I haven’t seen George in forever, but now, it dawns on me that I’ve missed him, that my feelings for him have grown into a warm kind of affection. That’s a new sensation entirely.
When I approach, he offers me a kind smile. “Black coffee, Jules? You’re usual?”
This time, I smile back. “No, actually. Two waters, if you can.”
He nods, reaches behind his counter, and pushes them across to me. “It’s good to change it up every now and then.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I pay with crumpled bills, grab the water, and then turn around. But something stops me midturn. I spin back on my heels. “Hey, George.”
His eyebrows go up. I’ve probably shocked him since this is the most I’ve initiated a conversation. “Yes, how can I help?”
I push the hair from my face. “I just wanted to say . . .” I clear my throat. “I just wanted to say thank you. For that time you checked in on me. I never showed any appreciation for that, which was really shitty and selfish of me. But it was thoughtful of you to think of me. For you to care at all. When most people wouldn’t.”
My cheeks heat up at the same time cold waves flip in my belly. It’s not easy for me to talk to other people this way.
But George offers another kind smile, the sides of his eyes crinkling. “I just want you to be happy, Jules. I have a daughter . . .” Then his smile falls. “Had a daughter.”
“Oh.” I lower my eyes.
Sometimes, the unspoken communicates more loudly than the spoken. The silence in between the words.
Then, I do something I’ve never done before. I reach out my hand and place it on top of his.
We stand like that for a few seconds until I speak. “I’ll see you later, George.” Then I freeze and pivot one more time. “Hey, by the way . . . what does your sign say?”
George closes his lids briefly, then glances at the sign hanging off his counter imprinted in Arabic. “It’s a quotation from an Egyptian writer, Naguib Mahfouz. It says Fear doesn’t prevent death. It prevents life.”
Chapter 29
We float in a pool of our own despair; we float in a pool of sorrow. And also in a pool that belongs to Mack. Or his dad, more specifically.
It’s just the two of us, naked as the day we were born. The stories of the constellations above. The mysteries of the water below.
And in the thin line between existence and nothing is us, floating on the very viscous surface.
“I want to give you a gift. Before I leave,” Mack says, making a small little splashing noise as he turns his head to look at me.
I turn as well, and water caresses the side of my face. I study his distinct features because I don’t want to forget them. I study his face because I know, somewhere deep down, that even though it will slip from my grasp, it belongs to me and me alone. I study his face because this might be one of the very few last moments I get with him. I want to say all these things to him, but this isn’t our agreement. It’s not the goodbye play we’re acting out now.
Instead, I ask, “What’s the gift?”
His hand floats to my hair, fingering the floating blonde waves gently in the water. It’s almost as if a part of me is reaching out to a part of him across the void. “My inheritance,” he says plainly.
I choke on a wave of water splashing into my open mouth. “Excuse me?”
“I want to give you my inheritance. And the apartment. And the dome. Every earthly possession I have pretty much belongs to you. I can’t take it with me when I go. And who else would I give it to?”
I shake my head. “I-I . . .” My voice breaks. “I knew we said we weren’t going to let the despair take over. But that makes everything too real. I don’t need the money, Mack. Maybe the apartment. And the dome. To remember you by. But no . . . I don’t want the money.”
“Don’t be a martyr. Money is what saved my life. And it can save yours too. I want to know you’ll be safe when I’m no longer here.”
“Just give it to someone else. Give it away. Burn it if you have to.”
“You really don’t want it? It’s a lot. It’s enough that you’d never have to lift a finger for the rest of your life. I want to take care of you, even if it’s from afar.”
I think about my fantasies, if you can call them that, the ones I used to have, locked away in my room alone, everything delivered to my doorstep, safely locked inside. But no, I can’t take his money. It doesn’t feel right.
“Someone else can use it more than I can. Lemme think on it for a day, okay? I’ll come up with something.”
“If that’s what you want.” Mack trails his finger down the side of my cheek, leaving a wet line behind it.
The talk of money and the trail that Mack will leave behind when he’s gone poke at me like a pin to the gut. I’m desperate to change the subject now, so I grab his hand and yank him toward me. Immediately, he straightens up, and now we’re standing in the water.
He pulls me to his chest.
I want to cry, but instead, I laugh. “Wanna mess around?”
***
Two days to go.
Mack’s body is pushed into the white couch, and my body is straddled on top of his. We’re making out furiously, and his hands are roaming my tits and my belly and hips like they’re traveling the line of a map. This is all we’ve been doing for the past six days. No one has the right to fucking judge me. How else am I supposed to spend my last moments with the love of my life?
It’s better that we stay out of the water. The water creates way more temptations. Turns me ravenous with need.
The land keeps us grounded. Literally. Figuratively. Metaphysically.
When I begin to move my hips, grinding my pelvis into his erection, he groans into my mouth.
