They jerk as if attached to a metal cogwheel, ratcheting open and closed. Colin flexes them again and again and then, catching her watching, curls them into a fist. “Luce.”
She looks up at his scowl. “Mm?”
“I’m fine.”
“Your hands are . . .” She makes jerky finger gestures, unwilling to say broken, or stiff, or, worst of all, wrong.
“Come here. I’ll show you how fine they are.”
Finally, a relieved giggle escapes from her throat in a sharp burst. It sounds edgy, like it might be too close to a sob to hold its shape. She can’t believe he’s here, and person-colored, and warm. And that, five hours after being in the frozen lake, the only thing that seems to be off is how slowly he bends his fingers.
“It wasn’t that bad. Coming back, I mean,” he whispers into the darkness of his dorm room. He’s hidden beneath several layers of blankets, and the space seems exceptionally quiet now that Jay has worn out his postresurrection high and left for the night.
What he says is true. Jay insists that bringing Colin back was easy. But agreeing with Colin right now feels wrong, as if the universe is merely waiting for her to say that stiff fingers and a few bruises are a small price to pay, and snatch everything away at once.
It felt like they were together for days. Days of talking and touching and holding each other so closely there was no air left between them. In reality, it was only fifteen minutes. Jay said he started to freak when Colin was shivering so bad he almost jerked off the foil blanket. But time felt generous then, stretching every minute into what felt like twenty.
“Lucy, stop staring at my hands and come over here.”
She slips in beside him, and he pulls her close, her big, warm spoon. She feels stronger and more present than she can ever remember feeling, and Colin mumbles something happy and content.
“What?”
“You,” he says sleepily. “Just wondering if you feel different because you’re different or because I’m feeling you differently.”
“What do you mean?”
“You feel more solid. Stronger.”
“Stronger how?” She wants to know if it feels the same to him, as if she’s growing more permanent.
Instead of answering, he says simply, “I want to go in again.”
If Lucy thought Jay and Colin were organized before, they’re almost militaristic this time around. New rescue equipment and supplies are spread out on the carpet in front of them. They choose the best time of day based on the almanac and weather predictions. They pack and repack supplies, outlining every possible scenario down to the smallest detail.
It’s reassuring . . . in a completely warped way. She knows that if she protests too much, Colin will hear the lie in her words. She doesn’t want him to risk his life, but there’s a part of her that strengthens and blooms every time he talks about this. Is it greed? She’s not sure how to process what she’s feeling, this fascination with watching someone she loves be so wholeheartedly reckless.
“Last time I held your core temp pretty steady at around ninety-two.” Jay snickers and adds, “’Course, it’d be more accurate if I could measure rectally.”
“How many times do I have to tell you you’re never going there,” Colin says. Lucy stares as they cackle like twelve-year-olds before turning back to the notebook in her lap. She scribbles messy circles and squares, flowers and clouds, trying to remember her favorite words and how they come together under the pressure of her pencil.
Crystalline. Lattice. Momentum. Sublimate. Enthalpy. The words burst into her thoughts, reminding her of a classroom, of traveling to the university to study in the humid summer months, of a scholarship that would have been hers. When she looks down at the paper, she’s surprised to find each letter written in perfect script, no shaky or disappearing lines. She stares at them, reveling in these small pieces returning. She’s never been able to hold a pencil for long, let alone put ideas to paper, so watching the words uncurl from the tip of her pencil is almost as fascinating as the guys’ strange obsession with this new lake activity.
“Holy crap, Luce!” Colin shouts, and she immediately freezes, breaking the pencil lead against the paper.
“What?”
“You’re writing.” He’s grinning as if she’s a toddler and just took her first step.
Jay gives her a slow clap and whistles. Standing, Colin leaves their giant sprawl of gadgets and books and blankets to come sit near her on the bed.
He reaches over, rubs her shoulder, and announces, “I think you’re stronger lately. More solid.”
She watches him. He’s repeating himself, and his speech seems the slightest bit off, as if he has to build his thoughts one piece at a time. Before she can tell him that this is the same thing he said last night, a window blasts open, bringing a sharp funnel of freezing air inside and interrupting Colin’s excitement. He forces the window closed, and when he returns, his hands are as cold as hers, but somehow the thrill it gives her—the hint of the cold to come—feels like fire.
She wonders if this is how a tiger feels when it catches the scent of prey on the breeze, or how a long-distance runner feels with his toes bordering the starting line. She feels like she might explode from her skin and vaporize into a million tiny glittering particles. Does this lightness, this exhilaration she feels as Colin strips down to his boxers, mean she might take flight?
Last time Colin stripped and jumped straight in, like if he thought about it too long, he wouldn’t go through with it. This time, he stares at her, his grin building as slowly as his blinks are delivered. She steps back, and then again, turning to the trail before he’s even submerged.
It’s exactly what she expects it to be. They meet at the spot on the trail, and turn, laughing and running with the wind down the path to the shed, feet tripping over feet.
Jay said he thinks he can give them an hour.
An hour.
Even with the bright white-blue of morning outside, it feels like night inside the shed. Beams of light play with the stars of dust in the air, and Colin’s skin looks lit from within, as if he’s the different one now.
He curses under his breath, a sound of wonder, cupping her face and kissing her so hard, so hungrily, and then he’s walking her backward, around, helping her down onto the air mattress, shoving aside the pile of blankets. Dust clouds up around them, leaves crumble beneath, but the setting doesn’t matter. His skin, her skin, it slides and presses, hot and smooth. Not too much, not too little. Perfect.
They kiss, pulling away the last remnants of clothing, and then he’s moving into her, moving over her and talking, and she doesn’t care that it’s going to end because this feeling— this feeling—is what they’ve been missing. The connection and touch, the communication that words can never reach. Colin whispers his love into her neck as he shakes above her.
She clutches him, pressing her face against his skin and listening to the rustle of the blankets near her head as he releases them from his fists. Lucy doesn’t want to move from this spot, maybe ever.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, his open mouth kissing a path across her throat to her ear. When she nods, he whispers, “Not sure how I feel that our first time was in a dirty shed.”
She laughs. “I don’t care about the setting.”
He pulls back and looks at her, playfully bereft but obviously giddy, and then he blinks, languid, just for her. “I don’t either.”
The moment stretches. Colin hovers over her, kissing, eyes open, with an intensity that makes every muscle in her body tighten, makes her chest ache with how much he consumes her.
He doesn’t need to say he loves her, but he does.
Then he’s pulled from her body, flying backward again as if a band pulls at his chest, his mouth wide in an anguished cry in the shape of her name. He passes through the dancing bands of light and dust, he filters easily through the cracked walls and damp wood planks, and then Colin is gone.
Hours. It feels like it takes hours to get dressed and tear back down the trail, to where Jay pulled him out early, to where Colin will be awake. Lucy trips over roots and sticks in the snowy mud of the shore. She doesn’t know how to manage these new, strangely heavy limbs.
She looks up at his scowl. “Mm?”
“I’m fine.”
“Your hands are . . .” She makes jerky finger gestures, unwilling to say broken, or stiff, or, worst of all, wrong.
“Come here. I’ll show you how fine they are.”
Finally, a relieved giggle escapes from her throat in a sharp burst. It sounds edgy, like it might be too close to a sob to hold its shape. She can’t believe he’s here, and person-colored, and warm. And that, five hours after being in the frozen lake, the only thing that seems to be off is how slowly he bends his fingers.
“It wasn’t that bad. Coming back, I mean,” he whispers into the darkness of his dorm room. He’s hidden beneath several layers of blankets, and the space seems exceptionally quiet now that Jay has worn out his postresurrection high and left for the night.
What he says is true. Jay insists that bringing Colin back was easy. But agreeing with Colin right now feels wrong, as if the universe is merely waiting for her to say that stiff fingers and a few bruises are a small price to pay, and snatch everything away at once.
It felt like they were together for days. Days of talking and touching and holding each other so closely there was no air left between them. In reality, it was only fifteen minutes. Jay said he started to freak when Colin was shivering so bad he almost jerked off the foil blanket. But time felt generous then, stretching every minute into what felt like twenty.
“Lucy, stop staring at my hands and come over here.”
She slips in beside him, and he pulls her close, her big, warm spoon. She feels stronger and more present than she can ever remember feeling, and Colin mumbles something happy and content.
“What?”
“You,” he says sleepily. “Just wondering if you feel different because you’re different or because I’m feeling you differently.”
“What do you mean?”
“You feel more solid. Stronger.”
“Stronger how?” She wants to know if it feels the same to him, as if she’s growing more permanent.
Instead of answering, he says simply, “I want to go in again.”
If Lucy thought Jay and Colin were organized before, they’re almost militaristic this time around. New rescue equipment and supplies are spread out on the carpet in front of them. They choose the best time of day based on the almanac and weather predictions. They pack and repack supplies, outlining every possible scenario down to the smallest detail.
It’s reassuring . . . in a completely warped way. She knows that if she protests too much, Colin will hear the lie in her words. She doesn’t want him to risk his life, but there’s a part of her that strengthens and blooms every time he talks about this. Is it greed? She’s not sure how to process what she’s feeling, this fascination with watching someone she loves be so wholeheartedly reckless.
“Last time I held your core temp pretty steady at around ninety-two.” Jay snickers and adds, “’Course, it’d be more accurate if I could measure rectally.”
“How many times do I have to tell you you’re never going there,” Colin says. Lucy stares as they cackle like twelve-year-olds before turning back to the notebook in her lap. She scribbles messy circles and squares, flowers and clouds, trying to remember her favorite words and how they come together under the pressure of her pencil.
Crystalline. Lattice. Momentum. Sublimate. Enthalpy. The words burst into her thoughts, reminding her of a classroom, of traveling to the university to study in the humid summer months, of a scholarship that would have been hers. When she looks down at the paper, she’s surprised to find each letter written in perfect script, no shaky or disappearing lines. She stares at them, reveling in these small pieces returning. She’s never been able to hold a pencil for long, let alone put ideas to paper, so watching the words uncurl from the tip of her pencil is almost as fascinating as the guys’ strange obsession with this new lake activity.
“Holy crap, Luce!” Colin shouts, and she immediately freezes, breaking the pencil lead against the paper.
“What?”
“You’re writing.” He’s grinning as if she’s a toddler and just took her first step.
Jay gives her a slow clap and whistles. Standing, Colin leaves their giant sprawl of gadgets and books and blankets to come sit near her on the bed.
He reaches over, rubs her shoulder, and announces, “I think you’re stronger lately. More solid.”
She watches him. He’s repeating himself, and his speech seems the slightest bit off, as if he has to build his thoughts one piece at a time. Before she can tell him that this is the same thing he said last night, a window blasts open, bringing a sharp funnel of freezing air inside and interrupting Colin’s excitement. He forces the window closed, and when he returns, his hands are as cold as hers, but somehow the thrill it gives her—the hint of the cold to come—feels like fire.
She wonders if this is how a tiger feels when it catches the scent of prey on the breeze, or how a long-distance runner feels with his toes bordering the starting line. She feels like she might explode from her skin and vaporize into a million tiny glittering particles. Does this lightness, this exhilaration she feels as Colin strips down to his boxers, mean she might take flight?
Last time Colin stripped and jumped straight in, like if he thought about it too long, he wouldn’t go through with it. This time, he stares at her, his grin building as slowly as his blinks are delivered. She steps back, and then again, turning to the trail before he’s even submerged.
It’s exactly what she expects it to be. They meet at the spot on the trail, and turn, laughing and running with the wind down the path to the shed, feet tripping over feet.
Jay said he thinks he can give them an hour.
An hour.
Even with the bright white-blue of morning outside, it feels like night inside the shed. Beams of light play with the stars of dust in the air, and Colin’s skin looks lit from within, as if he’s the different one now.
He curses under his breath, a sound of wonder, cupping her face and kissing her so hard, so hungrily, and then he’s walking her backward, around, helping her down onto the air mattress, shoving aside the pile of blankets. Dust clouds up around them, leaves crumble beneath, but the setting doesn’t matter. His skin, her skin, it slides and presses, hot and smooth. Not too much, not too little. Perfect.
They kiss, pulling away the last remnants of clothing, and then he’s moving into her, moving over her and talking, and she doesn’t care that it’s going to end because this feeling— this feeling—is what they’ve been missing. The connection and touch, the communication that words can never reach. Colin whispers his love into her neck as he shakes above her.
She clutches him, pressing her face against his skin and listening to the rustle of the blankets near her head as he releases them from his fists. Lucy doesn’t want to move from this spot, maybe ever.
“Are you okay?” he asks quietly, his open mouth kissing a path across her throat to her ear. When she nods, he whispers, “Not sure how I feel that our first time was in a dirty shed.”
She laughs. “I don’t care about the setting.”
He pulls back and looks at her, playfully bereft but obviously giddy, and then he blinks, languid, just for her. “I don’t either.”
The moment stretches. Colin hovers over her, kissing, eyes open, with an intensity that makes every muscle in her body tighten, makes her chest ache with how much he consumes her.
He doesn’t need to say he loves her, but he does.
Then he’s pulled from her body, flying backward again as if a band pulls at his chest, his mouth wide in an anguished cry in the shape of her name. He passes through the dancing bands of light and dust, he filters easily through the cracked walls and damp wood planks, and then Colin is gone.
Hours. It feels like it takes hours to get dressed and tear back down the trail, to where Jay pulled him out early, to where Colin will be awake. Lucy trips over roots and sticks in the snowy mud of the shore. She doesn’t know how to manage these new, strangely heavy limbs.
