do is weird, then it makes me weird."

"You're wonderful!" I couldn't believe that I had just said that. I don't think I had ever told anyone before that they were wonderful. I felt it, though; I felt it in my heart that this complete stranger was the most wonderful person I had ever met.

She smiled happily. "Well, that's alright, then! I think that you might be wonderful too, Cardinal."

"I've been thinking about it, and I am glad that you did tattoo your eyes."

"Oh, well, thanks ever so for your permission," she sniped at me.

"I didn't mean it that way."

"You don't seem to know what you mean."

"That's because I don't know who I am!" That was the truth, and things in the room felt better as soon as I said it. "The truth is that I don't know who I am. I lived in a prison my whole life, and my eyes are black, just like yours are all blue. I don't belong here..."

"...And neither do you!" She finished for me and laughed at the rhyme. She went from laughing to serious in the blink of one of those remarkable eyes.

### ***

That evening, we all discussed the arrangements we had made so far. Mandy was happy to have me in the house, and Tattu and I had had something happen between us. It seemed to me and Tattu both that I simply must live with her, and that just had to be the way it was. Neither one of them asked me any questions about where I was from or what I was running from. Tattu seemed to know all the answers already, and Mandy seemed happy for the friendship.

We agreed that I would chip in $400 a month for my share of the rent and utilities. I quickly realized Mandy was the one in charge, and I gave her the money from out of my stash. She and Tattu were both impressed that I had it. But I knew my money wouldn't last forever, and Tattu helped me to make a resume.

I started making phone calls and apologized to Tim Horton's for missing my shifts. I told them I had to quit, and asked if they could still give me a good reference. The manager was somewhat miffed, but I had worked there for so many years that I was sure the reference would be good enough to at least get a job at another Timmy's or at McDonald's.

I called my mom, and when the answering machine picked up, I told her what I had done. I kept it brief. I was fine, I just...just needed a change.

### ***

After I had been living with Mandy and Tattu for about a week, I found myself waking up in strange places. I woke up by the dryer, then in the hall, and the night after that, I woke up in Tattu's room. She woke up and looked at me through a mass of tousled pink hair.

"Cardinal...what's up?"

"I don't know, I just woke up."

"Are you alright?" She asked. Her voice held a knowing tone.

"I'm fine, I think."

"Are you okay to get back to bed on your own?"

I nodded and left. I would have been more embarrassed if I hadn't been so confused. I had never sleepwalked in my life.

### ***

The next night, I woke up in her room again. "Are you alright?"

This time, I was certain that she was laughing at me. I left without saying another word to her. I could hear her laughter follow me all the way back to my room.

The next night, I woke up sitting on the side of Tattu's bed. I was cupping her face with my hand, and she was looking up at me with the endless pools of her eyes.

"I love you."

The words dropped out of my mouth in sleep, but they were still true. She held my hand against her face, and that woke me up. Then, with grave solemnity, she pulled my face to hers and kissed me slowly, long and deep. She pulled the blanket aside and looked at me with the question of invitation in her eyes. I climbed under the covers with her.

Her skin was soft, and her bed was warm. I kissed her back. Her scent was intoxicating. I snuffled around her ear and covered it in small, ardent kisses. She moaned and kissed me hard on the lips with predatory speed.

"I want you to want me."

We kissed and moaned, neither of us sure of what the other wanted except closeness. I felt the little message that I had sensed earlier fly between us as we kissed and stroked and petted each other. I had never done much more than kiss and make out before; this was different. We fell asleep in each other's arms. Neither of us had done more than run a hand under the other's pajama top or bottom, and somehow we fell asleep both entirely sated and entirely wanting.

### ***

I woke up tucked into her arms the next morning. She was already awake and looked like she had been just waiting for my eyes to open so she could start talking to me.

"I have a surprise for you today."

"What is it?"

"Are you free for the day?"

"This afternoon. I have a job interview this morning."

"It's a date." She kissed me on my lips and jumped out of bed.

"What's a date?" I called after her, but she didn't reply. I just heard her tinkling laughter from the other room.

When she took me to the tattoo parlor, I found out what the surprise was.

"You want me to watch you get a tattoo?" I thought this was the weirdest date I'd ever been on, but I didn't say anything to her. She was liable to flare up at me at the slightest mention of the 'weird' word.

"Not just any tattoo; this tattoo."

She held up a picture. It was a red cardinal in flight. It looked old-fashioned; it reminded me of a box of matches I had seen.

She beamed at me and hopped into the chair. "It's a Cardinal."

"I know that...I don't know what it means that you're getting a tattoo of one."

"It means I love you. That's what getting a tattoo means. It means that you're forever with someone."

I watched the tattoo get applied. The bald man, with the many earrings and many more tattoos of his own, was good at it. The red in the bird leaped to life and looked far better on the living canvas than it had looked on the paper. He finished and then eyed me up.

"You want one, too?"

"Ummm..." I looked from him to Tattu. She was avoiding looking at me. She had just marked herself permanently as mine. How could I compete with that? Get her name in a heart with an arrow put through it? That would be too...too normal of a thing to do. I needed to weird it up a notch.

"I want a tattoo as well."

Tattu looked up, smiling from ear to ear.

"Okay. You want some time to look at the pictures, or do you have something in mind?" He asked with the same gruff tone.

"I know what I want...I want my eyes to look like her eyes, but in black."

He laughed and grinned in response. "Whatever the lady wants. Sit yourself down, and we'll fix you right up."

I was a little surprised that he had the capability to do the eye tattoo, and my heart fluttered into my throat. Was I really going to do this right here and right now? The tattoo artist was humming and searching through drawers for what he needed. This wasn't your grandmother's tattoo.

Tattu came over to the chair and gripped my arm. She spoke in a low voice, "Are you sure, absolutely sure you want to do this? This isn't a crazy whim? You really want it? There isn't any way to change it back, you know..."

Her uncertainty made me certain. "I'm sure, Tattu. I don't know what's happening between us, but I know that I love you and I want to be more like you. The only place I've ever been happy my whole life was last night when I lay in your arms."

"Awww, that's sweet. So, we going to blacken some eyes?" he said.

I nodded. I must have looked terrified, because he started to laugh, and Tattu gripped my forearm tight. I was scared that she was wrong, that it would hurt after all. I was really scared when he brought the needle right towards my eye, but she was right, and I didn't feel a thing.

It wasn't the same as a tattoo; it was only a couple of injections of dye, not the long, tracing procedure done on Tattu's skin. I looked at myself in wonder in the mirror after he was done. My eyes looked huge and mysterious, and maybe more than a little scary.

"What do you think?" she asked me in a breathless voice.

"I look like how I imagined I should look," I said, meaning the girl with the matted hair and huge eyes. I knew Tattu understood.

On the way home, I wondered how this would affect my new Timmy's job and was glad that I had locked a job down this morning, before I had decided to complicate my life with a brand new look.

We walked home from the tattoo parlor, and we were coming up the front steps when it came to me. "I need to dye my hair."

"Dye your hair? Are you sure you haven't had enough surprises for one day?"

"I want to dye it blood red. I'd look a lot like a real cardinal then, don't you think?"

We turned around and walked back to the drug store to pick up some dye. I had a feeling that I was on a bit of a change spree; it sure was the final nail in Lyndsey's coffin. When I was finished with myself, she wouldn't be ruling me with 'normalcy' ever again.

I was going to sleep in my own room again, but Tattu appeared in the doorway as I was brushing my teeth. "You're just going to end up in my bed again."

"You don't know that." I could see the silhouette of the bandage covering her tattoo under her t-shirt sleeve.

She smiled and walked away. I followed her.

"Why do you know that?"

"Are you always going to ask me why? Can't you just love me? Can't you just accept me for who I am?"

"It was just a question."

"I already gave you an answer: you're going to end up in my bed. Why do you need to ask me more questions? Take the answer. It was a gift."

I followed her into her bedroom. "Do you want me in your bed?"

She nodded. "I do, but if I have to wait for you to sleepwalk your way in here, I can wait for that a well."

I climbed onto the bed. "I'll just start in here, then. I don't need to know why."

She took shoulders in her hands. I thought that smell that came off of her was something I should know from my childhood, the smell of moss or of little ponds of water with frogs in them. It was fresh and green like that, but loamy underneath. It was intoxicating. I lifted her shirt off of her, wanting to see her naked. She pushed my hands down and went to turn out the light. I grabbed her hands in mine.

"Don't. I want to see you."

She didn't resist when I pulled her shirt off this time, but she looked away from me when I gasped. She wasn't normal underneath her shirt at all. Her flesh was pale beneath her bra, so pale it was translucent. It went from being an icy blue to transparent enough that I could make out the organs underneath her skin. In the center of her belly, from just below her bra, down past where a belly button would be on a human girl, there was a narrow diamond of flesh that pulsed and moved like reproductive tissue. She looked away from me. Her shame made her flush dark roses on her cheeks.

"What are you?" I asked, but I didn't give her time to answer. Instead, I left and went to my room.

I had a moment where I thought I should go see if Mandy was home. I felt like I should ask her if she knew this, or find out if she knew already. I expected Tattu to come and seek me out, but she didn't. I thought I heard angry, hurt tears from her room. I fell asleep with a sick, bilious feeling that I had never felt before. I knew that I was tasting was it was to betray someone.

I closed my black eyes and hoped for oblivion. Instead, I was plagued with dreams, vivid images. Her blue, impenetrable eyes, a cardinal emblazoned under a patch of gauze on her shoulder...the organ on her chest pulsing...the knowledge that my love wasn't human.

### ***

I woke up in her arms, her tears and mine mingled on her pillow. She was still topless, I saw, and I looked at her in the early morning light that had punctured the blinds covering the window. It was the first time that I had ever seen her sleeping. She had always woken up so easily when I had come to her room before. A mote-riddled beam of light moved over her face. She was still the same, and I had betrayed her by not accepting her in her entirety. She had never pretended to me to be normal, not really.

She threw an arm over her face as the light approached her eyes. I saw now, looking at her clearly, that she wasn't quite the same as a normal girl. It was more than the 'wound' on her chest and her eyes. It was a quality to her skin, a slight difference in the proportions of her features. She opened her eyes and looked at me.

"I told you that you would end up in my bed."

"I'm sorry about last night; that was rude of me. Very rude."

"Yes, it really hurt me, but I'm not surprised...after all, I'm the one who doesn't belong. It's just a tattoo to you, but for me, it's the way I am."

"I don't understand. Why are you this way?" I didn't want to be rude again, but I needed to know.

"I'm not from here, and now that you know that, I guess if you want to, you could really hurt me."

"I would never hurt you."

"You hurt me last night. You hurt me when you ran away from me when you saw me exposed."

"I know, and, Tattu, I am so sorry...I don't know what you are, but I'm just a stupid human girl who makes big mistakes."

"Did you tell anyone what you saw?" I shook my head. "Are you going to tell anyone?"

"No! I want you...I love you. I meant it when I said it, even though I didn't know what I was loving. I knew who I was loving, and that person is you. You're the only one I've ever felt anything for."

"Do I disgust you?" She pointed to her abdomen. I looked at it and I realized that I didn't know how I felt.

"No, but I'm confused."

"I'm not from your planet. We're not here to hurt you...we're explorers, and our ship had to do an emergency landing on Earth."

"We?"

"Yes. There were around three hundred of us who survived the landing. We split up to try to blend in here, and were fortunate that we look enough like you to mostly fit in."

"You seem to know your way around here very well, and you don't have a trace of an accent...how could this happen?"

"I've been here for over fifty years now, Cardinal. I've learned the language and the customs, but the problem was always our eyes. I used sunglasses in the early days, and then contact lenses, but then, one of our scientists came up with the idea of introducing eye tattoos to the humans."

"'The humans'," I said. I was other to her, like she was other to me.

"Yes. It's not very common, but it's a way for us to be a bit more free, a bit more at home."

I didn't care for what their master plan was; I didn't care about anything in that moment except for the implications that to her, I was an alien, and she had an alliance of others of her kind that would always be beyond me.

"And what happens to you and me when you're finally rescued and it's time for you to go home?"

"I don't know, but if that day ever comes, maybe you'll decide that you'll stay with me. Maybe my world wouldn't be so bad for someone who never fit in here anyhow."

I couldn't think of words to respond. There were too many 'ifs' to it. How could I decide what I would do when it seemed unlikely that leaving would ever be an option? I kissed her instead. She kissed me back and then laughed, but it didn't make the solemnity vanish. Instead, it seemed to deepen it.

"I'm sorry I lied to you about them being tattoos. That was the only lie I told you, though."

"I know. Let's go get breakfast. I'm supposed to go to my new Tim Horton's and start work in a couple of hours."

The feelings I had had the night before had started to fade. Mandy was home for breakfast and she had the gift of making it feel like everything was perfectly fine. Tattu whispered to me when Mandy left the room that she didn't know her secret. It made me feel special to be the only one who did, even more connected to her than our intimacy had made me feel.

I went to work in the same dull brown uniform that I had worked in Vanderhoof in for years. I was glad to have the job, because I had made a little dent in my stash. With the knowledge that I had been here for nearly half of my first $400, I suddenly had a sense of accountability for money. It was a strange and unnerving timer to be put on, the knowledge that money would be sucked out of me every thirty days, no matter what other things might happen in my life.

I had asked that my name tag be made for 'Cardinal', and I was introduced that way to the other employees despite Lyndsey's name being on my SIN card and my other I.D. I didn't need a lot of training, since I knew how to use the till and I knew all the rules already. All they needed from me were a few extra signatures, and then they showed me around the store. Luckily the woman, who hired me didn't work in the store, so she didn't ask me about my strange new look. After the night I had had, I didn't feel emotionally healthy enough to answer questions like that.

I forgot about the changes to my eyes easily, and every time I went to the washroom I startled myself when I looked in the mirror. Those big black orbs of mine had an eerie effect. As it was, I got odd treatment from the customers, but I was surprised when there wasn't any bullying or complaining about them from anyone.

It took me until after my first break to realize that they were afraid of me. No one had ever been afraid of me before. It was like they were worried that the weird now on me would slide onto them like a taint. After that, when I saw them recoil from me, I smiled at them. I checked it in the bathroom; it looked quite terrifying. Some of the people even tipped me. Getting my freak on was turning out to have an upside to it.

I was just getting into the groove of things and had started to look at the clock for when I could go for my last break before I would be done for the day when the last people I expected to see walked in.

It was my Mom and Brian.

I froze in place, terrified. This was it. The end to everything between Tattu and me. They would conk me on the head, force me to go home. They were my parents; they had unnatural powers, and I was at their behest. They seemed to be in the middle of an argument, but they stopped their conversation when they saw me.

I heard my Mom say, "Isn't there another till open?"

Brian looked around and shook his head. "It's probably just contact lenses or something. Kids these days are into some weird thrills."

They both walked up to my till. I watched them, stunned. Was it possible they were playing a game with me? Did they really not recognize me?

"We'll have two double-doubles and two Boston creams."

I punched the icons on the screen and brought up the total. I didn't tell them the total; I didn't trust my voice. I was worried if I spoke, it would all come out, and the illusion that I was someone else would come crashing down with it. I stared at them with my soulless gaze, waiting to see if they would say anything to me.

Brian turned away from me. I got their order together in a to-go bag and put their coffees down. Brian tossed a ten at me and muttered, "Keep the change."

At that moment I saw Mom and Brian were more alien from me than Tattu would ever be.

He took my mother by the arm and headed towards a table at the back. I heard my mother's voice rise. "I thought she might be at one of the Timmy's. Her job said she called about a reference."

"She's not here. What do you want to do?"

She sighed. "Go home. I don't think she wants to be found."

I saw him take her hand, but I didn't hear what he said after that. He lowered his voice, and the drive thru was taking an order. I could go home soon; it was less than an hour and a half away. Later tonight, Tattu would come home, or maybe I could go visit her at McDonalds until she was finished her shift. We could watch a movie with Mandy, and then I would find out how Tattu liked to be touched, and we could explore each other. And I'd never have to be a hidden freak again.

### ***

### About the Author

Virginia Carraway Stark started her writing career with three successful screenplays and has gone on to write speculative fiction as well as writing plays and for various blogs. She has written for several anthologies and three novels as well. Her novel, 'Dalton's Daughter' is available now through Amazon and Starklight Press. 'Detachment's Daughter' and 'Carnival Fun' are coming later this year.

Twitter www.twitter.com/tweetsbyvc

Facebook https://Facebook.com/virginiacarrawaystark

On the web: www.virginiastark.com

Website www.starklightpress.com

Blog <https://ihavememory.wordpress.com/>

  1.   2. # Transitory—Nicolas Wilson

It felt like a frivolous thing, but I regretted not taking more pictures and video of Brian. He hated them, because they froze who he was in a moment, and always failed to capture his trajectory, where he was going, and also where he'd been. He was the kind of person who was preoccupied with the journey, often outright rejecting destinations.

Maybe it's because I'd been too long on the _Nexus_ , spent too much time being hunted across the cosmos and working myself and my mind to the bone. But I hadn't had time to really, truly decompress. Even when I took time for myself back on the ship, I was also working through designs in the back of my head, because what if that moment of design work saved somebody's life?

But now I was in a pod, alone, nothing but my thoughts and the preliminary scans of the inhabited world I was blasting towards. All of my engineering had been shunted off to my coworkers; no point in having a month-long plus delay while I was in space. And time—I had so much more time than I was used to.

I missed putting together documentaries. The ones I made in college were some of the most fulfilling things I'd ever done, and the one I put together for my great aunt's funeral, just before I left for the _Nexus..._ I wanted to do that again for Brian.

Except I remembered every time I'd snap a picture of him, or record a few seconds of footage, he'd tell me, 'Erase it.'

It was true, the ship probably had hundreds of hours of footage of him archived, but I hadn't thought to ask Haley for access before I blasted off. So all I had were my personal files, along with my usual reading and interest lists.

But I realized that even if I had all that footage, all the images, as soon as I'd assembled them, as soon as I had cut them together, layered them with music and narration, he would have said the same thing: "Erase it."

But I wondered if the reason had less to do with artistic expression, and perhaps more to do with saying goodbye. If that was the case, maybe assembling the documentary in my own head would suffice, without feeling like I was ignoring his wishes.

### ***

I met Brian when we were both being groomed for the _Nexus_. We'd been through basic selection, but there were still alternates—vultures waiting in the wings for us to screw up. We had all our individual competencies checked and tested, but they still wanted to make sure we could function as part of a team.

A lot of the others paired off, people who knew each other from before, or people who thought they might want to fuck. We were both shy, wallflowers. He saw me first, and that was enough. He went back to blending in with the furniture, but I was just happy to be noticed, even for a moment, so I went over to talk to him.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey."

"Got a partner?" I asked.

"Nope."

"Wrong," I said, and smiled at him.

It took him a moment, but he smiled, just a little, and said, "Okay."

He followed me over to the table where the instructors were seated, and we gave them our names. "Anything in particular you want us to work on?" I asked.

"Anything from the databases," Bill, the man who would eventually be head of the entire engineering division, said. "Show that you can push one of our projects forward, however incrementally."

We found a table for ourselves, near the edge of the group, and picked up a tablet. "I'm Brian, by the way," he said.

"Sasha."

"I grew up with a Sasha," he said.

"Let me guess: Eastern European, and a boy?"

"Yes," he winced. "Sorry."

"That's okay. Half the time that's who people expect to show up, when they see my name. I'm over it—or at least as over disappointing complete strangers as you can get. I'm sorry." I turned a little red. "This has already gotten way too heavy for getting-to-know-you small talk—and also way too me-centric. Where'd you go to school?"

"Two answers to that. The joke answer: the Ursa colony. What you were probably going for: the Ursa UTN campus."

"No way," I said. "I went to UTN, too."

"Which campus?"

"Buenos Aires?"

His eyebrows shot up. "You don't look Argentinian."

"A quarter to an eighth, depending on how faithful my great-grandma was, which is kind of up in the air," I said, "though I didn't grow up there. I was a colony kid, too."

"But UTN _in_ Argentina. Your scores must have been crazy."

I frowned. "My granddad has connections."

He shrugged. "I'm only here because my family had some, too. For me, I'm egalitarian. But you and me, we don't have to feel badly because the world is screwed up. Hell, that's the biggest possible bonus of this ship. It's the ultimate meritocracy. People won't _give_ you anything. You earn your place by being good at your job." I wasn't sure if that made me feel better, or worse, and he could tell. "What program were you in?"

"I majored in chemical engineering by way of being pre-med; minored in mechanical engineering."

"That was my major. You do the virtual coursework with da Silva?"

"Why go to UTN if you weren't going to?" I asked.

"She's a rock star. I ended up taking her entire courseload; I had to load some of it into 'elective' slots. And I minored in aeronautics, which seeing as I'll, fingers crossed, be spending 95% of my time outside of an atmosphere, maybe was a poor choice."

"Unless you end up doing work on the pods or shuttles," I said.

"True. But you were pre-med at an engineering school? There's got to be a story in that."

"Not one that's relevant, now."

"No judgments, here; I was pre-law, way back when."

"At UTN?"

"It was a co-campus. Most of my classes, and my degree, came from UTN. But maybe sometime we can swap pre-stories."

"Maybe," I said.

We checked all of the project proposals. Most were for minor improvements, say to the long-term livability of the shuttles, or increasing the range on the sensor arrays our reconnaissance pods carried.

The perfect blend of our skillsets was a proposal to use the pod design for a next-gen shuttle. The shuttles were designed for large crews, twelve or so. That much human cargo, and the life-safety systems to keep them alive, required a lot of fuel to push out of an atmosphere. It also required specialized rocketry that was mostly only good for atmosphere entry and exit. It was a lossy process, even with the most efficient engines available. Our sensor pods, by contrast, crammed virtually every kind of measuring device imaginable inside a compact shell, designed to run efficient, lean and independent of a mother ship. The proposal was to use the pod designs as a prototype for a sleeker, longer-range personnel transport vehicle.

The main challenge, the one most of the project hinged on, was whether or not you could man-rate the pods. As they were designed, the pods had no radiation shielding, no temperature control, they weren't even sealed to vacuum. Which didn't account for the nutrient blocks that would be needed for sustenance, or the recycle facilities to turn waste into water and more nutrients. Overcoming these obstacles was no small task. The usual life-safety systems alone wouldn't fit inside a pod, and even miniaturizing them would only prevent the universe from killing a pilot. That didn't touch space for the human cargo or the tools necessary to keep them alive.

We worked night and day on the project, any second we weren't otherwise required to do something for the program. We hit a few dozen snags that felt like they were fatal, only to overcome them a half hour later and replace them with a whole new set of obstacles. Every time it felt like we'd flame out, that the project's failure meant we weren't going to join the _Nexus_ , and wouldn't be allowed to see the universe. And every time it took us a little longer for us to reset from that crushing low to get back to work.

It was during one of those depressive interludes that Brian let out a heavy sigh. "I bet the universe is really crappy, anyway," he said, and collapsed onto his dormitory bed.

"Yeah, I hear it's got a weird smell," I said, flopping down next to him.

"How'd we end up here, anyway?" he asked.

"That is a question I _rarely_ entertain sober," I said.

"I wasn't proposing you do so now, either," he said, and produced a flask from a drawer in his nightstand. He unscrewed the cap and handed it to me.

I took a swig. It tasted awful. "I should have been clearer when I said I didn't want to be sober for this conversation. I wanted alcohol, not paint thinner; I haven't even painted my insides yet. And I was also hoping not to die tonight, either."

"It's absinthe," he said. "Or, rather, an attempt to mechanically separate out alcohol, leaving a higher proof beverage behind."

"You're such an enginerd."

He took a swig and winced. "That _is_ awful." He licked the rest of it off his lips, and it must have already started working on me, because I stared at his tongue on his lips. "So why did you switch away from medicine?"

"I don't know," I lied.

"Okay, I'll share, first, if that'll make you feel better."

"Quid pro quo? I don't know if that builds trust, or just turns trust into something you can buy with secrets."

"No pressure," he said, and put up his hands. "You don't feel like sharing, you don't have to." He hesitated just a moment. It was a hesitation I knew well enough. He was going to tell me the kind of secret that had ended relationships, friendships. And there was always a moment right before. You knew the cost if it went wrong, but the cost to you, of holding onto that deceit, was more. You had to gamble. "How familiar are you with questioning?" he asked.

"Like the Socratic method?" I asked.

"Like the orientation."

"A bit."

"That answer's almost always a dodge; an ignorant person who doesn't want to look foolish, or an informed person who'd prefer to appear ignorant. Not that I'm judging, or even casting aspersions, it's just an observation—and a generalization, at that. And given what I'm about to tell you about my own choices, I'm not about to say anything about yours.

"Essentially, questioning is when someone isn't sure what they are. For a lot of people, maybe even most people, questioning is just that, it's asking for an answer. And most of them find it, eventually—whether or not they choose to accept it is a different question entirely. But I'm not most people; I don't think that's just my ego wanting me to be a precious snowflake, either. It's...sometimes I feel really, really straight. Like for months or even once years at a time. My whole sophomore and nearly all of junior year in high school. I played football, if you can believe that, locker room full of naked teenage boys, and not so much as a little increased blood flow.

"But freshman year? I banged more boys than I thought went to my school. And my first year at UTN? I was bi, and I cycled through everyone on that campus—yes, I was the campus bi-cycle. Then for nine months I was essentially asexual. Then I spent some more time attracted almost exclusively to men. It's...strange. And not something I think most questioning people go through, which makes it all the more alienating that even among a tribe of outliers, I'm still an outcast."

"Maybe you just like exploring your sexuality," I offered.

"I don't know that it's anything so mundane. But it certainly doesn't feel like it. Like, there are days when I go into engineering, and you know there are those two meatheads who work out every day before they come in, and at the start of their shift, they're still bulging. Some days, I want to take one or preferably both of them home. And other days the thought of their muscles just kind of grosses me out. My sexuality is almost a pendulum, except the swings are rapid and random the older I get. Maybe I'm just bisexual with a caveat, I don't know, but any time I—no, it doesn't matter. Just the _idea_ of narrowing my sexuality—even to 'all of the above'—it makes me nauseous, like I'd be denying parts of myself. And a lot of the time I feel the same about my gender, too. I _can't_ let myself be boxed in by a label, even if it's a self-applied one."

"That's..."

"A whole heaping barrel of crazy I just upended over you—and you didn't even have to coach my football team to the regional semifinals."

"I was going to say it sounded rough." I put my hand on his knee. I frowned, because I wasn't sure where or how to begin. "I don't know how serious I ever was, about it, but I always kind of thought about becoming trans."

"I'm not sure 'becoming' is the right word," he said. "Not that _I'm_ objecting, but it kind of implies choice where it shouldn't, and I know that can be sticky in our community."

"Okay. Well, I'd say I've always been trans, but I contemplated transitioning. And becoming a doctor was part of that. You know, crazy people study mental health; trans people study transformative therapies. But what I realized, is outside of that limited scope, being a doctor is a very...interpersonal career. You see your patients, one on one. And there's still some people who aren't comfortable with trans people. And when people come to you for help, the last thing you want, as a doctor, is to make them uncomfortable. That was one of the things we learned, pre-med; if you can't develop a rapport with your patients—if you can't make them comfortable—they won't be able to be open, honest. People actually die from a crappy bedside manner. Being in medicine kind of precluded me being who I wanted—or at least who I wasn't ready to write off being. I'm not saying a trans person can't be a doctor—but that _I_ couldn't strike that bargain, or make that balance work.

"And maybe a little, it had to do with me, too. I was _broken_ , then, disconnected from myself. That's kind of part and parcel for being trans, but I realized, I couldn't handle that. I mean, imagine a young trans girl coming to me, going through the counseling and preliminary sessions, only to be bullied into deciding at the last moment not to proceed by her family? That would break me all over again. So the one kind of doctor I thought I wanted to be, I couldn't handle—and it couldn't handle _me_."

"But," he said, "if becoming a doctor was a part of you, too..."

"Yeah. And I struggled with that. But I don't think it was," I said. "The whole idea of me studying medicine, it was born of a psychological need for something else—really justifying that something else. But medicine wasn't ever something I was particularly skilled at. It was an itch. And I scratched it enough to know that it wasn't really for me."

"But you had a passion for engineering?" he asked, smiling. "You're sicker than I thought."

"A passion for math and some of the harder sciences," I corrected. "Engineering is just bundling all of that science and math together into practical, productive use. And what I found was that the same itch I scratched at the _thought_ of helping people transition, it was scratched by transforming engineering projects, too—helping _them_ become what they were supposed to be."

"That's pretty," he said.

"Why did you become an engineer?"

"Because I was terrible at mock trial, and it was this or lawyering."

"Just those two?"

"Those were the two vocations I scored high enough on the aptitude tests for tuition assistance. Anything else I would have had to do a stint in the security services, or _worse_."

"Still, I'm surprised you could choose."

"Oh, I didn't," he said with a grin. "Not until the very last second. My guidance counselor _hated_ me, because we carved out a classload that was straddling the line between pre-law and engineering. I was literally on the verge of letting a coin-toss dictate my career-path when she sat me down. She reminded me how miserable I was in mock trial. And how miserable in general I was in school—and that law school was years on top of what an engineering degree was. Made it kind of easy. And I resent the idea that I can't make up my mind. Some things...some _questions_ should have specific answers. Others shouldn't, because the question is based on circumstances that change, and so the answers should change along with them."

"I think 'resent' might have been overselling it."

"Okay," he said, swaying, "so I'm a little too drunk to really 'resent' anything. But mildly perturbed while drunkenly bemused isn't nearly as concise. Also," he looked down, and for the first time I realized I'd been rubbing his leg—no, rubbing _up_ his leg from his knee after putting my hand there to comfort him. "I'm mostly going through a man-heavy phase, right now—um, friction notwithstanding."

"Oh, I wasn't—"

"You kind of were. And it's _fine_. You weren't trying to turn me or anything, just reaching out in a human way...and groping your way up my thigh."

"I think I maybe had too much absinthe."

"You aren't drinking absinthe if somebody doesn't end up with at least a wayward hand in their crotch."

"It wasn't _in_ your crotch," I protested.

"You were inching. And running out of inches. But _speaking_ of inches, I think I've figured out our central problem: intercourse."

"Now you're just teasing me."

"I mean mechanically. Trying to keep our systems separate. It creates too much overhead. What we need to do is overlap them. Use the water purification system as a coolant, as an example."

"Treat the ship like it's a single organism, with the byproducts of one system feeding as inputs into the next."

" _Exactly_."

We stayed up the rest of the night, working on the proposal. In the remaining time, we drafted the concept, with some preliminary suggestions as to which systems could be bridged to save on space. It wasn't revolutionary enough to feel like we'd left our mark on science, but for a few weeks of work it felt substantial.

The tension in the hall after turning in our project was palpable. There hadn't been enough time for any of us to do more than some theoretical engineering work, and in our game, if you didn't build it, then you hadn't really finished the job. So all of us were anxious.

Bill knew it, too, that's why he stood up at the end of the day and said, "Half the projects we accepted were failures. Oftentimes, engineering is about testing hypotheses, making progress towards the right answer—or even just rejecting a wrong one. The people who fail selection at this stage will fail almost exclusively because they weren't able to work together, because the interpersonal obstacles, not the intellectual ones, were insurmountable. You should all be proud of the work you've done to make it this far. And if it were solely up to me, you'd all be shot into space."

We all got drunk together that night. The speech helped, but weeks of nervous energy needed to be released.

The next day Brian and I received emails telling us we'd been accepted. Things accelerated from there. We were broken up into teams with specialized focuses. Brian and I managed to get the same assignment, working on pods and shuttles. His place on the team made sense; I was pretty sure I was just there because we worked well together on our project.

It seemed like only a week later the _Nexus_ finally fired up her engines for the first time. There was a lot of tension when we did, because starting a star drive, there was always the possibility of a chain-reaction that would overwhelm the containment and swallow the ship whole.

It didn't. To celebrate, and since it was our work that had kept the engines from destroying us all, Bill threw us a mixer, one that quickly devolved. The successful ignition, coupled with the stress of our selection ending, was like a dam bursting.

Adding fuel to the fire was the odd nature of relationships on board. The _Nexus_ was a generational arc, intended to be repopulated with the offspring of the current ship—for successive generations to crew the ship for hundreds of years. Part of our selection included personality and genetic typing to make sure we would be able to make and raise kids. The company all but encouraged hooking up, and with just a little liquor, that quickly became all the excuse people needed.

As people started to pair off, it was the group project all over again. Only this time Brian and I had each other. "The first to leave are the pretty people," he said, "present company excluded. We're pretty; we're just not defined by it. They pair off, like Dalmatians trying to preserve their pretty genes."

"Next," I snarked, "are the social climbers. They know who else is at the popular end of the spectrum, who have the ears of the division heads. Some of them are pretty, and some of them—" we watched a very attractive strawberry blond lean his head against a very homely woman about three sizes bigger than he was; she didn't see him wince, but we did, "take one for the team."

"That's when everybody else gets desperate. They realize the beautiful and the powerful are fleeing, and nobody wants to be the last olive in the jar."

We stayed while half the remaining engineers paired off or went home. The rest were getting even more hammered, either to stave off the loneliness or to get up their courage to do something stupid.

"This is getting too sad," Brian said, "even for me. We should go."

I followed him away. He glanced at the hall to my bunk.

"I don't really want to be alone, tonight," I said.

"Me, either," he agreed.

I wasn't sure what either of us meant, exactly, but I followed him. We plopped down on his bed and splayed out. I was drunker than I'd realized, and it was extraordinarily relaxing not having to keep myself upright anymore. But I didn't want to just fall asleep on Brian's bed, either.

"What do you want?" I asked.

He pondered a moment. "A hot fudge sundae. Nachos, with jalapeños in the cheese, a coke with all the vanilla vodka in it."

"Food, then, is a priority. Followed by liquor. And we'll eat. I promise. We'll go to the caf and get something, but we're always getting distracted, and right now I don't want to be." I rolled over and put my hand on his chest. "I want to know, what do you _need_? What would make you happy?"

"I don't know," he said. "Sometimes I think getting bent over my console in engineering. Sometimes, I want to take a girl home—present company, you know..."

"Sure," I said. "That doesn't sound so complicated."

"Then maybe I'm not explaining it right. Because I feel like a screen door, that, depending on which way the wind is blowing, I'm either on the outside or the in—completely inverted. And I like getting blown as much as the next guy, but some days that's...about more than I can bear," he said, and his voice broke. "And sometimes I couldn't stand to be any different. And when I say that, I feel like a 'fickle little queer who can't make up his mind,'" he said, for an instant developing enough of a southern U.S. accent to tell me it was a direct quote. "But I _can't_. You don't decide what you want—just what you'll let yourself have. And I want... my life is like my cravings. I want to have everything, with everyone. And saying that I'd pick to leave some of it to the side, it would be discarding a part of me. And I've spent too much of my life already hiding who and what I am to be okay with that."

"Is that why won't you let me take your picture?"

"I don't like having my picture taken because I'm not who I am, not in a moment. What I am is changing, evolving. A picture holds me in that early stage of development—like a larva mounted in an exhibition next to butterflies—it'll never get to be anything else."

"But isn't that development a part of who you are, too? And who you will be?"

"I guess it usually makes me feel trapped, like I haven't gone anywhere yet. Like, seeing pictures from college, I look and think that's the same guy I see in the mirror, that maybe everything I feel like I've done, all the space I've put between me and my issues, maybe it doesn't mean anything, because look, I'm that same guy."

"Are you, though?"

"No. But seeing my picture—even seeing my reflection—it's hard not to feel like I am."

"What would you change? Tonight, if I were a surgeon, what would you have me do?"

"Everything. But the problem is I'd want to change it all again tomorrow." He sighed. "But what about you? What do you want?"

"I'm not sure, either. When it comes to sex, I think I'm a lot like you—I'm an omnivore. Though I know I'm luckier, because I _always_ want everything. But I think it goes way beyond sex with me. I don't just want to be _with_ everyone, I want to _be_ everyone. Albright with her red hair and rack, Bogdan's beautiful back muscles, Cassie's lean legs, and Ferguson's butt. You..." I said, and realized I wanted to kiss him, but hadn't planned for it. He was too far away for me to do it without simply leaping across his bed and pouncing on him like a wild cat.

"What do you mean?" he asked, thoroughly oblivious.

"I mean, I've never felt like a girl. And I don't just mean that I wasn't into dolls and pink. I mean the way women walk—especially the ways women's footwear _encourages_ them to walk—always felt silly to me. I mean everything about being a girl felt wrong. Periods, and the underwear, the way we're even now socialized to handle conflict. It just—and it's not penis envy, or even the envy of men's place and role. Just that—have you ever tried out for a play?"

"Yeah."

"And there was a part that you knew in your heart you could _kill_."

"Yeah."

"I got cast in the wrong part. And I've been a good sport, and played along, and tried to be supportive of the rest of the cast. But I know I'm not who I'm supposed to be, either. And even when I get through a day and feel like I put on a good show, there's always a feeling like I could be great—if only I could be somebody else."

He frowned. "I've thought about that, too."

"I'm not surprised."

"But whenever I do, I run into the problem that I don't want to be just one or the other. I don't want to just dress as one but sometimes the other. But everything pushes in that direction—even the nature of 'questioning' as an identity implies eventually coming to a conclusion. And people are way more tolerant than they've ever been, but it's still inherent in the questions they ask, the way they talk about it. Even when they're trying to be understanding and even helpful, there are just—there are still expectations. Still boxes people want you to fit into, and if you don't...they _can't_ understand. It isn't even that they don't want to, it's just not possible for most people to make that leap. So it's easier for them to write me off than be stressed over what they can't understand.

"But tonight, I don't want surgery. I want to be you." He kissed me. "I want you to tell me _everything_." He stroked his hand from my knee up my thigh. "Every sensation." He kissed my neck, and I moaned.

"Okay," I whispered. "But I want to be you, too."

We screwed. It was awkward, and liberating, and about the hottest night I'd ever had. Deliberating on each moment, describing it in all its sensual details, it was as intimate an evening as two human beings could have. I found myself losing the mechanics of what we were describing in the sensations.

No longer was I irritated by the shape of my breasts, the way they never seemed to _fit_ , or feel right. They might as well have not existed, been simply skin and flesh, providing feelings to be identified and categorized. And even vocalizing what it felt like made it easier to push past some of my squeamishness toward the slick noises of his fingers inside me.

He broke me down into _me_. Not simply some idea of me that existed in my reflection, but not in my spirit. I tried to do the same for him, to tell him how beautiful his skin was under my fingers, how much I loved every place I could feel his pulse against my fingertips, from wrists, to throat, to chest, to cock. Whoever he was, in this moment, I _loved_ him. And I wanted to capture it, so when he felt it needed to change again, when he said "Erase it," and branched in a new direction I could love that, _too_ , with the memory of his full arc and spectrum of being.

And when we finally collapsed into a sweaty pile, it felt like we melted together, into one divine creature that was both man and woman; gay, straight, and all points in between.

I slept like I'd never slept before. I stirred in his arms, to his muscles flexing beneath me as he woke.

"Man-heavy phase?" I asked, then for a moment I worried about him saying I was mannish. But it was a knee-jerk. Most people intended that as an insult. But he knew me, knew me better than anybody else. If I qualified for his man-heavy phase, I was inclined to see it as a compliment.

"Maybe the pendulum swung," he said, with a sleepy shrug. "But last night was..."

"Amazing?"

"Humility isn't one of your strong suits, is it?" he smiled.

"Last night was something I needed," I said. "I mean, I hope you needed it, too, or at least that it was similarly affecting, but last night... I felt whole. Like for one night I got to have everything I've always wanted."

"It was nice," he said. I frowned. "Don't be like that. I'm not saying it wasn't great sex. Or meaningful. But last night completed you, right?"

"I," I wanted to lie, but last night had been the most honest I'd ever been with another person, and I couldn't follow that with falseness. "Yes."

"It complicated me. Because last night was amazing. But it also feels like, like we let a genie out of a bottle. It's more pressure to be something, while at the same time underscoring how much I want to be _everything_."

He frowned. "I want to share something with you. The only other place I feel like I can be myself. But you can't laugh. Because I know I'm a nerd, but...I need this to be a safe place. Deal?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Have you ever done any role-playing?"

"I can do a pretty good bad cop, though we'd have to hit up somebody in SecDiv to borrow a pair of cuffs."

He chortled. "No, I meant, like in games."

"Oh," I said, and his eyes flicked to mine. "That was just a realization 'Oh,' not a judgmental ' _Oh_.'"

"I was listening for it but still couldn't hear the difference."

"That's because no matter who you are inside, you grew up as a man, and didn't have to. But go on."

"It's a fantasy role-playing game. There's a shape-shifting race in the game that can change up their gender, their appearance, even their character class. That's what really got me into it. But I'd like you to play it with me."

"Sure."

"Okay, close your eyes."

I did. A message appeared on the HUD of my eyescreens, and I accepted the invitation. Suddenly my screens were filled with color and light. I was in a forest with an animated feel to it.

"The transition tends to be hard on the eyes—especially if you've got your eyes open when the game starts." The voice was feminine, yet familiar. Suddenly a blue-skinned woman stepped out in front of me. She was wearing skimpy leather armor over a lean, long, not quite human frame. "Oh, sorry," the woman said, and the modulation on her voice dialed back as she spoke, and I recognized the voice beneath as Brian. "This is me," he said, and this time the voice was entirely his own.

"I can't stop staring at your rack," I said, though my voice came out higher and squeakier.

"Since we're still naked in my bed, I think it would be weird for me to object to that."

Then a prompt popped up, offering to let me customize my character. I realized immediately _why_ I was so transfixed with his rack. It was at eye level. I was a Dworme, which I assumed from the image it showed me of my character was a proprietary combination of a dwarf and a gnome. As I eyed over all of my vital statistics, preview images populated beside them, of alternate choices, and I started selecting the images that most closely resembled me. I even found my haircut, almost exactly.

My avatar was starting to resemble me when I glanced up, or actually down, since I'd made myself taller, and saw Brian's rack again. I realized I didn't need to be me, here. So I started over, and started making my features sharper, more masculine, cut the hair shorter, gave myself some broad shoulders. When I was done, Brian said, "I'd hit it."

"It?"

"Your digital bits," he said with a smile. "Come on," he nodded, and I followed him through some trees. Not a hundred feet from where I'd been standing, feeling like one of only two people in a majestic old forest, was a bustling medieval metropolis. There were hundreds of characters running around, jumping, sparring, or chatting.

"We've only got four hundred people onboard," I said, "so how exactly does this work?"

"Virtualization. It uses profiles from users back on Earth and the colonies. You log a hundred hours into the game, and they can essentially recreate your interactions as a player. You log a thousand, and the ship's computer can accurately synthesize your entire personality—at least as far as the game is concerned—that's including voice chat sophisticated enough to pass the Turing test with flying colors. There's over a million fully virtual people inside the game. Not that they _just_ use those profiles for the game. The sociologists in PsychDiv use the same tech for their experiments, and I'm sure we're using it elsewhere, too."

"Okay," I said, "but what do we do?"

"Whatever we want to," he said. "You can pick up quests to go adventuring, open up a shop and set up trade routes, rent a room and screw," he said, and nodded in the direction of a couple headed towards the inn down the street. "There really aren't a lot of things you _can't_ do in this game, honestly."

"What do you _usually_ do?" I asked.

"Explore," he said. "The game world is nearly as big as the actual human world, at this point. There are weather patterns, day and night cycles. So I go everywhere, and try to see everything."

"Bang every gender of exotic local?" I asked as a man in a loin cloth and nothing else ran by; it kept catching the wind, and I couldn't look away.

"Sometimes," he said. "If the mood catches me. That can help, finding someone who can see me the way you do. Even if they're all virtual."

"But don't some of the other engineers play this. I thought I heard—"

"Oh, definitely. But in here, they're no more or less real than the virtual players, The NPCs—sorry, non-player characters—are really wonderfully realized, but if you try to engage them, especially socially, beyond their proscribed parameters, it quickly becomes clear they're scripted, even if the ship's AI can fudge the details. But the characters—they can discuss philosophy, art, science—and depending on which flags you've got set in your profile, they and human characters will stay completely in character, and keep their discussion completely period appropriate. If you want them to, anyway."

"And do you, usually?"

"I think that depends on whether or not I'm trying to get away. If I want to be further away from the outside world, then a heaping helping of old English makes me feel that extra bit removed from my problems. If not, then it's just my own little world."

"But if there's a whole Earth, but only a million people..."

"The game populates the areas near human characters to make the world feel lived in. So that million is split into the active areas around, say, us."

"But if there's a radius of bustle around a human, wouldn't that make it easier to know when you've found another human player?"

"The game's smart enough not to let you see the strings—if you start to get near to another human character, your 'aura' of bots will start to overlap with theirs—but that means that in aggregate you'll have less characters total surrounding the two of you if you were in isolation, so that if you stood side by side with another human character, you'd have exactly the same amount of extra players around you as if you were alone."

"And this all gives you a giant raging nerd boner?" I asked.

"It can. I had a lot of the same questions when I started. You know, inhabiting someone else's skin, someone who could be whoever they wanted to be, that part was liberating. But I wanted to understand why, and how this was possible, and if it was as masturbatory as it kind of felt."

"Was it?" I asked.

"Only that afternoon I spent in the inn masturbating," he said, grinning.

"But did that...work?"

"I had to change my sheets after, so, yeah. The biofeedback is actually pretty extraordinary. But we've spent way too much time already standing around town. Let's get you some quests."

He took me to several people and pointed out the telltale signs they were quest-givers, from an urgent look in their eyes to the fact that they turned to face towards us (or other players) who got within a few feet of them.

We harvested some plants and culled a heard of boars, then he took me up a snowy pass.

"Did you know they have statistics on how much time in this kind of game is healthy, and how much is a sign of psychological stress or disorder?"

"Nope," I said.

"I love being onboard the _Nexus_ , but sometimes I can't help but feel like a rat in a cage, just waiting for the next series of electrodes to be strapped to my body. I mean, we're all lab rats, here, and maybe there should be some comfort in that. But feeling like I'm being watched, monitored...it's hard enough, not being what people expect of you—not fitting into one of the easy boxes they want to store you in. But knowing that they're constantly measuring us, and asking the questions on a regular basis...I love who I am, but I hate that I'm now a scheduled disappointment."

"I'm sure they aren't disappointed," I tried to mutter.

"Maybe not in the way my parents were. Or my first girlfriend, in a period when I stopped liking girls, and she wasn't able to pray away my gay—I know, in this day and age. But I'm pretty okay with not being noticed. I could melt into this game and never have another worry. But knowing I'm going to go out there, into the 'real' world and be judged, it just makes it all the harder."

The snowy pass turned into an icy rock face, which he started climbing. It was strenuous enough simulated work, that we didn't talk until we hit a flat spot. "How much do you play?" I asked, still winded.

"I started back on the colony. And I've been racking up probably north of twenty hours a week, something like that. But I'm glad you're here today. Because I'm going to hit my thousand hours, provided we're in the game world long enough to climb to the top of this mountain. So, you want to climb a mountain with me?"

"Sure," I said.

We didn't talk anymore, just climbed until our muscles ached. Then we climbed some more, until we hit the top. The sun was setting beyond the horizon, bathing the world in reds and oranges. I'd never seen Brian so beautiful—not because of his avatar, but because for that moment, changing as the light refracted off the ice surrounding us, he was a different creature moment to moment—exactly the kind of thing he wanted to be. And in that transcendent moment, I kissed him.

He kissed me back. We screwed on top of that mountain, and midway through, we stopped, and flipped genders, then went right back to screwing.

We climbed down about a third of the way by torchlight, then slid the rest of the way on slats of wood Brian cut from a tree. We walked towards the nearest town. I was exhausted, which is why I didn't think anything of it when Brian asked me about the biology of cryo. Specifically, he asked about the dangers on ship, the things that would keep a person from being able to use the back-up organs we had for every person on ship.

When we arrived in town, he paid for a night's sleep, and we signed off. It was late enough in the real world that we decided to sleep, too.

The next day we had to be back at work. I noticed a change in him, even if it was subtle. He wasn't his usual, bubbly self. He was melancholy, depressive. We ate lunch together, but he hardly spoke. I knew what had changed, and that made me terrified that I hurt him, that somehow I should have seen I would do this to him. But I needed to be patient, to let him broach the subject when he was ready, or I was likely to make it worse. To that end I went home with him, and it was only then that he was able to put into words what was going on with him.

"I can't have this," he said. "What we have. It's a lie. Because it's not the closest facsimile to what we both want. Because you don't want this. And really, neither do I. I mean, I don't know what I want. But I don't think it's monogamy. I don't want to mislead you."

"You should slow down," I said. "Especially the part where you assume you know what I want."

"Okay. Is this what you want? To hear me wax poetic about my genitals while we have sex, and to go into a game and play pretend?" He sighed.

"I don't know," I admitted. "This is all new. And I'm adjusting. Yesterday was something I didn't even think possible. So asking me now if it's everything I could want...it's not possible for me to know, yet. And maybe some of that is me being scared, because I don't know if I could have it, even if it was everything I need. Because...I don't presume to know if it's right for you, and I wouldn't want to have you if it wasn't right for both of us."

"I don't know," he said. "Yesterday was, it's hard not to feel like it was the peak, like there's no way anything else gets there again, even acknowledging that _that_ height wasn't where I want to be. And it's all downhill from here."

"Puns not intended?"

"Maybe they were," he said with a grin. "Would that be a dealbreaker?"

"No," I said, and sighed. I didn't want to be vulnerable, especially with him already pulling away. But I couldn't let that happen without saying _something_ ; so I said _everything._ "I love you. No strings, not pushing for reciprocation. But I do. And I love you for exactly who you are: confused, mixed up, multiple-choice pun-abuser that you are."

"But do you think that's enough? For either of us?"

"I don't know," I said. "I hope so."

"I'm not sure I've got that hope in me," he said. "I hope so, too, but...I've never really been good with relationships. Not that I _cheat_ on people; but I'm not faithful. I can't be. Because the moment I start to be, I lose interest, and start being attracted to someone and something else. And I can't be trapped. I can't feel like I have to be something, especially if I might not be that thing."

"Okay," I said. "Maybe we don't need monogamy to work; maybe we need the opposite."

"Really?"

"A relationship isn't who you're rubbing genitals with. It's about caring, and loving, and listening. Which, yes, does frequently lead to dry-humping, but...if you think having that out is important to you, you can have it. Because I want _you_ ; if that means letting you be part-caterpillar, part-butterfly, then so be it."

"Hmm." Then he kissed me.

It didn't last. I think we always knew it couldn't. We kept seeing each other, but we were intimate less and less. And the worse we got, the more he wanted to play the game. But in the game he became cold and distant. We stopped going on hikes and went on more fetch quests and massacre-the-entire-population-of-prairie-dogs-in-a-region kinds of missions. We were killing time, and he was pulling farther and farther away from me.

Then, one day he ended it. He admitted to me that he'd been fighting his attraction to one of our coworkers. And he stopped fighting and asked him out. "What about your out?" I asked.

"I tried," he said. "But it wasn't just that I _physically_ wanted him, because that would be too clean and too easy. I imagined myself curled up with him in bed, whispering sweet things into his chest. I fell in love. And I thought I could handle that. But he was shiny, and new, and...that made it impossible to appreciate what we have. Maybe human beings aren't built to love more than one person; maybe _I'm_ not. But I couldn't even give you emotional fidelity."

"It's okay," I said, stroking his shoulder. It still hurt, but I recognized that it wasn't me, or even truly a rejection, just a difference between what I could offer him and what he needed. But there was something else, too, and I waited for that shoe to fall.

He frowned, then stopped, and started again. "He told me he wasn't gay. I told him neither was I." He laughed hollowly. "Then he gave me that look; you probably know it, that 'why don't you fit my expectations look', that 'why are you making my life more complicated and difficult' look."

I nodded. I'd seen my share of that look from my relatives plenty of times. Most of them could handle it if I was gay and bringing home women, but the moment I brought home a man, that was when they started whispering 'whore' under their breath. It was a small wonder I'd only ever told Brian I was trans.

"I wonder if straight up homophobia would be easier to take," he said, "because then it's clearly their intolerance—it's nothing wrong with _you_. But this, it's so hard not to feel like it's my damage, my flaw, my inability to be what _everyone_ wants me to be."

"You okay?" I asked.

"I think for the first time I might be," he said. "Because I realize what I am—what I'll always be. Different. It might be the closest I can get to being at peace with it." Then, quite abruptly, he seized me and squeezed me against his chest. "I love you," he said, "more than I would have thought myself capable of loving one other person."

"You should know, all I ever wanted you to be was you. Even knowing that might mean I couldn't have you to myself. Because I know that's what you need."

He kissed my forehead. "I know."

"I..." I hesitated, because I didn't want to connect his issue with mine, even though they were, and there was really no way to truly separate them. "I think I want to start transitioning."

He swallowed. "Oh." Then he frowned. "At the risk of sounding vain, I hope I'm not a factor in that decision." I scowled, but it softened immediately. "I just mean..." he stroked my cheek. "I'm not ending things between us because of what you are physically. If anything, it's because of what you can't be at the same time. And that's screwed up, I know, but—"

I traced my fingers down his jaw. "I know," I said. "And you know, if the process were a short one, without, you know, months of counseling and waiting, I wouldn't want to have the surgeries tomorrow. Because I know, even though it isn't a solution to our problems, that's still probably factoring in. But I think it's something I've wanted for a long time. And being with you, exploring ourselves with you, I think it's what I need. And even if our relationship's ending, you've given me that clarity. And that's something I don't think I could ever truly thank you for."

He hugged me. "It sounds like we both better know who we are; I hope that means we're closer to even than in any kind of debt, but if anybody owes someone, it's me. You've been more than indulgent with me." He kissed my forehead. "I really do hope we can move back towards being friends."

We did. Though there was definitely a lull. It's tough, making that transition, because he would meet someone or I would, and want to talk about it, only the other person would be lonely and mopey. It complicated things. But it wasn't lip service, either. We worked through the awkwardness, even if we couldn't be as close as we had been.

I stopped playing the game with him, because I think he needed that escape—and having me there only made it one more place he was 'on,' one more place he felt like he had to conform. At least, I hoped giving him that outlet back would help.

### ***

But try as I might, he got more and more wrapped up in himself. I could feel him slipping away, and it worried me. So one day, after our shift, I cornered him. "Want to get some dinner? I thought we could talk. You know, just old friends."

"I'd like that," he said. "But I've kind of got plans. Rain check?" I nodded. He kissed me, and for a moment I was back to that first night we kissed, and all of the strange possibilities that kiss entailed, and my blood pumped as I remembered being in love with him. Then he put his arm around me and squeezed, and we were back in the present, and it was perhaps not as hopeful, but we had both been indelibly marked by the experience.

"See you tomorrow," I said. He smiled and turned away.

Around three in the morning that night, I got a call from Paxton, our shift supervisor. I put him on my eyescreen, and his audio routed through my cochlear implant. "You should take tomorrow off," he said.

"Why?" I asked.

"They found Brian. He killed himself."

"Jesus."

"I know the two of you were close. And I put in a call to PsychDiv. There's professionals there waiting to talk whenever you're ready. Just take care of yourself, okay? And if you need anything, you let me know." He lingered on the line.

"I'll let you know," I said numbly. But it was enough to let him off the hook, so he nodded and hung up.

I sat in bed, curled around my own knees, staring at the wall. The terrible thing was I understood it. In retrospect, he'd spent most of his adult life looking for an answer. But the answer was harder than the question. It forced him to make a choice between being true to himself or being accepted. His solution was almost ingenious, in that he sidestepped both. I hated him for it a little, but I could understand it, too.

Sometime before four I received a message, timed, from Brian. I opened it immediately.

"I want you to know something. Being with you, it's the closest I've been—probably the closest I could be—to what I want. And I will always love you for giving me that. But it also isn't enough— _can't_ be enough. Because even if it gets me three-quarters satisfied, it won't keep. I'm not saying you weren't enough to make me happy—I'm saying I'm a vessel that just wasn't designed right, with a spout that's just too low. No matter how much love, acceptance or patience you poured into me, no matter how swift or carefully you did it, it would always spill out; I could never be full. And that's not on you. You got me closer than I ever thought possible—close enough to know that some answers...aren't the ones we thought we'd get. I regret I won't be around to see you become who you're supposed to be, but I know you'll be even more beautiful. And I'm sorry. I know I've hurt you. And for that I'll never be able to forgive myself, though I pray you can."

That made a decision for me. I dressed and walked to PsychDiv. I was shown in to see the head of the department, who was in her office. Even though it wasn't time yet for the new day to start, she looked surprisingly well put together. I got lost in her red hair, and then again in a low-cut top that showed off her chest; I wondered idly if she was bisexual, though that was probably mostly the grief talking.

"I don't believe we've met," she started, and put out her hand. We hadn't, though I'd seen her around. "I'm Dr. Maggie Albright." I shook her hand. "You can call me Maggie, or Dr. Albright, whichever makes you more comfortable."

I sat down in a chair opposite hers. "I know why you think I'm here, but, I don't know that I want to talk about that. Not that I'm avoiding the topic, just that I feel there's something more pressing, something good that can come out of tonight. I want to transition genders."

"That's," she swallowed, playing for time, "a big decision. And on a very stressful occasion."

"I know," I said. "It's one I've been mulling for a very long time. Brian, while he was alive, helped me make the decision. But... I still haven't had the courage to even come down here and broach the subject. I am now."

"I'm not sure it's advisable to make that kind of discussion when you're clearly coping with a very recent trauma."

"Brian's dead. And that wound is fresh, and raw, and maybe at some point, I'll be ready to talk about it. Maybe even tonight, eventually. But right now? Talking about it won't bring him back. But this? It's part of his legacy; if he did only one bit of good in our relationship, it was helping me realize who I really am. And now he's given me the impetus to push to be that person; I may not get another shove like this, and if we squander it...I know you want to talk about Brian."

"I want to talk about whatever you need to talk about."

"Good. Because I need to talk about this."

"Then will you be willing to try to talk about Brian?"

"I'll think about it."

"That's fair. I'm just here to help," she said. "Where do you want to start?" She crossed her legs and relaxed in her chair.

### ***

The documentary I was editing in my head faded to black as white credits began to scroll across the screen. Maggie did help. We didn't talk about Brian that night. That came later, after I talked to the Captain—Drew; it feels strange that I feel close enough to him now to call him Drew.

But weeks later, we talked about Brian, about my guilt. He killed himself with knowledge he pumped me for. And it was hard, letting go of the idea that it was my fault, that I should have caught it and stopped him. Brian made a choice, one I wasn't sure I could agree with, but one he soberly considered, one I recognized was as valid as my own. And in a strange way, his life-altering choice gave me strength to go through with mine, even if in my darkest moments I worried I'd encouraged him with his.

I loved him for helping me find myself, and giving me the strength to accept it when I did. I'm transitioning, learning how to be a person I wasn't allowed to be most of my life. But every day is a little better than the last. And I know that without Brian, I wouldn't be this. So I hope he found the same peace and acceptance I have, out among the stars.

I never told anyone, not even PsychDiv, but I started playing the RPG again, quietly, after Brian's death, just a few minutes at a time. It was meditative, but it wasn't until I hit the five-hundred hour mark that I realized what I was doing. Somewhere in the game, Brian's avatar was still alive. If we'd been able to live solely in the game, I think our relationship might have been different. Because there we weren't limited to a single flesh, or the boxes other people needed to put us in. I played a little more each day after that, because recognizing I had a goal made it easier to work towards it. At one thousand hours, I stopped playing. My virtualization was complete—a digital me was loosed on that world. I didn't try to give her instructions. I knew if she was meant to find Brian, and I suspected she was, as I had been, then she would. And in my loneliest moments, that made the universe a less lonesome place. Even moments like this one, the only human being alone in this solar system.

### ***

### About the Author

Nicolas Wilson is a published journalist, graphic novelist, and novelist. He lives in the rainy wastes of Portland, Oregon with his wife, four cats and a dog.

Nic's work spans a variety of genres, from political thriller to science fiction and urban fantasy. He has several novels currently available, and many more due for release in the next year. The second installations in the Sontem Trilogy and the Gambit are due for publication Summer and Fall 2014. Nic's stories are characterized by his eye for the absurd, the off-color, and the bombastic.

For information on Nic's books, and behind-the-scenes looks at his writing, visit nicolaswilson.com.

Sign up for his mailing list to receive a free short story, _Octopied_ , featuring characters from Nexus.

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# Bad Things That Happen to Girls—Michelle Browne

### *Trigger warning: Domestic Violence*

The day my sister fell in love was a gorgeous, sunny Tuesday afternoon in March. We were sitting on the roof of the shed behind our house when she told me about what had happened in school that day. I had gone off to the band room to practice, but she was sitting in Math class. Saarim and she were sitting in a cluster of desks. She reached for a pencil at the same time as he did, and their fingers brushed. He glanced at her and asked how to figure out the height of the cylinder based on the width of the base.

"That was it," said Lila, wrapping her fingers around her mug. I reached over to the shelf—the floor of our old treehouse, really—and pulled down a blanket to wrap around myself.

"Love?" I whispered. "Really? Are you sure?"

She nodded once, slowly. "Mother is going to kill me."

"Only if she finds out."

Her long, pale fingers, like birch twigs, drummed the mug. "How will she _not_? If we go on dates and stuff?"

"How do you know he even likes you back?"

She tossed her long blonde hair over her shoulder and fixed pale blue eyes on the mug, thinking. My sister had the look of a fairy tale princess in those days, but stretched a little too thin, and faded, as if the story itself had forgotten her. "Um, you do know we've been studying together for weeks, right?"

"Sure," I lied. Though know that she mentioned it, I did remember a few things. But Lila was nothing if not close-lipped.

A car pulled into the driveway, startling us both, and I lost my train of thought. We glanced at each other.

"Mother's home," I whispered. I scrambled over, into the treehouse, bundled up the blanket, shoved it into the supply box on the wobbly plank floor, and jumped down through the hole so I could scoot down the latter. The fence was to my back, and the tree was broad, so even if Mother walked right into the living room, she wouldn't see us shimmying down through the big picture window that looked out onto the backyard.

Lila followed me, leaving the mugs in the treehouse and scooting down. We marched back in through the back door on the side and headed for the kitchen. With any luck, Mother had followed her usual routine and gone straight for her home office.

I peeked around the corner. Sure enough, there was her coat. "Hi, Mother," I called.

"Afternoon, Tanis. Can you make me coffee, please." Not a question. Never a question.

"One sec." I filled the machine back with water and put in the grounds. Classical music started to float out of her office. Lila, leaning against the sink tensely, turned wide, relief-filled eyes at me. She hadn't seen us on the shed, so we'd probably dodged the lecture about studying rather than wasting time. For today, at least. I glanced at the cross above the sink, the watching eyes of the elegant porcelain Jesus looking down at me. Always watching.

There was a plate next to the sink, and Lila turned on the water and started scrubbing it to cover our conversation. "You passing Bio?"

"Only just," I whispered back. Now it was my turn for the nervous sweats. "It's the memorizing. I have a B, but..."

"But Mother won't call that a pass."

I nodded. "Speaking of, I better go study. Can you put on some more tea?"

She nodded and filled the kettle, pressing her thin lips together. I tiptoed out of the kitchen—Mother hated to be disturbed while she was grading papers—and headed for my room.

I put a bit of music from Youtube on in the background and got to work, but five minutes of staring at the skeletal system and I was already bored. I decided to sneak into Lila's room and chat with her.

She almost dropped her tea when she found me sitting on her bed, waiting. "Well?" I whispered.

"Well what?"

"What's the deal?"

She fiddled with her hair. "There is no deal. I really like him." She exhaled slowly.

"Okay, fine. But—"

"We'll talk in school," she said. Her eyes flicked to the door.

Resigned, I nodded and headed back to my room. I have her a small smile, which she barely returned.

We crept out of our rooms for dinner. We wore straight-faced masks, as always. Jesus watched implacably as Mother served our food and said grace. I picked at the sautéed chicken in mushroom sauce and my boiled cauliflower. Lila toyed with hers, her eyes full of absence.

"How was school?" prompted Mother.

Dad glanced at us, taking a bite of his chicken nervously.

"Fine," I said. "Had a quiz in Bio. That was okay. And Mrs. Banner says the band is doing well on the concert stuff. The piece we have right now kind of sucks, though. Really repetitive."

"If you move to second or first trumpet, you won't be as bored," said Mother crisply. She turned her laser focus on Lila. "And you, dear?"

"Had a test in Social Studies. And a quiz in English, but I'd already read a chapter ahead, so it was fine."

Her maternal duties done, Mother nodded. We watched her face for the dangerous flicker, a sign of tension, but today, there was nothing. Not yet, at least. We ate in silence for a few minutes. Dad finished his chicken and headed silently for the living room to read. I started to follow him.

"Tanis, stay here and help me with the dishes," Mother said. I made eye contact with Lila, who slunk off.

We took the dishes back to the sink. She rinsed them before handing them to me. I stacked them in the dishwasher as she worked, her short, perfectly manicured talons hidden by yellow rubber gloves. The gold chain around her neck glinted in the halogen light of the kitchen, and as she bent forward, her crucifix dangled out and glittered.

"You seem distracted tonight," said Mother. "And it looks like you've been chewing your nails again."

"No, just Bio," I said, putting a plate in the machine.

"I hope you know you can tell me anything," she said. She fixed slate grey eyes the same colour as the evening sky on my face.

"Of course, Mother," I said.

"Good girl."

I managed a smile and scampered off.

As I walked down the hall, I heard a soft conversation floating out of Lila's room. I paused, listening at the crack in the door.

"Dinner on Wednesday, tomorrow?" she said into her phone, barely breathing. "What time? Yeah, six is fine. I don't know if...wait. Can we make it Thursday instead? Right after school?"

I inhaled sharply. We had youth group on Thursdays. But if she ducked out, she wouldn't have to ask Mother for permission to have dinner with someone.

"Yeah, that works." There was a long pause. "Talk to you soon." There was a soft _click_ as she set the phone down on her desk. I jumped into my room, which was right next to hers, and logged in to her Facebook account. If she wasn't going to tell me about this guy, or couldn't, I was going to wait a whole sleepless night. Any guy she was willing to skip Youth for had to be a big deal.

Sure enough, her relatively tiny pool of friends included a "Saarim Rahman". I opened their conversations, burning curiosity easily overcoming my guilt. The dates said it had happened earlier—just after school, in fact—and that she'd logged on from her phone. There were...how many? Around 10,000 messages _already._ I scrolled up; most of them were about study questions. But the last few dozen had started to change. Gotten more personal. Even my guarded sister had started to open up.

Saarim: You about?

Lila: yeah

Saarim: I have something weird to say

Saarim: you looked pretty in Maths

Saarim: especially when you bit your lip when you were concentrating

Saarim: well

Saarim: I wanted to kiss you so badly

Lila:...

Lila: we have to be careful on here

Lila: if my mother reads this, she'll flat out kill me

Saarim: I'm so sorry if I said something inappropriate

Saarim: wait, does she have access to your FB?

Lila: no, just my little sis

Lila: she sneaks on sometimes. She's cool tho

Lila: are you reading this, brat? Bet you are.

Saarim: lol

Saarim: so...fancy meeting me at lunch tomorrow?

Lila: what, in the cafeteria?

Saarim: I was thinking we could nip out for ice creams

Lila: Sure, okay. Talk to you tomorrow?

Saarim: see you then. Xo

—Conversation end—

I logged off, my head spinning. She was already sneaking around, then. How long had this been going on? Obviously, ten thousand messages, even with their interrupted, brief conversation style, was a fair bit. I made a mental list of questions to ask her and went over my notes for the next day distractedly. I tried not to read over their conversation, to notice the careful way he asked questions. He actually seemed to care about her, to want to know everything. He had a way of offering up soft compliments without being too intrusive that made me wobbly. I tried to picture his voice, to guess what he would sound like, but fell short.

Shaking my head at myself, I logged out and settled in, staring at the ceiling. My dreams were full of winding paths, pitfalls, and potholes. Ceramic Saviors watched me around the corners.

The next day, breakfast was a hurried affair. I ate as much as I could, knowing my appetite would die after science class. Mother watched me shovel in food with a raised eyebrow, but didn't say anything for once. "Dissection," I said around a bagel.

She nodded once and gave me a thin-lipped smile. "Get an A." I nodded back and grabbed my bag, heading for the door. If I could avoid talking, so much the better. I just wanted to go to school, get the nightmare over with, and pray I didn't fuck it up too much. Exams and science labs were some of the few times I found myself feeling truly religious.

Lila was already waiting for me at the bus stop. She glanced at me, her hair fluttering around her heart-shaped face. The breeze was brisk today. Her pointed features grew sharper with anxiety. "Did you spy on me last night?"

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry."

"It's fine. I figured you would." There was an uncomfortable pause, but we smiled at each other. I flicked my hair back; my pixie cut was growing long and shaggy again, and clips weren't keeping the stubborn, streaky strands in place. Blonde and brown and black hair strands, coyote colours, tangled with the frames and ear wires of my glasses.

Another cross-breeze blew with surprising force, and we clutched our hoodies around our heads, shivering in the spring chill. "Don't tell Mother," said Lila, as loudly as she could over the sudden rush of wind.

"I won't," I said.

"Thanks, Tan. Good luck today."

That was all we said, until the bus came. Then Lila's posse—other bookish, quiet girls and brains—swept her up, and I floated towards the front to hang out with the other band kids. I chatted about teachers and music and gossip, but I was counting the time until second period.

Second period, Bio, arrived in a heartbeat. We had a dissection to do, right before lunch, of course. I stared down at the frog, pinning its limbs outward. With its legs outstretched and arms spread, it looked not entirely unlike Jesus, nailed to the cross. That thought filled me with curious glee and dread, but also a sense of sacrilege.

I wondered if I could wave my hand the right way and revive it, let the frog go hopping off. I hovered my fingers above it, wiggling them, willing the poor, dead thing to break away from the pins and hop back to wherever the nearest pond or puddle was. But these were the prairies, and it would probably get flattened or dry out before it got away safely.

My partner stared at me like I'd lost my marbles. "What are you trying to do?" she said too loudly. "Put Jesus-juice in it so it hops off? Be healed, frog?"

The teacher and a few other students glared at her, but the other corner of the room erupted in giggles. I bit my lip and stared her down.

"Fine. You make the first cut," I said.

I stared as she fumbled with the dull X-Acto blade, trying to get it through the frog's rubbery skin. Her hand shook a little.

"Need a hand?" I crooned sarcastically.

"I can do it," she snapped. "Get the labels ready for the organs."

I did, smirking as she fumbled with the first cut, unable to get through the skin. "Let me," I finally snapped.

The smell of Formalin and death made me queasy for a moment. I stared at the frog's white belly and imagined it was Mother's. The knife went in smoothly, parting the flesh. I peeled it back, exposing the frog's insides like a vacuum-sealed, sectioned lunch kit.

My partner's face fell as I delicately cut each organ out, setting them in the tray and pinning the organ labels to them with savage precision. Every time my hand started to shake, I imagined it was Mother. Still, in my mind, a plaster Jesus was watching sadly, the wound in his side offering a sad rebuke to some Roman soldier's dissection skills.

When the lunch bell rang, I handed in our tray to the teacher, my half-completed notes tucked under my arm, and was rewarded with a smile for the tidy tray.

Food sounded repulsive. I could still smell death everywhere on my hands. I dodged into the bathroom to wash some of the stink off and freshen up. As I splashed water on my face, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I whirled around.

"Hey," said Lila softly. "I'm heading out. I'll text you. Can you tell my English teacher I'm on my period, just in case I'm late coming back?"

"Uh, sure."

She nodded once, then gave me a light hug and headed off. Her eyes flashed with a light I'd never seen before, and in the mirror, I saw joy creeping across her face.

I couldn't bear to put food in my facehole, so I headed off to the band room to play my trumpet and work out my nervous tension. I glanced between my phone and the music on my stand. Eventually, my lips and fingers were too numb to keep going—yeah, insert sex joke here—and I headed off to my locker to prep for Math. I swung by Lila's English class, gave her teacher the head's up, and went on with life.

Okay, that's a lie. I was staring at my phone the whole time. Finally, just before fourth period, the last one before home time, I got a text. "Thanks. We were out for a long time. Catch you before the bus under that one tree. Will dish."

It was a good thing I didn't have any other tests, because I would have died. As it was, I stayed on tenterhooks. When the bell rang, I booked it out of there and made a beeline for the tree in the back corner of the field, right by the hole in the fence and down a ways from the bus stop. It was shaded by bushes on the sidewalk, and at just the right angle for privacy—making it a popular makeout and secret-sharing spot. Generations of kids had carved their hearts into the bark and the paint on the poles of the chain-link fence next to it.

"So?" I said breathlessly, winded from running.

Lila's face flushed autumnal. "He kissed me," she whispered, flames leaping in her eyes.

"No way," I said.

"Yes. We went off to Tim Horton's and got sandwiches, but we didn't even eat them. We just talked the whole time, and..." she leaned against the bark, staring dreamily up at the temperamental sky. Clouds were rolling in, streaking the porcelain-glazed blue. "He lived in England for the longest time, his family, and when things settled down, they moved out here to be with their other family. He was born in Iraq." She pronounced it correctly— _eh-rock_ , not _eye-rack_ , like the women in Mother's group did when they met after church on Sundays. "He's been so many places. All over Europe. And we talked about music, and books, and..."

Lila was the contained one. I was the human mess, the shaken can of soda that Mother and Dad had to apologize for. "I don't know why she's like this," Mother would say as I clung to Dad's legs, bawling about a stubbed toe or spilled bottle of paint. But Lila was aglow, ablaze—not quite a princess from a fairy tale; more like a fairy herself. It was impossible not to adore her when she was serene and kind, but when she was like this? Saarim—or Sara, as we called him—never stood a chance.

"Was the kiss good?" I asked. Envy swirled in my belly, twisting. I couldn't help imagining it, imagining kissing him myself.

"Perfect. Like everything. Like, I stumbled at first, but...it was just so warm and nice, and he even got the tongue thing right. Nothing like those idiots."

She was talking about the morons from Youth group. When we church kids were all hanging out—trusted by adults, of course, because we were sanctified by Mother Church and God the Father—cigarettes and spin the bottle tended to be the activities of choice. But still, this kiss, even if it wasn't really her first, _felt_ like the first.

Lila sighed again. I wondered if she was genuinely about to faint. Frog-Jesus peered over my shoulder and scolded us both. _SIN!_ shrieked a voice in my mind. It didn't help that I was getting weak in the knees over the thought of kissing him, even though I hadn't met him. That had to be a double-sin. I swatted it away like a fly, but the word echoed.

"This seems extreme," I admitted. "Um. He's a boy."

Lila looked at me, bafflement and anger writ large across her features. "Excuse me?"

"Just...you know. Be careful."

She blinked at me. My sister was always careful. Too careful. The model daughter, the quiet one in church. Never colicky. Never a surprise, an explosion, a collision, unlike me. She sighed. I was _young_ , said her face. I had not been struck by this enchantment, this hit of pure magic. If she knew...

"Can you write me a sick note for Thursday?"

"I thought you were just having dinner with him that day!" I blurted. I glanced over my shoulder. The bus had just pulled away. Good. I had more time to grill her before the next one came.

"Well, we want to spend more time together." Her eyes dared me to ask what that meant.

"Okay. Okay. I'll...say you had a dental appointment. But you owe me."

Lila gave me pleading look that made me regret asking for anything in return. "Anything. I need this."

She did. _Like a drug_ , said my brain unpleasantly. And what did that say about me? If he was her secret sugar fix, I was scraping up the remains like crumbs from a furtive brownie. I grabbed a pen and some of Mother's stationary—we always kept a few pages for emergencies like this—and started writing the note. "Please excuse Lila from school today, as she has a dental appointment to handle two cavities." I signed it with Mother's restrained flourish.

We didn't abuse our note privileges, or even use sick notes more than once or twice a year, so nobody ever checked. Besides, the Carpenter girls had near-perfect attendance, behavior, and grades. Well, Lila did, anyway. But I hadn't gotten into a real fight during school hours in a long time, so my spotty record had faded from memory enough.

"I need one for Youth too," Lila reminded me.

I huffed and repeated it, signing the note with another restrained flourish. "Okay, okay. God."

"I love you," she said, throwing her arms around me. "Thank you. This means everything to me."

"Fine. Let's catch the next bus before we get in shit."

We stumped off. The bus ride home was tense and silent.

Home was another matter. We didn't beat Mother home, so that meant stepping carefully. She had The Look when we walked in the door. "Where were you?"

"I was doing extra practice for band," I said promptly.

"I waited for her," said Lila.

Mother paused, pacing slowly, staring between us like a dragon trying to decide which maiden to eat. "I see," she said finally. "Dinner will be ready shortly."

Dad waved from the kitchen, his smile spilling out like light in a dark hallway. I scooted in to help with prep, and Mother stalked off to grade papers and listen to classical music. Puccini dripped from the doorway. I wished she'd play some Dvorak, or something softer, more expressive. Or, God forbid, some jazz. But Our Lord and Savior disapproved of jazz, or something, or maybe it made her feel dirty, because only opera blared from her door.

Dad and I talked quietly as I helped him cook, chatting mostly about food, music; safe things. He had been busy with a large case; forensic accounting was the sort of business that wasn't too busy until it was, and when it was, everything hit the fan. "How is school?" he asked.

"It's okay."

"You seem distracted, sweetie. Your sister, too. You two aren't fighting over something, are you?" Dad had a preternatural ability to detect lies. I should have known better.

"Well...not exactly. It's a thing. You won't tell Mother?" I whispered.

He nodded solemnly. If she extorted the info from him later, that would be another thing, but at least I could count on him not to spill the beans pre-emptively.

"It's kind of a boy thing," I whispered. "I think I have a crush."

He smiled warmly. There was a little flicker of confusion and fear in his eyes, but there was something normal about it. Just a dad wondering how to handle his daughter's shift into a new life phase.

"Lila has a crush, too," I admitted. "So yeah. But we're still both busy with school, so it's not a big deal."

Not at all. It was just the end of the world. But Mother walked in, and we stopped talking.

Then dinner was ready, and the silence settled. Lila and I had never had many secrets to hide—not real secrets, like this. And both of us were suddenly aware of it, quite painfully so. We both bolted from the dinner table as soon as possible.

"Tanis," called Mother. Lila glanced at me. She followed behind as I edged back to the kitchen.

"Yes?" I creaked.

"You look furtive. Why do you look furtive?"

"She got a write up from her band teacher," said Lila.

Mother looked appalled, turning white. "Band? But you have a perfect average."

"Not that kind," Lila clarified. "She offered to sponsor Tanis for a scholarship."

"Oh." Mother rewarded me with one of her rare smiles. Dragon's gold, seldom surrendered. I nearly broke, just to have that morsel of approval laid out for me.

"She was too embarrassed to say," said Lila, putting an arm around me proudly.

Dad beamed. "Well done! Hopefully that'll help."

"Any thoughts on university?" said Mother.

I blanched. "Music", I almost said, but that would get me a disappointed look. Music teachers, after all, Couldn't Get Jobs. "Teaching?" I ventured.

That at least got a neutral response. She couldn't be disappointed in me for considering her own career, even if I was—privately—thinking about the "wrong" subject area.

"You should probably go study, then," said Mother, pride tinting her words. I nodded and scuttled off. Lila smiled at me around the corner before we ducked into our rooms. Now I just had to produce a real reference letter from my teacher, but that would be easy enough. And as long as nobody called home tomorrow to check on Lila's notes, or if Dad answered, I thought as I picked at a calculus equation, we'd be fine. I did study, as well as screwing around and playing my trumpet for a while, and my sleep was lighter than usual.

### ***

In the morning, Lila and I were deliberately casual, normal, even cheery. We rode the bus to school, sitting in our respective sections, with our respective friends. But when we got there, Lila pulled me aside and turned intense eyes on me.

"So. I'm scarpering now. Go to the office and hand in my notes. If they want a parental reference, give them my phone number. As long as they don't just call Mother's school, we'll be okay."

I nodded, my mouth dry. Best case scenario, I was helping my perfect, possible-valedictorian student sister skip school for a boy. Worst case, I'd get in trouble for faking a note, suspended for the rest of eleventh grade, and Mother...well. It didn't bear thinking about. But helping her assuaged my guilt over wishing I was the one cutting school myself. "I'll get your homework from the teachers," I said out loud.

Lila hugged me. "Okay. Talk to you soon. Meet you by the tree."

It was early, still; class didn't start for another half an hour. I headed down to the office and passed the note off to the secretaries, did my best annoyed little sister face. But after I finished getting homework from her English, Social Studies, Math, and Art teachers and went outside to meet Lila, I bumped into Saarim.

"Hey, Saarim," I said.

"Oh! Hello. Sara, please," he said. "That's what my friends call me." He turned wide, warm brown eyes and a very perfect smile on me.

I stared at his elegant cheekbones, not quite meeting his eyes. "Nice to meet you in person," I said.

"I expect you must know me quite well from what Lila's said already," he said, laughing. He had a beautiful laugh, and the kind of articulate Queen's English that made my lips and tongue feel thick and stupid.

"She's said a few things," I said, my Canadian prairie accent suddenly twangier than usual.

His face lit up. Between his dark, wavy hair—slightly on the long side, cut generously—and the way he held himself, I could see why Lila had given up common sense. He radiated something princely, a warm charisma that was difficult to resist. Out of sheer, stubborn temper, I did.

"I should go," I said. "Sorry—no coffee, not awake yet, you know."

He reached forward and took my wrist lightly. The spreading green leaves dappled our skin in shades and patches of shadow. "Thank you for this," he said fervently.

I stepped back, not wanting to indulge whatever fervent affection was burning through his veins. Teenagers were notoriously idealistic and stupid, and being one didn't make me less aware of the fact. "Sure."

"Would you do me the honour of coming to supper at our house? Perhaps this Saturday, unless you're otherwise engaged?"

"Sure, okay," I stuttered. Did he know what he was doing to me? I doubted it.

"Brilliant. Your parents are welcome to come," he added hastily.

Definitely not, then. He was being friendly. But his eyes lingered on mine, waiting for confirmation and reassurance. "Sure, I'll let them know. I should go. Lila's coming."

He shook my hand and clapped me on the back. "Talk soon. We must dash." A naughty edge made his smile quirk wickedly.

I turned and headed back. As Lila and I walked towards each other like two trains in a math word problem, I stopped to rummage through my backpack. Handing her a page of homework assignments and a couple of handout question sheets, I said, "is he always that charming?"

She grinned as she took her homework. "You have no idea."

Oh, if she only knew. But I did, I did, and I wished she was right.

### ***

School was tolerable, but I stared at my phone every chance I had, waiting for updates. My phone was silent as a tomb, and my nerves jangled. The day passed in a nervous blur, and soon it was time to hitch a ride to Youth Group.

Our friend Skye normally gave us a ride there. When her mom's green minivan pulled up, Skye, her sister Kayla, and their cousin Grace were already waiting. "Lila's got a mouth full of freezing," I said as I got in. "Just me today."

"Dentists suck," said Skye. "Okay."

Skye's mother, a carefully coiffed blonde woman whose eyes were always vague and distant, pulled out of the parking lot. The girls yapped about some chick in Drama class who'd been caught making out with someone else's boyfriend—"slut," they all agreed, as though they hadn't been talking about his amazing ass only moments before—and how Grey had been caught with pot in his locker, and how Harper and Tatum, two girls in Lila's art class, had been caught making out.

"Not that there's anything wrong with being a lesbian," I blurted out.

"Well, no," said Skye. Grace and Kayla stared at me. The tension in the car thickened. I could hear them wondering. All it took was one slip to ruin your reputation, or worse, get yourself shipped off to an American "correction" summer camp. At least those weren't legal here.

"Though it's kind of gross," I said, hating myself as I said it. "Lesbians, I mean. Ew. You'd get, like, yeast infections all the time."

The girls' laughter pealed through the car, and I relaxed a little. Still, pulling up in front of the church was a giant relief.

We filed in to the ugly side building, a few other kids sitting around and lounging until the pastor came in. Skye's mother, whose name I never remembered, disappeared like cigarette smoke and headed back to her van to wait for us.

I put the excuse note on the priest's desk and sat near the back. I was tense, and not in the mood for this. I wished Lila was here, so we could at least trade exasperated glances or play insult-tag with Bible verses.

"Ezekiel 23:20. There she lusted after her lovers, whose genitals were like those of donkeys and whose emission was like that of horses," she'd offered last week. The New International Version was a little blunter than the King James classic, but the meaning was the same. I hadn't been able to control my giggling without stuffing a fist in my mouth, let alone searching for a good insult to counter hers. At the memory, I started snickering.

Grace gave me a condescending look. I stopped laughing.

"Good afternoon, everyone," said Father James. We all settled down as his watery blue eyes roamed the class. "Today, we're going to talk about the verses on the Philistines in the context of some current events. Now, who here watched the news this week?"

His eyes flicked to where Lila would normally have sat, then to me.

"She's at the dentist's," I said. "Well, she was. But her face is frozen." I glanced at the note on his desk.

He frowned distractedly. "Thank you. Tanis, did you watch the news this week?"

"I read it. Um. ISIL burned down a library," I mumbled.

His blue eyes gleamed like fish leaping in a stream, and he slapped a hand down on his desk, making us all jump. His bald spot caught the light as he leaned forward. "Excellent. Well done. This is the kind of thing I want to talk about. By destroying an ancient source of knowledge the same way Alexandria's library was destroyed, ISIL has demonstrated a callous disregard for morality that cannot be ignored. Braxton, would you please read the handout on your desk?"

Braxton, who had a beautiful low voice and was in choir, began to read. "Isaiah 14:23-31. 'Do not rejoice, all you haters, that the rod that struck you is broken; from the root of that snake will spring up a viper, its fruit will be a darting, venomous serpent. Wail, you gate! Howl, you city! Melt away, all you haters! A cloud of smoke comes from the north, and there is not a straggler in its ranks.'"

The class burst into laughter. "That's from The Toast," said Father James, a smile tugging at his shapeless lips. "The word 'Philistine' has been replaced with something a little more hip, but so too have ISIL replaced the Philistines."

He went serious again. Fire and brimstone mode: activated. "Now, some Muslims are brothers under God, but at this point, I would like you all to start exercising caution in your interactions with Muslims. The history of the Crusades and the Iraqi and Afghanistan wars have taught us a valuable lesson." He pronounced it _eye-racky._ "And that lesson is that if you try to ignore a threat and hope it goes away, it will only get worse. Do you know—" and here, his reedy voice deepened for emphasis, "that most of ISIL's recruits are from right here in Canada, as well as America and Britain?"

We all went quiet.

"Anyone you know could be preparing to join this militia. Young people who are disaffected and lonely and have lots of friends on Facebook, but none in real life." He slapped the desk again. "That is why keeping the lessons of the past and Jesus in your hearts is more important than ever." Another slap. I flinched and glanced up at the wall behind him. A white plaster Jesus hung, pinned to his cross like my frog to its dissection tray.

"Keep Jesus in your hearts," said Father James, "and when one of your friends starts talking to you about Islam and the Muslims, exercise caution. You never know when someone could be trying to recruit _you_ , or one of your friends. And as in Isaiah, if we want to avoid more smoke and ruination and more broken towers and terrorist attacks, we have to be vigilant. We are under siege. But Jesus is watching, and waiting for us to make the right choices. So next time someone starts talking to you about current events, next time one of your friends shows sadness or confusion, you should invite them to come here. Jesus' arms are always open, and always welcoming. And you might be able to save someone from making a very bad decision." Father James leaned over his desk, panting a little from the force of his own faith and belief. "Now, let's work on some of your questions," he said more normally. "Does anyone have anything they'd like to talk about?" He looked past me, sweeping the class with his gaze.

Where to start? We didn't have proper confessionals, like the Catholics, but suddenly I envied that. _Forgive me, Father, for I have lied, coveted my sister's boyfriend, felt lust of several confusing kinds, disrespected my parents, and have been cussing up a storm. Also, I'm feeling profoundly uncomfortable right now, and I don't know if you're even listening. It's not like anyone else does._

My phone vibrated softly in my pocket, but I didn't dare look. My stomach crawled like I'd swallowed every one of Isaiah's vipers. I skimmed the article with the hater-Philistine verses and wondered if Mallory Ortberg had anticipated a prairie pastor using her article as a teaching aid, and tried to stop my hands from shaking with sheer force of will.

Youth Group couldn't end fast enough. As soon as the class was over and Father James had done his obligatory private "you can talk to me about anything, my children under Christ" spiel to each of us, I raced down the hall and out the doors. Skye and Grace had ditched Kayla and met up with Taylor and Sloane to head off for their hot yoga class. I didn't take hot yoga, so it meant a few precious minutes alone before I had to catch the bus home.

I could barely open my messages. Lila had sent me a screed and a million pictures on Snapchat and in private. She'd gotten so excited, she'd duplicated some of the pics and sent me the same shot twice.

"Dinner's done," she'd written on the most recent. Below it was a picture of Lila standing with Sara and his family, two younger siblings and his parents all clustered around. Lila gleamed in the middle, out of place yet welcome. They wore warm smiles. Sara and Lila's grins were brighter than the sun, and he'd tucked an arm around her waist.

My heart rose to my throat. They looked so normal. I couldn't even hate her, but envy and jealousy made my stomach twist. But maybe he had a cute brother tucked in there? It was hard to tell. The other pics—of beautiful saffron rice, samosas, curry, and dishes I didn't recognize, things that looked vaguely British—made me hungry. I prayed she'd brought me some leftover flatbread, because just looking at the photos filled me with longing. At least I could pretend it was culinary in origin.

I kept scrolling. "Went for a movie, went to library, went on long walks," Lila had typed. "His mom and dad called in to school so he could take a mental health day. As long as he did some homework, they said, it was okay. WHAT. Apparently this is a thing that can happen. I so want them to adopt us."

More pics. A park bench. A fountain. Pretty Instagram filtered photos of them kissing and walking together. A photo of—no way.

A ripped condom packet, and their jackets on the ground. "I wish I could frame this packet," said Lila's caption in the text. "Is that weird? I don't care. I know you'll have questions. But I love him so much. And he loves me. Can you believe we were planning to go to the same university anyway? It's got to be fate."

I sat down on the bus stop bench. Who was this dreamy girl, and what had she done with my sister? Cold fear gripped my belly like the icy hand of a lich. She was dancing around in her enchanted glade with her Prince Charming, and she was clearly insane. Never mind that I would have swapped places with her in a heartbeat. All the sneaking around on the internet, going through certain teen forums, couldn't evict the mortal guilt in my belly. Sex = wrong, dangerous, and likely to send you on an express trip to Hell if it didn't involve marriage between straight people.

The sky had turned grey, and I pulled my spring coat around me. Damn it. It had been warm earlier, and I hadn't layered. I'd never learn. Griping to myself and rereading her texts over and over, I surfed Twitter on the bus until I got home. Just as I was getting off, my phone pinged.

"Come home now, Tanis, if you're out. I got a call from the school confirming a note. I know you forged my signature. I know what happened."

From Mother. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

### ***

I ran down the block and almost slammed into the closed door. What I found inside was a total horror show. For starters, the coatrack was lying sideways in the hall, and the shoe rack had been kicked over. As I tiptoed in, I glanced in the living room. The coffee table had been turned over sideways. Tea and coffee had soaked into the rug.

Lila was on the floor, kneeling in front of Mother, her hair in a twist in Mother's hand. Dad leaned against the corner, edging towards his phone, frozen and watching them in horror.

"What were you thinking?" screamed Mother. "I will NOT have my daughter sneaking out of school and having sex with a terrorist!"

"Let me go!" Lila screamed back.

"Oh, God," I breathed. "Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh God..." The words kept spilling out of my mouth like coins, hitting the floor and rolling away. They ignored me, and so did Jesus and God; no plaster saint pinned to a cross came to help. Not a moment of our dissections of scripture had paid off, and in that moment, my faith cracked and burnt out and died. But I could not move. I glanced at Dad, as frozen and helpless as he was.

"I trusted you," screamed Mother. Her other hand dug into Lila's shoulder. One of her nails cut into the skin. Red blood flowed over her crimson manicure, and it looked like her nails were melting.

I looked at Dad, begging him with my eyes to make it stop. But then I saw the bruise on his face, the dark slap shaped like Mother's open hand.

The fear and anger that paralysed me seemed to take over. I floated, precariously attached to my body, as I pulled out my phone to text 911. "Please come to this address. Mother abusing my sister. Send cops. Can't talk." Feeling giddy and far away, I put my phone in the pocket of my jeans. In slow motion, I watched Lila wrench a hand out of Mother's grip. There was a wet snap. Lila reached over and pulled Mother's hand out of her hair, a lock of it coming away in Mother's talon.

She rose, her face red and streaming with tears, and pushed her backwards. Mother fell, open-mouthed and silent, and hit the wall headfirst.

She slumped and sat there, unmoving. But her eyes followed Lila, then settled on Dad. But Dad was up and moving. He ran to Lila, put an arm around her shoulders, hugging her. She clawed at him like a blind, wild thing, like a fox in a trap. He soothed her, and slowly walked down the hall, towards her room. "New Brunswick," I heard, his voice echoing. "Your grandmother. Pack now."

"My boyfriend," sobbed Lila. "School." The words got lost to the static of my own pounding heart. Distantly, I could hear the sirens coming.

"No time," said Dad. He returned, coming down the hall for me. I stared stupidly at his soft grey cable-knit sweater. "Come on, Tanis," he said softly. "Pack quickly. We have to go."

Mother was still in the living room, and had drawn her knees up to her chest. Sirens were calling, and someone in blue was knocking on the door. The knights were here, but Lila's prince was nowhere to be seen.

Near my feet, I saw Lila's phone, lying cracked and broken on the ground. The case hadn't been able to withstand a forceful throw, or being stomped on by Mother's heel, from the looks of it. I glanced between the phone and the officer at the door, and opened it to let him in.

### ***

We left for New Brunswick the next day. As I stared at the prairies and lakes passing by beneath the plane, I glanced at Lila, sleeping next to me. Her face was still covered in bruises that her sunglasses couldn't hide, but at least she was sleeping for now. Dad, on her other side, shot me a worried glance. I made my face curve into what a smile was supposed to be, then pulled out Lila's broken phone.

The screen was cracked, but it was still working. "I understand. Don't forget me," said Saarim's text from today. "I will always, always love you. I wish I could have saved you. Wait for me some day, my love, my dear sweet Lila."

I wanted to throw it, to delete it. I wanted someone to apologize to me, to forgive me, to promise to wait. But there was only the hum of the plane, and my sister's quiet breathing, and the bright glowing hope of the clear sky outside. And it wasn't love, but it would have to do for now.

### ***

### About the Author

Michelle Browne is a sci fi/urban fantasy writer from Calgary, AB. She has a cat and a partner-in-crime. Her days revolve around freelance editing, jewelry, phuquerie, and nightmares. She is currently working on the next books in her series, other people's manuscripts, and drinking as much tea as humanly possible.

Twitter: <http://www.twitter.com/scifimagpie>

Facebook: <http://www.facebook.com/scifimagpie>

Blog: http://www.scifimagpie.blogspot.ca

# Zen and the Art of Safe Sex—Mags Carr

Ben would never consent to meet Nell at her own place, nor would he ever tell her where he lived, if indeed he lived anywhere. The club was where they had first met, and where they always met. It was off the radar. A lot of illegal activities happened there, and if law enforcement had ever found out about it, they would have reduced it to a smoking ruin; but in spite of all that, it was a safe place. It was a place that knew his kind—and also her kind—and helped them.

Ben approached Nell from behind, and bit her bare shoulder gently by way of greeting. His needle-sharp canines barely dented her skin. She shivered, gooseflesh rising on her arms and breasts, and looked back over her shoulder at him.

"I wondered when you'd be by again," she said. "I've been coming every night for two weeks. I missed you." She smiled.

He smiled back, leaned forward and lightly kissed her lips, a dry, close-mouthed kiss, but still something that was rarely done in public by his kind. "I missed you, too. I wanted to come, but–" He trailed off, glancing around; he was always careful no one ever heard them talking; Nell was never sure why, and didn't ask. He said, "Let's get a private."

The private rooms at the club were expensive, but worth it. They were not precisely private, because the watchers could see through the two-way mirror on the wall, and would come through the door at the first blush of trouble. Ben paid for it, gentleman that he was. He always paid. Nell could not have afforded it.

"Why couldn't you meet me before?" Nell asked him. It was a quarter of an hour later, and she sat in the room's only chair, her bare feet elevated, a needle in one arm, into the skin, into the plump green vein. She unwound the rubber tourniquet and her blood began to fill the clear bag, slow and dark.

"It would have been dangerous," Ben said, crossing the room to light the candles in the brass sconces on the wall to distract his mind from the immediacy of her pierced, wounded flesh. "I needed it too much. I might have hurt you."

"What did you do?" she said, squeezing the rubber ball she held in her hand.

"Went out of state. Bought some livestock. Stayed away." He clenched his teeth. "Sheep's blood will keep me from biting you. But I still want you. Just for you."

"I wish we could do this right," she said, squeezing the ball again. Her blood coursed through the tube, swelled the blood bag. "I know this isn't the same."

"It is satisfactory," he said, shaking out the match he had used to light the candles.

Nell pursed her lips as she retied the tourniquet one-handed, cutting off the flow of blood to the bag, and then hooked the tube up to a second pint bag. "Can you take this?" she said, holding up the first bag.

He took it from her carefully, his hands shaking a little. He raised it to touch against his face, shuddering at its heat, and looked away from her. She wished he wouldn't turn away, wished he would let her see the desire in his eyes. Instead, he exhaled forcefully and placed the bag into a large bowl of hot water to keep warm. She unwrapped the tourniquet again and let the blood move. He continued to face away from her while the second bag filled; she knew it was hard for him to watch when he couldn't put his mouth over the wound, lick her warm skin and taste her salt, for fear of fluid transfer, enough to infect her with the contagion.

"How do you feel?" he asked. He was hoarse, but his tone was patient.

"I feel fine," she answered him. "How much more will you need?"

"You could stop now, if you want."

"I can do some more." She squeezed the bulb again.

"Go ahead and stop; I want you to have your strength." He unwrapped a pad of gauze from the blood kit, soaked it with rubbing alcohol, and reached to remove the needle. She stopped him with an upraised hand, and he handed her the gauze. She removed the needle herself while he watched, unable to look away.

"Will it be enough?" she said as she taped her arm. "I mean, will you be able to feel something?"

A drop of blood ran down onto the arm of her chair; she hastily chased it down with the gauze and mopped it up. His breath caught and he turned away fast, turned his back to her. "I feel something for you every time," he said. With nervous haste, he moved the blood kit off the foot of the queen-sized bed, set it on the left night stand.

"That's not what I meant," she muttered. She bit off the tape and sealed the bag, then placed it in the hot water bowl where the first pint of her blood was keeping warm. He breathed deeply, relaxed slowly, before turning to face her again. She relished the sight of him reacting to her, becoming aroused for a taste of her.

She took a few steps closer to him, her hands at her back, reaching to unzip her dress. He closed the distance between them, put his arms around her body, placed his hands over hers. Then he kissed her, openmouthed. She knew in his kind the feeling was so much more intense in the lips and tongue, making a kiss much more personal than in humankind; as personal as sex. She let her hands relax; they dropped from her zipper. His remained there, and he unzipped her dress for her; she felt it loosen and drop, baring her breasts. He touched her bare back along the spine, just inside the zipper, slow and light, kissing her deep and hard, sharing her breath and stealing her heat. His mouth and hands chilled her, made her quiver and break out in gooseflesh again, her nipples hardening against his chest, drawing up tight. He finished unzipping her dress and let it fall at her feet, and lifted her out of it, naked, like a child out of a bathtub. She gripped his shoulders, wrapped her legs around him. He put her down on the bed and knelt in front of her on the floor.

She leaned back on her elbows and let her head roll back, her eyes roll up and closed. She felt him kiss and nuzzle at the insides of her thighs, quivered in anticipation as she felt his cool breath and mouth gently exploring the network of blood vessels underneath her skin. His lips next found her labia, and she gave a gasp at how they chilled her there, in that pocket of heat between her thighs. He gently pinched her swollen clitoris between two fingers, and her toes curled, her calf muscles clenched; when he reached for her breast and found her heated little nipple, fondled her and began to move his fingers firmly up and down in the slick folds of her sex, she gasped his name, tangled her hands in his hair. Still kissing and nibbling her inner thighs, he found a rhythm that made her whole body clench and quiver, and kept at it, rapid and relentless, until she cried out, her body convulsing, the skin of her face and upper chest flushing with heat.

He eased off as her orgasm did; withdrawing his fingers when the contractions of her muscles slowed. He rose up to bend over her, still fondling her breast, kissing her mouth. She felt lightheaded and odd after climaxing so hard. He could tell immediately.

"You gave too much blood," he admonished her. "Your heartbeat is irregular."

She grinned at him. "Too late to put it back now."

"Don't think I won't try, if I think you need it," he said, kissing her again. "I'm watching you."

She met his eyes, her own eyes shining, cheeks flushed, lips moist. "Get it," she said. "I want you. I missed you so bad."

He kissed her again, seeming to travel miles away at the feeling of her heat on his mouth, but remaining careful not to cut her with his sharp teeth. Despite his hunger for blood, she felt his sex stirring next to her leg in reaction to the kiss, half-hard already, though a ghost of its potential self. He sat up, a little unsteady, and reached for the water bowl on the right night stand, drew out a pint of blood, warm as her body. He broke the seal and took a single sip, hardly a tablespoon, and moaned aloud; not the moan of a man enjoying a meal. She was already in his lap, undoing his pants. He raised up so she could push them off his hips, stepped out of them and out of his sandals in one motion, and kicked them away.

He took another sip of the blood and sealed the bag again, not to let any blood go to waste, and set it back into the bowl. She felt his hands on her face then, on her scalp and the back of her neck, tingling with warmth; she was facedown, her lips open to gently mouth his scrotum, feel the round testes through the skin with her tongue. She kissed and sucked him there until she felt his erection take its shape and full size beside her cheek, rubbed her hot face against it. She heard a familiar plastic package being torn open. He gently took her hand, placed a still-rolled, unwrapped condom into her palm and closed her fingers over it.

She pinched the tip of the condom and rolled it down over his length, following it down with her mouth, licking and stroking him with her lips and tongue. He was enormous, too thick for her to fit her mouth around comfortably. She didn't have to try for very long. He touched her face and neck, his fingers almost too hot now as he came into the bloom that blood brought on. He raised her up, kissed her; his arms wrapped around her body, drew her up into a bone-cracking embrace. He put the sealed blood bag to his mouth just over her shoulder, sat her astride his lap, and entered her fully in a single hard thrust. She cried out in pain, and tangled her hands in his hair and clenched her fists, muffled her openmouthed yell against his forehead. He rocked her soothingly, lightly stroking her back, giving her time to adjust to his size and force, and she felt him drinking from the blood bag, which he had bitten into at the same time he thrust into her. She thought about how it would feel if he had bitten her neck instead, teeth in her jugular vein, his contagion mingling with her bloodstream. The thought made her shiver with arousal, and she moved her hips back and forth, letting him know she was ready to continue. He dropped the emptied blood bag on the floor and reached for the full one, drew back to let her see him bite it. She moved faster on his lap, watching him drink her blood from two punctures in a plastic bag, imagining it was from two punctures in her own body. Her slick sex moved with his, and she felt the friction building again, building to climax. But he stopped her, held her still, while he emptied the second blood bag, making eye contact the whole time; he let her watch this time while his pupils dilated until only black could be seen, and his face became savage, one animal preying upon another.

Then he turned her around on the bed, so he was in the superior position, gripped her hips, and began to move inside her, pumping in and out of her to the pace of her heartbeat. He touched his forehead to hers, his teeth bared, her blood on his lips, snarling, panting, heated. She clasped at his back, digging her fingers in, not shying away from his monstrousness, but meeting him, glare for glare, growl for growl and stroke for stroke. When he snapped at her with huge teeth, inches from her face, it brought her to a sudden orgasm, stronger than the first. Hers brought on his own; when he came, he threw his head back, teeth bared and clenched, squeezed his eyes shut, groaning once, deep and gravelly, with something like agony. He throbbed in her strongly, and came hot, almost unbearably hot; burning hot.

After a moment, he gently withdrew, holding the condom onto his body so it wouldn't slide off. He went to the washroom, and she heard water running. She took the opportunity to clean herself, too, and to pull the cover back from the bed and get underneath. She looked at the two-way mirror, and away again; she wondered what the watchers thought of her.

Ben emerged from the washroom and joined her in the bed,

"How much time do we have left?" she asked him.

"I got us the whole night."

She cringed. "So expensive," she said.

"You're worth it."

She smiled, hugged him. "Thank you. That's the second best present you could ever have given me."

"What's the best?"

"Coming back to see me. I was afraid you wouldn't."

He nuzzled her ear, and said, "I'll always come back to you. As long as you live."

"Even when I'm old and saggy and gross?"

"Even then. We'll put your wheelchair in the corner there and spend the night in bed."

She smiled faintly, eyes closed. "I love you," she whispered.

He smiled, too. She didn't see it, but she knew it.

It was the last night they spent together for a long time.

The next time they met and got a private, Nell put her feet up and began to draw blood like always. As she was filling a blood bag, squeezing the rubber ball, a woman forced open the door. She beelined for Nell, snatched the needle out of her arm with one hand and punched her in the middle of the face with the other. Nell felt her nose break, and screamed in pain. The chair overbalanced and tilted over sideways, and Nell tipped out of the chair and onto the floor on top of the half-filled blood bag, which burst under her weight. Blood went everywhere. Instantly, four watchers were through the door. Nell cradled her face with one hand, blinking away tears as she tried to get up. One watcher restrained the raging woman; she fought him hard and he twisted her arms behind her even harder. Nell heard the muffled pop of the woman's shoulder dislocating; she shrieked in pain. Two more watchers held back Ben, who was snarling and straining toward the splattered blood, his face a vicious mask of hunger, eyes dilated and opaque. One pinned him to the wall and the other punched him in the solar plexus, taking the breath and the fight out of him. Nell started to call out his name, but the fourth watcher said to her, "It's time for you to go," and hauled her to her feet by her upper arms as if he expected her to fight him, which she did, and hustled her, almost carrying her, down the hall, through the crowded club, and out the front door and into the backseat of a waiting cab, tossing her purse in after her. He threw a hundred-dollar bill on the front passenger seat and told the driver, "Get her out of here," and the driver peeled out of the alley before the car door was fully closed, nonchalant as if his fares were frequently barefoot, covered in blood, with a gushing nose and two rapidly blackening eyes. Nell got the feeling they were.

The next time she saw him was months later, though not for lack of trying. Her nose was completely healed by then, so she was no longer worried about how she looked; but it had been so long and the event had been so violent that she worried he wouldn't want to see her again.

They got a private but did not make love; they just lay in bed and held each other. Nell wondered at the warmth in his arms and body. Would he come to her right after being with someone else? Was he with someone else more often than he was with her, now? Was that who had hit her last time?

"Who was that woman, last time?" Nell asked him before she could stop herself.

He said, "That was Katrinka."

"Who is she?"

"I owe her money," Ben said, smiling ironically, and Nell was immediately sorry for prying. They had an unspoken deal; neither should know that the other had a life outside the room. They did not know one another's surnames, addresses or occupations. It would have been a breach of safety, just as making love without a condom, or him biting through her skin. Nothing could be passed along.

"You're not hungry," she said to him. It was not a question.

He was quiet. She felt a boundary, sensed it would be a mistake to cross it. She did anyway.

"You fed before I got here. You're afraid to drink my blood, even from a plastic bag."

"Yes." He shifted under her. "I was always afraid."

The word "was" made Nell uneasy. Past tense. "But not to drink someone else's before you came to see me."

He rolled her off of him and got up. He put on his jacket and snuffed out the candles.

"Talk to me," she said, sitting up. "Work this out with me. Pretend for a minute that we're a real couple instead of... whatever we are. I love you. Ben, please."

"I love you," he said, "I always will love you. But if there's an accident and you are changed, I won't want to make love with you anymore. Nor would you, with me."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"That's just the way it is. It's a natural behavior. To spread the contagion, we need to bite humans. The contagion wants to spread, so it makes us want human blood."

"But you can only bite a human once."

"Therein lies the problem with being in love. It means only safe sex, forever, or unsafe sex once, followed by zero sexual desire for each other, forever." He took his jacket back off and hung it up, dragged the chair over toward the bed and sat down across from her. "Yes, I drank another person's blood today. A man who's dying of leukemia was here earlier with his vampire girlfriend, to be turned. They're friends of mine, so they invited me to share. To bite a human is a rare treat, so I accepted."

"Did you fuck him?" she challenged.

"Do you want me to answer that?"

She fell silent. It was a jealous, reproachful silence.

"You wish sex wasn't part of it. Why do you think these rooms all have beds in them?"

"Do you fuck the sheep? Or the pigs?"

"No. I don't bite the animals."

"You don't bite me."

"Not because I don't want to."

"So," she said, beginning to understand, "you can drink animal blood and not starve. You can drink vampire blood and not starve. But because you can't pass the contagion on to animals or other vampires, you don't feel a desire to bite them."

"That's right."

"So the only reason you want to bite me is the same reason you can't bite me."

"Sucks, huh?" He sat back in the chair. "You never told me why you're attracted to vampires. You'd been coming here for months before you met me."

She was surprised by the question, and more surprised she didn't know the answer immediately.

It took her a few minutes to come up with something resembling an answer.

"The danger, maybe," she said. "The potential–I mean, you're three times as strong as me, and one bite could–" She stopped.

"Could ruin your life." He watched her while he spoke. "It's attractive to you how I have to restrain myself to keep from hurting you. You find it thrilling, how easy it would be, how if I make one mistake, I could kill or ruin the life of the woman I love." He rubbed his eyes, and looked at her again. "And the reason I want to bite you is the same reason I can't bite you. You want to keep pretending we're a real couple nurturing a healthy relationship?"

She was quiet. Tears welled up in her eyes.

He spoke again, less flippant. "I came after you last time we were here. I would have killed you."

"That's why we come here. It's safe."

"Condoms break, Nell. Accidents happen. It's never going to be safe."

"Ben, I'm attracted to vampires. That's true. But when I'm here, I wait around to see if you're going to come in. I don't go with anyone else. It's you I want." She reached for his hand. "Didn't you say you wanted me, just for me?"

He opened his hand under hers, and closed it around her fingers.

She looked him in the eyes. "One day, it will happen. The accident. And you won't want to make love with me anymore after that. But until then, we can love each other, and make love, and try to be safe. It's worth it."

He dropped his gaze. Then he got up and put his jacket back on. She watched him, not sure what to think.

He looked at her finally. "I didn't fuck him," he said. "I wanted to. But I didn't."

He left.

She stayed for a while, hoping he would come back. Then a watcher knocked on the door and gently told her that Ben had only paid for two hours, and her time was almost up. She left, too.

She wasn't sure if he would be back. But she returned the next night, and so did he. She was having a margarita at the bar, and he approached from behind, like always, and nipped her shoulder lightly. "Nell," he said, his familiar voice deep, low and preternaturally beautiful. She moaned, eyes closed, willing it to be true. He wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his chin on her shoulder. "I missed you," he said.

"Since yesterday?" she couldn't resist teasing.

"Yeah, since yesterday." He nuzzled her earlobe. "I ended things wrong. Can we talk?"

"I'm listening."

"In private."

They got a private. While he hung up his jacket, he said, "I owe you an apology. I shouldn't have hinted that I was unfaithful."

She shook her head. "We never agreed to be faithful. I was wrong to pry." She sat down at the foot of the bed.

"Would you like to agree to be faithful?"

She shrugged. "Apparently I have some problem with the idea of you having sex with someone else. I didn't know that. This is the first time it's come up."

"You're faithful."

"Yeah."

"Then I will be, too." He shuffled his feet. "You also deserve an explanation why Katrinka punched you in the face."

Nell smiled. "I assumed she was, you know, who you were with before me."

"She is an ex. She and I had a similar arrangement to the one you and I have. She kept asking me to bite her, begging me; but only during sex. Beforehand, or after, she told me she didn't want to be turned. I knew it was only a matter of time before she asked me and I did it; it's hard to resist already, you know that. And she would hate me forever. So I ended it. Now, I guess she's jealous of you."

"What happened to her?"

"Her shoulder was dislocated. They called the paramedics. After that, I don't know what. I expect they took her to the hospital. Or they just put her in a cab, like you. After what she did, I don't care. I'm very vexed with her."

"What happened to you?"

"They knocked some sense into me. That's what it takes when I get like that. Afterwards they fed me. That helped."

"If she knows you, she must know that you could have hurt her when you get like that."

"She knows vampires, she knows I would have gone for the blood. I did go for the blood. If the watchers hadn't been there, it's you I would have killed."

"It wouldn't have been you who did it. She knew what she was doing; she was trying to kill me, using you."

He shrugged. "I would still have felt as guilty."

"You didn't kill me. The watchers are good at what they do."

He sat beside her on the bed. "Are we a real couple, Nell?"

Nell nodded. "Yeah. As far as I'm concerned. Only real couples fight like this, right?"

He smiled. He leaned close to her, wrapped his arms around her shoulders, kissed her earlobe. Then he said, "Tell me your last name."

Eyes closed, a smile on her lips, she sighed out a long, deep breath she hadn't known she was holding. "It's Evans," she said. "I'm Mary Nell Evans." She turned her head and smiled at him.

"Benedetto Tagliacozzi. So nice to meet you."

She snickered a little. "Benedetto?"

He grinned. "Mary Nell?"

"Touché," she said, and kissed him.

### ***

### About the Author

Mags Carr has enjoyed writing speculative fiction and poetry since 1993. She lives in Florida with her husband and their three pet gerbils.

# Julie and Roman: A Bayman and Townie Love Story—Tina Traverse

Roman:

I roll my eyes as my father scuttles about, barking orders to our weary servants. We are preparing for another trip around the bay to open a new Morgan's Fine Foods supermarket. This franchise is our family's two hundredth store. This particular store is special to my father, because not only is it a milestone, but it's located in a community near and dear to his heart.

Cupid is a town that our ancestors founded five hundred years ago. Each generation of Morgans had a mayor of the small but proud town, until last year when my Uncle Tyler lost to Mary Margaret Collins, the first female mayor. With her win, the Morgan dynasty had come to an end. Tyler took it with a grain of salt, accepting a lucrative job in Alberta, but my father was furious. Martin Morgan III vowed retribution. He just never acted on it yet. My dad swears he has a plan in place.

"Roman! Come on, son, we're going to be late."

Dad's swift command pulls me out of my thoughts. Clara, our maid, hands me my cell, and I slip it into my pocket and slide next to my father in the backseat of our limo.

"Do you have my speech ready, son? It's important that this opening goes off without a hitch. I can't risk the bitch making fun of me and my good name."

"I do, Dad. But you need to relax. We've done so many of these openings that we can do it in our sleep. Nothing is going to go wrong."

"You're right, Roman. Nothing will go wrong. We're Morgans. Founding family- and nothing can change that. We're royalty. That Collins woman is a has-been wanna-be. I'll find a way to get us back on top."

'The Collins woman' was one of the many insults Martin had for the mayor. I never officially met the Corner Brook transplant, but after listening to Dad's berating description of this faceless betrayer, I'm curious to put a face finally to the name.

Soon, the skyscrapers and swarm of the air=choking gas guzzlers dissipate into a panoramic vista of tranquility. The long, slick black beast rolls to a stop in front of a quaint, two-story saltbox style home. An angular woman in a tailored pantsuit and a shock of salt and pepper hair emerges, greeting us.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Morgan and Roman. I trust you had a pleasant trip?"

Dad shakes the perky woman's hand a little too hard. A flash of pain crosses her smooth, lovely features before it disappears, and the warm smile returns. I'm gentle with my handshake as I introduce myself, even though she knows my name.

"Nice to meet you, Roman. We've never met before, but your father speaks quite highly of you during our many conversations. I'm Mary Margaret Collins."

I swallow my shock. This kind and lively, beautiful, middle-aged woman is the old hag my father described? I can hardly believe it; how hatred can skew reality.

"Well, let's go inside, shall we? We can finalize the plans for this afternoon's opening over tea."

"Sure, Mary. Lead the way, dear."

### ***

I can see the veins in Dad's neck protrude a smidgen as he nearly chokes on the artificial nicety.

The home is modest but modern. The first floor is warm and inviting, decorated in soft pastel hues. The tour doesn't last long. The Mayor directs Martin to her spacious office. A blueprint of the store and its grounds lay spread across an antique oak desk. In the corner, a stout, portly man in a dull grey suit offers his hand to my father.

"Nice to see you again, Martin. Thank you for attending this momentous occasion."

"The pleasure is mine, Francis. Every time the Morgan Fine Foods family grows, it warms my heart and makes me proud."

"You'll have my solemn promise that I will care for this beauty in the years to come."

"I trust that you will. That's why I handpicked you as the manager. I know you will give each customer and this store the personal touch."

Francis moves his admiring gaze from my dad long enough to peer over his shoulder and notice me.

"This can't be little Roman? My, how you've grown into a handsome young man. How old are you now, son?"

"Twenty, sir."

"My, how time has flown. Time is nuttin' now, me son. One day they're little farts running around, and the next they're braced to run your empire."

"Very true. I hate to interrupt this sentimental moment, but we must get back to work."

"Of course. My apologies. Mary, is there somewhere Roman can wait?"

"Yes. Just outside here are the gardens. My daughter should be out there to show you around and keep you company. Just a moment."

A few moments later, our host returned. "Okay, Roman, you can go on out. Julie will show you around."

Walking through the glass door, I bask in the welcoming sunshine.

### ***

Julie:

The mayor requested me to keep the son of Cupid's newest employer, company. A task that I didn't relish.

The Morgans have a reputation of thinking of themselves as Cupid's royalty just because they're the founding family. Martin Morgan's brother, Tyler proved that claim to be just an illusion last year. The facade came tumbling down when the treasurer uncovered that the town leader was using the municipality's funds to support his gambling and prostitute habit. My mother won the election by a landslide after the scandal broke.

I hear the glass door to the office open and swallow my distaste and prepare to show the preppy snot Bayman hospitality. With my hand already extended, I turned the corner and stop.

Standing by Mom's prize rose bushes is a man far from the preppie I had envisioned in my head. His six-foot-four frame is bent at the waist, his nose pressed to one of the flowers, inhaling its scent.

Straightening his posture, he tucks a wayward auburn strand behind his ear. As if he senses my presence, my guest trains his sparkling hazel eyes at me.

"Hi, there."

The deep, silken baritone rouses me out of my daydream. "Hi. You must be Roman."

"Yes, I am."

"Nice to meet you. I'm Julie. Mary Margaret's daughter."

"Likewise. Your mother told me that you're going to show me around this magnificent garden."

"Sure, follow me."

We tour Mom's prize garden, only speaking when I mention where she got her pitcher plants. I point out that the willow trees which dot the perimeter of our property were a gift from the Lieutenant Governor.

"These are impressive grounds, Julie. Your mom certainly has a green thumb."

"It's her pride and joy. She spends every spare second she can out here. It relaxes her."

"All the vegetation is stunning, but I have to admit that the tree over there standing alone is the most intriguing."

My heart swells in my chest. My breath hitches and tears pool, burning my eyes. I swallow my grief and smile.

"That's an important tree; that's why it stands alone."

"May I ask why?"

As if sensing my barely contained sorrow, Roman redirects my attention elsewhere.

"Ah, it's getting hot out here. Would you like to go back inside? I would like a drink, if you don't mind."

"Um, okay. Come inside. I made some fresh iced tea this morning."

Directing the guest to our sunroom, I bring two glasses of iced tea and hand one to Roman.

"You look tired and hot. Here, take a seat next to me."

I sit next to my companion, grateful to be finally relaxing. I'm feeling winded, and my heated skin is a warning signal for me to rest for the remainder of the morning. The watch around my arm signals the rise of my heart rate before I feel it. My stomach twists into a knot. Oh, please, not now. Mr. Perfect is not to witness an episode. Sipping on the cold drink, I hope it will curb the rising panic. It does nothing.

I hold the glass with a trembling hand, doing my best to disguise all the signs of the impending attack. It's useless. Nothing can stop my body betraying me. The familiar signs are following by the steady beeping from the watch on my wrist. I can't hide the truth any longer.

"Julie, are you alright? You're pale and shaking like a leaf."

I stand on wobbly limbs and take a step to the cabinet on the wall behind Roman, but fall forward. He catches me. In his strong embrace, I feel safe and am able to steady myself.

"I'd be fine in a moment. I just need those pills in the cabinet behind you."

"Sit, I'll get them for you."

The room spins and I close my eyes to ward of the waves of dizzy nausea washing over me.

"Are these the right pills, Julie?"

"Yes."

"How many?"

"Two of the white, three of the pink, and one of the blue."

With swift precision, Roman dispenses the medication into his palm. Drops of sweat fall onto his hand as he places each pill, one at a time, on my tongue. I swallow the bitter medicine with the tea.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Look, Julie you're in hard shape. I'm going call your Mom and take you to the ER."

I seize his bicep, stopping him. "It's not necessary. I'll be okay as soon as the meds kick in. Just give me a moment."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I experience this reaction to the heat, often. I know my body."

Still appearing unsure, Roman wraps an arm around my waist, lifting me into his arms like as if I'm light as a feather.

"Where are you taking me?"

"I'm taking you to your bedroom."

"My bedroom?"

"Or any place where you can lie down."

Too weak to protest, I give directions to my room. With each beat of the steps, the trembling stills, my heart beat slows, and I feel a little more normal. Roman lay me down on my bed.I settle into the duvet, finding comfort in its softness.

"Better?"

"Yeah, much better. Thank you."

"You need me to notify your mother?"

"No. I'm settled now. She doesn't need to be disturbed from her meeting."

"Okay, I won't but only if you tell me one thing."

"If I can."

"Why did you get that kind of reaction from too much sun?"

### ***

Roman:

Julie's pallor blends in so well with the duvet that she seems to disappear. Sweat clings to her short ebony hair. The frail young woman sweeps her tongue along pale lips.

"Roman, could you get me a drink of water? I'm thirsty. There's a glass on my night table and water in the fridge in the corner."

Filling the glass to the brim, I help Julie sit up and place the liquid to her lips. She drinks until she's satisfied and lies back down.

"Thank you. Much better. Now, I believe you need to know what just happened."

"Only if you're comfortable. If not, I understand. We just met."

"No, it's okay. It's no big secret. I have an incurable heart defect. One that would've been fatal if it weren't for the actions of a vigilant doctor."

"What did she do?"

"I had emergency surgery to treat it. From then on, I was subjected to many complicated operations. To keep me alive, I have to take a variety of medications."

"That's awful, Julie. I'm sorry."

"Thank you. It's a miracle that I'm still here, but the doctors say that I don't have much longer without a transplant."

Julie's tragic story stills my own heart, and her openness tugs at my emotions. Though we've just met, I believe that she's the bravest person in the world. Without thinking, my fingers intertwine with her cold ones.

"Do you know how far you're on the transplant list?"

"I'm on the top. Number two, I think."

"That good or bad?"

"Depends how quickly the number one recipient gets theirs. If the person doesn't get one for a while, then the chances of me surviving to receive mine are slim."

"There has to be a way to enhance your chances."

"Nothing can be done. I must be patient. Wait my turn."

"Do you have long if a heart doesn't become available?"

"Not long. My doctor told me I'm lucky to survive six more months."

"You sound like you'd be okay with dying."

"I rather live, Roman, but I've made my peace with my mortality. I had to accept my death in order to live."

"I don't get it. We're young. There's much life to live."

"Heh. I hear yah. You're a typical twenty-something. Handsome, athletic, charismatic and energetic. I bet your days are brimming over with daredevil stunts, parties and beautiful women that hang all over you."

"That's a stereotypical view you're presenting of me."

"Is it untrue? 'Cause if it is, please accept my humble apologies."

"No, you're half right. There's more to me than a spoiled rich kid."

Heat rises to Julie's face. However, the mischievous twinkle in her eye contradicts the embarrassment.

"Mmmm. You have me intrigued. Tell me more."

"My father has groomed me to take over Morgan's Fine Foods, which I plan to do when the time comes, but I want to do more."

"Like what?"

"Our family always gave back to the community where our business serves, but I feel more should be done."

"I can't possibility think what more your family's company can do. Here in Cupid alone, Morgan Fine Foods has provided well-paying jobs to unemployed men and women who would've been forced to move to the mainland."

"I know, and we also offer holiday hampers to families in need. I know the good that we do, thanks to my mother."

"Sounds like it was only your mom that cared."

"Charity work was Mom's passion, and she started and ran them until she died from cancer last year. My father only continues with it in her memory."

"I'm sorry about your mom. My condolences."

"Thank you."

We settle in a pleasant conversation. I tell her about my dreams of expanding the charity fund my mother started a foundation that will support various charities. Julie's enthusiasm for the idea is infectious. It's her dream of becoming a doctor and helping the destitute right in her backyard. Occupied with getting acquainted with each other, I barely heard the bing from my phone. Retrieving it from my pocket, I notice five missed messages from my father.

We are ready to leave in five.

Be downstairs in three.

The meeting is over. Time to get going to the opening.

Where are you? RSVP now.

If you're not outside by the limo in one minute, I'm coming to find you and drag you out myself.

"I better get going. My father is impatient."

"You better get going then. Can't have him blowing his top."

"Yeah. Hey, do you have a cell?"

"I do. Why?"

"Hand it to me for a moment, please. I want to give you my number so you can call and text me."

"You sure are confident that I would want your phone number."

"Ah, I'm sorry. I guess that was forward of me, huh?"

A flicker amusement crosses her face as she retrieves a violet cell phone out of the pocket of her dress. "Geez, b'y, I'm only joking. Here."

Within moments, I enter my digits and return her phone. With the obsessive buzzing of yet another message from the demanding Martin Morgan, I say goodbye to my new friend.

"It was nice meeting you, Julie. Feel better."

"Likewise, Roman. Thank you."

"Don't forget to text me."

"I won't."

Gently closing the door, taking my time to meet my father, knowing that I can handle his stormy mood after experiencing the warmth of sunshine.

### ***

Julie:

My finger hovers over the ominous four-letter-word that could change my life, turning my boring, cautious life upside down. The impatient woman pacing behind me blows out a puff of agitation, wringing her hands.

"Come on. Do it already. What are you waiting for?"

"Megan, give me a minute. This text must be perfect."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, woman," She pries the phone out of my hands, her eyes roaming over the short message. "It's fine. Hit send. It's not difficult. See?"

Guiding my hesitant finger to the phone, she presses the button for me, effectively forwarding Roman's message. I scowl at my best friend.

"How could you do that? I wasn't ready."

"Yes, you were. You were just procrastinating. I did you a favour."

"Whatever."

Sulking, I dip my fry into the pool of gravy and take a heedless bite. Adolescent doubt lingers over me like a cloud. The phone is like a leaden weight in my hand as I turn it over, waiting. Silently chastising myself, I slip it into my purse. Sensing my restless trepidation, Megan changes the topic.

"What do you want to do Friday night?"

"Dunno. Feel like anything in particular?"

"You want to come to St. John's with me tomorrow and spend the weekend? I can take you to Doctor Phillips and bring you home afterward."

"Sounds good. What time do you want to leave?"

"I'll pick you up after lunch. I call you."

Losing interest in the bland food in front of me, I push it away. "You ready to go? I'm bored and want to go home."

"Sure. I'll have a quick pee, and we can get going. Wait right here."

To pass the time waiting, I allow my mind to wander back to yesterday. I've experienced the cardiac event multiple times, but it still imprisons me in fear. Roman's presence lessened that torment in many ways. His arms were providing me the strength I lacked. Empathy, compassion and the unselfish offering of an understanding ear went a long way.

The theme song to my favourite TV show pulls me from my memory. Rescuing my phone from the jumbled mass of purse memorabilia, I flip through my cache of missed texts and find the latest one is from Roman.

Hi Julie. Sorry, so long returning your text. Been swamped with work. I'll like to see you again. Got plans for the weekend?

Hi back. Yeah, I do. I'm visiting a friend in the city. Like to join us?

Hell, yeah! I was going to see you in Cupids but here is better. What r ur plans?

Just hanging out with my friend, Megan. Watching movies and gabbing.

So a low key weekend?

Yeah. I can't do anything strenuous.

Cool. Text me Megan's address, and I bring some grub.

Okay. It's 45 Cardinal Drive. Know it?

I do. It's not far from my house. 8pm Saturday night? It'll give you a couple of nights with Megan.

Perfect. Can't wait.

Me either. Wait. We just made plans without asking her permission.

No worries. She's dying to meet you.

See you Saturday.

Two teenagers snicker as they pass me. Curious, I look down at the floor tiles and see a wistful smile. Excitement tingles across my skin. Saturday can't come soon enough.

### ***

Roman:

A man in a hooded sweatshirt stands leering at the woman from the safety of the shadows. Unaware of his loving gaze, the voluptuous blonde murmurs sweet nothings to the person on the other end of her phone. The vixen's sashaying is seductive, but when she flicks her long hair over her shoulder, the Shadow Man comes undone. Emerging from the darkness, this beauty's meant to be real love seizes her in his arms, basking in the rapturous sound of her screams.

"That was just, awful."

Julie playfully slaps my arm. "You're some picky. I thought that was a great movie."

"It's great if you enjoy cheesy predictability."

"I do. Wanna watch another one?"

"It's one o'clock in the morning."

"So? That's not late. You a wuss?"

"No, but if your self-proclaimed night owl friend has fallen asleep, it has to be late."

"Megan is only sleeping because it's been a long day. Normally, she'd be up with us, enjoying a movie marathon."

The palliative care nurse lies in a fetal position on a recliner upholstered with more duct tape than fabric. Her inky curls rise and fall with her snore. Julie's giggling draws my attention back to her. The tireless movie companion's hand cups my knee. My nerve endings hum with pleasurable tingles. Julie's focus is no longer on the screen but my face. Her soft pink lips glisten.

Giving into the temptation that plagued me since our meeting, I trace my thumb along her bottom lip. Her lips part. Testing the moment, I brush my lips over hers and wait. Tense seconds tick by as Julie remains unresponsive. Then, with a quiver, her lips move against mine.

Relaxing against each other, I pull her to me. Subtle fingers tangle in my hair, drawing me closer. The kiss deepens, becoming ardent with each caress. My hand wanders to the swell of Julie's breast, a low groan encourages me to stroke the fullness through the fabric of her shirt. Our bodies melt into each other. I easily fall into the fog of desire, becoming blissfully lost.

Julie's gasp finds my senses when I realize that she's touched my hardness. I break our kiss. Her eyes flutter open, mingling confusion and a lingering lust dance in them. My head spins. My heart thunders in my chest.

"Why did you stop?"

"We can't go any further. It's not right."

"Why, Roman? I want this."

Cupping the side of her face, amazed by the softness of her skin, I plead with her to understand. "I want this too, Julie, but you're not ready for this leap, yet. I want us to take it slow and enjoy getting to know each other."

"I don't have the luxury of going slow, remember? Give me this, please. Make love to me, Roman."

"I can't. You're fragile. I don't want to hurt you."

"No, you won't. I trust you. All, you have to do is be gentle and take your time. It'll be magical."

Tears flow like a river down her flushed cheeks. I wipe them away with my thumb. Her innocence and untouched sensuality swell my heart. The yearning to be her protector is overwhelming. I choke back my tears. I'm falling for her hard and fast.

"Julie, I know you feel this intense attraction between us, but we just met. This is our first date." She opens her mouth to protest. "I know our time together will be precious. That doesn't mean we have to rush. "

Her hand slips from my chest. In silent acquiescence, she rises to her feet and starts to pick up our mess. Following the prideful woman into the kitchen, I take a towel, and we clean the dishes in silence.

### ***

Julie:

The nature of my condition has trained me to be cautious. I spent my childhood gazing at the other children playing outside. I yearned to climb a tree, ride a bike, play hopscotch, or any normal kid activity. While my peers attended regular school and created memorable moments, I was stuck with a tutor. Roman is my chance to experience a normal life. His rejection feels like a stolen gift. I touch my fingers to my lip. I can still feel the heat of his kiss, the sweetness, the promise that it held. I wanted more.

Doctor Phillips' spectacled gaze drifts over my chart. Asking the same questions she does every visit, I answer as she makes notations. Replacing the cap on her pen, Doctor Phillips leans back in her chair.

"As you can see, nothing has changed. Your condition hasn't worsened or gotten better."

"Has there been any word about a donor's heart becoming available?"

"There is good news on that front. The candidate ahead of you received his heart, moving you to the top of the list."

"That's wonderful. I have a better chance now."

"You do, but don't hang your hopes on this development. It could still take years, if at all."

"Thanks for the encouragement."

"I'm sorry, Julie, but you know I don't offer false hope. It's cruel."

"I know, it's just I have something to live for now."

The skeptical cardiac surgeon arches an eyebrow. "May I ask what has changed?"

"I have a boyfriend. We're in love."

The doctor schools her expression, keeping it neutral. "Do you think that's wise?"

"Are you discouraging this relationship? The last time I checked, you weren't my mother."

"Your mother doesn't approve of this relationship?"

"No. She demanded I break up with Roman."

"You see her point, don't you? Your mother is just protecting you and this boy. The longer this romance is allowed to continue, the more devastating it'll be for him."

"I understand, but I just want to enjoy what left of my life. Is that wrong?"

"Under normal circumstances, no. For you and this young man, yes. Fall fast. Fall far. Fall hard. Think about that, Julie, before you pursue following your heart."

"What's the matter, Julie? You seem so far away." Roman works on the tense knots in the muscles of my back with skilled hands. Deep, soothing pressure circles my shoulders, producing a radiating warmth throughout my body, relaxing me.

"I had a tough session with Doctor Phillips. She overstepped her bounds."

"Oh my God, Julie. How?"

"She encouraged me to break up with you. Stated it was for the best."

"The best for who?"

"You, and I think she may have a point."

"What are you saying? You agree with her?"

"Not at first, but I did some soul searching and realized that my doctor and our parents speak the truth. We can never have a normal romance, Roman, and it's not fair to you."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this drivel. Sure, what we have is different, but it's powerful and real. I want to spend every moment I can loving you."

"Roman, don't you see? I'm dying. Reverse the situation, and if it were you that was going to leave this earth in less than a year, I'd be inconsolable. I never love again. I don't want that for you."

Roman's hand cups my chin, capturing my gaze. "I decide what I want. No one dictates what I do or how I feel. Not even you, Sweetness. I love you, and I will spend the precious time we have left, proving that. I'm blessed."

"Blessed?"

"If you gave me a choice to love you for one moment or never have known you, I'd choose the moment."

The weight of his words is carried by the strength of his love. My heart lurches in my chest, and overwhelming emotion blur my vision. Wrapping my arms around Roman, I squeeze, nuzzling his neck.

### ***

Roman:

Giving myself one last inspection in the mirror to make sure I look perfect, I take the dozen white roses off the bed and make my way to the foyer.

"Roman, could you please come in for a moment?"

I freeze. A cold sensation of dread surges through my veins. Damn, I almost made it out the door without my old man seeing me. Defeated, I honour his request and step into his office.

"You beckoned, Father?"

Shuffling papers on the desk, Martin studies me. Scowling, he adjusts his tie and takes his perch in the large, leather chair.

"Where are you going, son?"

"Taking a quick jaunt out to Cupid to see Julie."

"Why do you insist on disrespecting me by going against my wishes?"

"I'm a grown man, Dad. I'm not doing anything wrong."

"Yes you are by continuing to see that Collins girl. People are beginning to talk. Our good name is being sullied because you can't put out the trash."

A chill runs down my spine. Tendrils of white hot anger boil the blood in my veins. My hands curl into fists, crushing the roses. I fight to control the rage shaking me, but fail. My father remains cool even as my fists slam down on his desk.

"You fucking bastard. How dare you compare the love of my life to trash."

"That daughter of a whore isn't the love of your life. She's is nothing more than an infatuation. Don't mistake pity for love."

I bite down on my tongue so hard that I taste blood. "You arrogant fuck. Father, you're so caught up in your hatred for Julie's mother that it blinds you to the truth."

"I see the reality just fine. It's you that's blind."

My jaw clenches tight, almost turning my teeth to dust. Red rage tinges the edges of my vision, and my pulse pounds in my temples. My nails bite into my palms, and I feel my restraint slipping away. My fist connects with my father's jaw with a satisfying crunch. Toppling backwards, the pompous millionaire clutches his jaw. Satisfied, I wheel around and stomp out the door, leaving my father's threats behind.

### ***

Julie bathes my swollen hand. The tension cast a pall over us, thrusting the room into silence. Her disappointment with how I left things with my father is palpable.

"Julie, talk to me, please."

"I have nothing to say, Roman."

"You must. You've been quiet since I arrived."

Drying the last of the water off my hand, she doesn't answer me, becoming engrossed in wrapping it. I brush Julie's cheek with my good hand. My fingers trail the softness of her skin, my thumb gliding over her bottom lip. Instinctively, her lips part, and I brush my lips across hers. Julie doesn't protest when I deepen the kiss, but her posture remains stiff. I break the kiss.

"Sweetness, tell me why you're so cold to me?"

"Why did you hit your dad?"

"I told you, the bastard deserved it. He called you garbage."

"I understand that you were defending me, but violence isn't the solution. It makes a difficult situation worse."

"I'm sorry I lost my temper, and you're right. Hitting my father was wrong, but at that moment, I couldn't think. All, I saw, was red. Please, forgive me."

"I forgive you, Roman. Just promise me that you'll try to walk away next time. Our parents are stubborn. They transfer their hate for each other onto us."

"I promise. You're right. We mustn't let our parents be a barrier to our love. We are both adults and will make our choices."

"Exactly. Enough of this foolishness, let's do something fun."

"What do you want to do?"

Julie ponders for a moment before grasping my hand and dragging me out the door.

"Just follow me."

### ***

Julie:

Lying cradled in Roman's arms under the cover of my favourite willow tree, we map out our hopes and dreams. Our bellies are full from the modest picnic supper I packed to enjoy in my backyard. I luxuriate in the simple joy of nuzzling close to the man that I love and count his heartbeats.

"Julie, may I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"It's something I've wanted to know since we met. If it's too painful, you don't have to answer."

I rise on one arm, curious. "What is it you want to know?"

"The tree over there in the rock garden, the one you said it was special. May I ask why?"

The tree's delicate cherry blossoms, in full bloom, hold special personal meaning. I never told anyone else the reason.

"I planted that tree when I was thirteen, in memory of my father. His body rejected his new heart, and he died before they could find another. Cherry blossoms were his favourite."

"I'm sorry, Julie. I guess your father had the same condition as you?"

"Yes. He lived longer than anyone thought he would, but it didn't make his passing any less painful."

I blink away the beginning of a tear; Roman pulls me closer. A long moment of quiet reflection lingers with us. We enjoy the calm; just us and the stars. Memories of my father don't plunge me into a dark emptiness this time. Instead only warm, joyous recollections comfort me.

"Julie, marry me."

Roman's husky baritone cuts through the remembrance of my father pushing me on a swing, laughing as I touched the clouds with my toes.

"Pardon?"

I heard his words; I just didn't how to process them. Roman's viridescent gaze reflects honest sincerity. His proposal is real.

"Marry me, Julie."

"Marry you? Do you know what you're asking?"

"Yes, My Love, I do. I want to spend forever with you, however long that may be."

I hug him, pressing my head to his chest, listening to each beat of his heart, and watch the sun set. Drinking this moment in, I let it linger. It's warm, honest, and passionate. Just like all our times together. I didn't want this feeling to end. I needed more, and all I need to say are five little words.

"Yes, Roman. I'll marry you."

My new fiancé's kiss is swift and consuming. Melting into his embrace, I give myself over completely. Roman's hand finds my cheek, holding it there. I slip my hand up his shirt, caressing the subtle flesh underneath.

"Mmmm, I think we better stop now," he murmurs against my lips.

I hang on to his shirt, refusing to let the irresistible former playboy go. "I don't want to stop."

Panting, Roman gently pushes us apart, but still keeps a steady arm around my waist. "I don't want to stop, either, but I think we need to slow down and wait for our wedding night."

"I never pegged you to have old-fashioned religious beliefs."

"I don't subscribe to any organized religion. My desire, to wait, is for both our purposes. I want our first night as husband and wife to be memorable."

"I have no doubt that it will be. Speaking of wedding nights, when will we have our wedding day?"

"Give me three days. I know this quaint church just on the outskirts of St. John's. The minister there was a friend of my mother. He can arrange an elegant private ceremony on short notice."

"Who says I want a small wedding? I always dreamt of a big, fancy wedding with all my friends and family," I tease, feigning umbrage.

"I—I—okay. I can see if can plan one quicker than normal."

"Heh. Calm down, will ya. I'm joking. A private ceremony is perfect."

"Whew. I thought you were serious for a minute. I will make arrangements when I go home and text you the details."

"I can't wait to be your wife. It is a dream come true."

Roman carries me to my bed, tucking me in tight and brushing his lips against mine. It doesn't take long for me to drift off to sleep with the promise of sweet dreams.

### ***

Roman:

Mary Margaret Collins' petite frame blocks the exit, scowling. Her perfectly styled cut is dishevelled from running her manicured hands through it. She's perturbed about what her daughter and I are about to do.

"You aren't getting married, Julie. I will not allow it."

Defiant, Julie marches over to the stubborn matron, holding her head high.

"I don't need your permission, or desire it, Mother. I'm a grown woman, and I will marry the man I love."

"You stupid, naive little girl. That boy doesn't love you. He pities you. You're just a play thing, nothing more."

"With all due respect, Mrs. Collins, I take offence to that statement. I do love your only child, but you can't see that because your hatred for my father blinds you."

"Why you insolent..." Mary's hand raises to strike me, but I catch it midair.

"Mom!"

"Mrs. Collins, I don't know what my father did to you, but I assure you, I'm not him. Please, calm down and look at this situation rationally."

"There is nothing rational about this, Roman. My little girl is going to die, and she's needs to spend time with me, rather than going off and getting married to someone she just met."

The Mayor's lip trembles. Heat rises to her cheeks from the strain of holding back her tears. I squeeze the shaky hand still clenched in my fist.

"Mrs. Collins, I'm not taking Julie away. She'll be with her family, you and me. You won't be alone when the day does come, I promise."

"Please, Mom, listen to him. I don't want the last days of my life without the best love I ever known. Marrying Roman after just meeting him two months ago is just rash and quick. I would agree, but this isn't ordinary."

Mary pulls away from me to plead with her daughter to listen to reason. Julie's heartfelt words of not wanting to waste precious time quarrelling, to spend them enjoying the gift of a few fleeting moments of experiencing happiness. It all falls on deaf ears.

### ***

Julie:

Soft candlelight cast a golden glow across the stained glass windows, creating an ethereal, peaceful illumination. The multicolour animation seems to come from the heavens, and calms my frazzled nerves. My best friend fusses about, fiddling with my hair and simple white dress.

"Megan, my appearance is fine. You already checked every inch of me."

The fastidious maid of honour circles around me, straightening my pearls and dusting a thin layer of floral perfume over me.

"I know, but I want you looking flawless when you marry the man of your dreams."

A light tap on the door signalled that it was time to go. Straightening her dress and swiping her bouquet of white roses, she thrust my clematis and white garden rose bouquet into my hands.

"Okay, future Mrs. Roman Morgan, let's get you hitched."

There was no music to accompany my walk down the aisle, but it didn't matter. My destiny, in an elegant designer tux, waits for me at the altar. Roman's olive eyes shine with love, a reflection of my own. Taking my hand in his, he kisses my fingertips before letting the minister begin.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join this man and woman in holy matrimony."

These were the last words I heard from the officiant's mouth, losing myself in the fairytale moment. I feel a floating, tingling sensation as I voiced my love for the stunning angel before me. Finally, we say the two words that would bind us for a lifetime.

"I do."

"You may kiss the bride."

Our lips move against each other, capturing the love, hope and celebration of new beginnings. My heart sings with joy.

After signing the papers that made our marriage legal, Steven, Roman's best man, slaps his friend on the back.

"Well, you bay wop-loving anigishore; you did it. Tied the knot. Secured the ol' ball and chain. Slipped the ring of doom onto that finger. Selected..."

"Steven, shut up. I get it. You're happy for me."

"Well, yeah. It warms the cockles of my heart to see you happy. You deserve it, Man. Julie is perfect. Hang on to her."

Megan releases me from her embrace and wraps her arms around my husband's neck, pecking him on the cheek.

"Take care of her, Roman. She deserves all the love you can give her."

"I will, Megan. She's my precious jewel. I will care for her, trust me."

"I do. If I didn't, I wouldn't be standing here. You're a good egg, Roman Morgan."

Wiping a tear from her eye, Megan gives me one last hug before leaving with Steven, holding his hand.

"They make a good couple, don't they?"

"I knew Steven would hit it off with Megan when I pestered my buddy to ask her out. Glad it worked out. Ready to go?"

"I am. Where are you taking me?"

"I told you, Mrs. Morgan, it's a secret."

### ***

In the dimming, crimson-orange dusk, an infinite rolling highway looms ahead of us, taking me to an unknown paradise. Even in the twilight, the scenery is breathtaking. Trees part, revealing the rolling terrain sloping toward the Atlantic, encompassing the horizon. I lean back against the passenger seat, my eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. Roman holds my hand across the centre divider.

His attention is on the road, but I see him sneaking sideway glances at me. Feeling safe and loved, I drift into a peaceful sleep.

### ***

Roman:

I didn't see it coming. It happened so quick. One minute I'm admiring my wife's delicate features as she sleeps; the next, glaring headlights are barrelling towards me.

I don't have time to process the sound of a blaring horn before the sound of crunching metal breaches my consciousness. Violent tumbling follows, seemingly going on forever until it stops. A low moaning hums from the seat next to me. In the corner of my blurry vision, Julie is barely conscious. Blood oozes from a nasty wound on her head. Julie's visage is pallid. She reaches for me, and I clutch her hand.

"R-roman."

"J-julie. I love you. Hang on."

The air grows chilly as I stave off the encroaching void of oblivion, desperate to hear Julie's words. Darkness consumes me instead.

### ***

Julie:

Floating in an ether of darkness, strange humming surrounds me. Not knowing where I am, I struggle to identify the noise, to no avail. Snapshots of my life flash by in a slideshow, happy memories of birthday parties, Christmas and sleepovers fade into a violent haze of blinding light, crunching steel and blood. Hands pull me away from the fading sound of sirens and screams. The squeaking of wheels and more glaring lights pass overhead. A crushing weight seizes my chest, making it hard to breathe. The heavy mass presses into me, its hand on my throat, stealing the air from my lungs. I shoot my arm out to grasp something, anything that can free me. My fingers find purchase, and I break free of the void, plunging into the light.

"Oh, thank God, you're okay."

A figure hovers over me; her features ragged and drained. A weak smile tugs at the corner of her lips. A warm hand strokes my cheek, while the other caresses my hair.

"M-mom?"

"There's my girl. How are you feeling?"

My mother's voice sounds thick with tears. Her gaze never leaves me, looking at me like I'm going to disappear.

"Hurt. Lots."

"Of course you feel pain. You've been through a traumatizing ordeal."

"Where am I? What happened?"

"You're in a hospital. You were in a terrible car accident."

It all comes back in a rush. A beautiful ceremony. Excitement. Curiosity. The sickening crunch of metal. Stabbing pain. A warm hand. Words of love.

My hand flies to my ring finger, finding it naked.

"Mom, where's Roman? My wedding ring?"

My mother blanches a single tear streak down her flushed cheeks. Pain and despair punch me in the gut, leaving me breathless as realization sets in.

"You lie. He can't be dead."

"I'm sorry, Sweetheart, but he is. Roman died on the scene."

My world shattered into a thousand jagged pieces, piercing my heart. I let loose a mournful wail. Grief chokes me, squeezing the organ that held my love. My breathing becomes ragged, and the symptoms of the familiar attack slam into me. I don't care. If my husband is dead, I don't want to live.

"Julie, please, take a deep breath. You need to calm down; you're putting too much stress on your heart."

The blaring of alarms and the rush of people that descend upon me becomes a blur, scarcely noticeable in my fog. I snap out of the haze when I notice a nurse poised to inject something into my I.V.

"No, stop. I want to die."

I meant my protest to sound authoritative, but instead it's weak and barely above a whisper. She ignores me and injects the unknown substance. I thrash about, screaming but a wave of calm washes over me and I embrace the darkness.

When I awake, my mother and another strange man stand by my bed.

"Who are you?"

The tall, wiry, middle-aged gentlemen steps forward. "Mrs. Morgan, my name is Kerrin Lucas, and I was your late husband's attorney. Before you married, Roman came to see me."

"Why?"

"He wanted to make sure that you were taken care of in the event of his passing. Roman has willed to you the entire amount of his trust fund, plus a very special gift that you already received."

"I don't want either. I want him."

"I can take the money and donate it to a charity of your choice, but the second gift is precious, and you can't return it.

"What can it be if I can't return it?"

Fishing an envelope out of his designer, double-breasted suit, Kerrin hands it to me.

"This letter explains it all. I have to go, but if you wish to contact me, your mother has my information. I wish you well, Mrs. Morgan."

Puzzled, Mom encourages me to open the envelope and read the letter. She even steps outside to give me privacy. I unfold the letter and read.

### ***

Julie,

If you are reading this, it means that I have been forced to leave this earthly plane. I have prepared for the day of my passing by providing you with two gifts. One is my trust fund, for you to do with what you wish, and the second is precious, and I will hope it'll will bring you joy.

Do something for me. Put your hand on your chest, and you will feel my final gift to you. If my prayers are answered, this gift, will grant you a long, fulfilling life. I want you to love with it, feel the bliss of life and drink in every moment.

Don't mourn me, precious one. Just know, that one day we will be reunited, and I will wait patiently for you with open arms.

You gave your heart to me, and now I give you mine.

Love always and forever,

Roman

### ***

### About the Author

Tina Traverse is a passionate writer, avid reader; a self-proclaimed Autism Warrior Mom and Proud Newfie Gal.

Tina hails from a quaint little hamlet on a quaint little island known as Canada's youngest province, Newfoundland. The desire for writing came at an early age when she wrote her spin on the Bible's Good Samaritan story for her third-grade class. When she fell off the traditional publishing path, Tina stumbled onto an exciting new path called, self-publishing. It's been a thrilling journey, publishing not only her work, but being a part of numerous anthologies.

In her spare time, Tina enjoys leisurely strolls in the great outdoors, playing Thomas the Tank Engine with her youngest son and being beat at Wii bowling by her teenage son. Tina lives with her husband of too many years to count, in a scenic town by the bay.

Front row seats are available to Tina's work and ramblings in a variety of ways.

Website: http://www.tinatraverse.com

Twitter: <https://twitter.com/TinaTraverse1>

