"Happy Starry Night, boys," I cheered into Heath's silken hair, as our unlikely trio clinked glasses; sparkling wine swishing in crystal flutes and grape juice swirling in a fluorescent orange cup.
Luke's dining table was laden with a medley of gleaming colours: hickory roasted croquettes, honey-glazed eel, russet baked potatoes, a rainbow of ratatouille, emerald green spinach and creamy mayonnaise – Luke's favourite, which had absurdly grown to become one of Heath's as well – and glistening cherry jam. Our combined efforts of slaving an entire day away in the kitchen had resulted in a considerably delectable spread.
"Moment of truth," Luke readied himself as we dug into the veritable feast, all family Christmas cards and timeworn traditions.
"It's good," Heath spoke through huge mouthfuls, sweet and savoury mingling on our palates to blossom into beams on our cheeks.
"Good? It's amazing," Luke paused from inhaling his food, leonine eyes glowing in self-praise.
"We cooked a meal," I marveled in awe, sharing a pleased smile with the twenty-seven-year old sitting opposite me.
"All by ourselves," he contributed, as we high-fived across the gingham tablecloth. "You know what this means," he whispered in dramatic tones, amber eyes surreptitiously darting from side to side to check for eavesdroppers, "We're becoming adults."
We burst out laughing, our glee prancing around in the air on their fairy toes. Ballet pink satin ribbons laced up delicate ankles, forming glittering bows that left sprinkles raining down upon us.
"You are adults," Heath added innocently, baby face caked with confusion and childhood naivety in its purest form.
"Don't be fooled, sweetheart," I counseled the clueless boy, depositing some spinach onto his plate. Even if it happened to be slathered in mayonnaise, a vegetable was a vegetable.
"Buddy," Luke cupped his hand over the three-year-old's ear, acting like he was about to reveal the world's gemstone secrets, finally unearthed after centuries of peaceful slumber underground, "We're just two children stuck in adult bodies."
Heath's sky blue eyes – baby powder and clear cerulean – lit up at the edges, delighting in this newfound information. "You're just like me?" he questioned, grinning through a multihued, ratatouille-filled mouth; vibrant red tomato, deep eggplant, fresh spring green pepper and tawny onion.
"That's right," I affirmed, keeping up our little charade. The flames in the fireplace tangled towards the sky, combing their fingers through crimson tresses and caressing vermillion into adoring dry logs. The hearth smouldered on, keeping us safe from the snoozing winter outside.
"Wow," Heath breathed, perfectly entranced by this sparkling nugget of information. Luke and I struggled to conceal our snickers, watching affectionately as the boy fell, teeth-first, for our sneaky tricks. "So that means that you have to eat your veggies too, right, Dolly?"
"Huh?" I blurted out in response to Heath's sudden question.
"You say I have to eat my veggies," he thought aloud, wheels of his childlike train of thought clicking for all to see, "because I'm a kid. So if you're a kid too, shouldn't you have to eat them?"
"I do eat them," I countered, pointing to the colourful patchwork of crops lying on my plate.
"Not spinach," he clarified, drawing my eyes to the gruesome concoction of wilted spinach and rich mayo sitting nonchalantly in a serving bowl; teak wood.
"Come to think of it," Luke impishly joined in, "you've never even tried it."
"Because it looks disgusting," I refuted, panic pulsing through my synapses as I speedily realized what they were trying to accomplish.
"Hey," Luke pretended to snap, faux offense ringing in his notes, "Watch what you call disgusting. It's delicious, ain't it, bud?"
Heath nodded his head enthusiastically in agreement. Their eyes burned with mischief, sparking with rascally thrill. Spinning teacups at a carnival and free falling rollercoasters.
"You have to try it," Heath exclaimed, excitement booming in his voice. He got his tones from his father; gravel residing under his tongue, minerals stuck to the walls of his throat. His lack of years softened the otherwise gruff bass, waxing it with a higher-pitch and sweeter quality.
"But I don't want to," I whined, playing the part of protesting child flawlessly.
"Feed it to her, Lukey," Heath chimed in, toothy grin travelling from one corner of his face to the other.
The carpenter sputtered through a gulp of his mulberry-tinted drink, taking a full moment to recover from the shock. "Why's that something I have to do?" he quizzed indignantly, cheery spirits still never wavering in the face of distress.
"Because the dad feeds the mom," Heath replied matter-of-factly, faint eyebrows furrowing as if we were imbeciles for not having received the memo.
"But, sweetie, we're not –" I began, turning saucer-sized eyes to Luke for help.
"Look, buddy, Dolly and I aren't exactly a mom and dad," he clumsily attempted to explain, fingers flailing as he painted a scribbled picture for the child.
"Then what are you?"
"We're friends," I answered, handcuffing myself to Luke and deeming us partners in dealing with Heath's guiltless crimes.
"Do you love her?" the boy tested Luke, infantile fingers far too babyish to so much as grasp at the hazy, quixotic concept of romantic love; in all its sunny laughter on rainy days, shattered, pieced-together heart fragments and intoxicating, enthralling exhilaration.
"Of course," he responded proudly, typical Luke behaviour, to proclaim he loved everyone, "but not the way you think I do," he elucidated, endeavoring to water down this colossal hurricane of a subject into a still bead for Heath to comprehend, "I love her the way a friend loves a friend."
Something inside of me unknowingly twanged, like a broken fingernail plucking on a taut heartstring.
"A guy and a girl can be friends, without falling in love and getting married," I disclosed to the young boy, who looked like he had just discovered a gold-plated treasure map.
"Really?" his mouth gaped, wonderment gushing through his thin veins.
"Really," we affirmed in unison, heaving with relief that this topic had been neatly brushed aside.
"Love is icky anyway," Heath declared, beautiful fresh hyacinth planted in dewy forest soil.
Luke and I exchanged knowing, empathetic smiles; we'd both had the love of our lives, and lost it. And nothing was ever going to live up to that kind of fullness.
Stability waited at the bottom of the abyss, steel arms ready to catch us when we finally decided to fall back on her.
Not yet.
"Well, you can still feed her as a friend, right?" Heath cheekily continued, robbing the oxygen right out of our lungs.
"Do we have to?" Luke pouted playfully, in a last ditch attempt to erase the three-year-old's arduous demands. His pleas fell on death ears. "Geez," the carpenter grumbled lightly, before loading up a heaping spoonful of spinach with a generous dollop of gleaming mayonnaise. I blenched inwardly at the sight. "Say, 'ahh,'" he joked, bringing the grotesque concoction towards my lips, furious scarlet blush rushing to colour his cheeks. I could feel my own face flush with apple jam heat.
"Ahh," I barely mumbled out, voice trembling as the words stumbled out of my mouth, tripping over strewn cutlery and crashing into fragrant dishes. I was so tense that I hardly registered the taste of the surprisingly palatable dish; the garlicky aroma from the spinach melded harmoniously with the sinful creaminess of the mayonnaise.
"How was it?" Luke jumpily enquired, his defense mechanism for nerves being talking like a loaded machine gun.
"Not as bad as I thought it would be," I conceded, rolling my hazel eyes for added effect. Heath and Luke fist bumped in brotherly victory; Luke's large, blistered, mountainous knuckles against Heath's tiny, scuffed ones.
The universe is built on chain reactions. A butterfly flutters its stained-glass wings, and you may never get to meet your soul mate. An ant takes one step to the left instead of the right, and your best friend is never born.
My eyes flickered over my little family, patched together from the strangest of circumstances, glued together by inside jokes and steadfast choices and snowball fights and piggyback rides. The two imps noticed me daydreaming, and collectively decided to punish me by force-feeding me another serving of the spinach and mayo blend. Laughter skipped through the cozy atmosphere, singing dulcetly through the spiced pumpkin and caramel air.
I didn't know how we had gotten here, but as far as accidents went, I was pretty glad for ours.
Spring showers thrashed against gravel, roaring entreaties of, what did I do wrong, and, I'd break against you a thousand times, just to feel your touch. Candy-coated raindrops melted into clay earth, the thawed loam whispering, come here; I'll love you when no one else will.
Luke and I raced through the pour, drenched to the tipsy bones.
"Why does it seem like we're always getting caught in the rain?" I posed the question to the merry carpenter, who, like everyone else, had had one too many drinks at Kathy and Owen's joint bachelor and bachelorette party. Coconut cocktails churned in our brains, forming a milky miasma.
"It's fun though, isn't it?" Luke grinned back, clearly exerting a great amount of effort to formulate his sentences.
"It is," I admitted, clouded mind throwing back to the celebration we had just left. "Kathy and Owen looked really happy." The couple had been joined at the hip, sending love-struck winks across the room when they thought nobody was looking and interlacing fingers, even when talking to different people. After all those years of raging war, they'd finally found the blissful peace that they deserved.
"My pal is a man in love," Luke stated loudly, secondhand happiness for his red-haired best friend resounding through his tickled tones. The rain continued its relentless pitter-patter against our work boots, seeping past the string laces and soaking into our mushy socks. The chill crawled up my veins, clashing with the mulled liquor blushing in my chest: a battle of the elements.
"They worked hard for it," I alluded to their countless fights that had perched them on the edge every time. They always held on.
"Maybe that's the secret," the twenty-seven-going-on-twenty-eight-year-old mused in between pants, the road to my house seeming fifty times further than usual in this waterlogged weather, "You've got to go through some turbulence to reach the destination." His feline amber eyes, tapering upwards at the sharpened edges, darted to meet mine. "Did Chase and you ever have that?"
"More than our fair share," I muttered, being engulfed by the bitter memory of our seven year long separation, and then some. Syrupy alcohol mellowed the sting. "You and Selena?"
His curved lips puckered slightly, enhancing the illusion of his three-shaped mouth. "I guess we did, I just didn't know," he lamented, lustrous sunflower core momentarily dulling. The liqueur in his system oozed out his pores, daring him to spill waves of undisclosed, vulnerable honesty. The biscuit-shaded bandage he wore perpetually stuck to his dainty nose was peeling off at the soggy edges.
We finally took shelter under a gigantic elm tree when our calves seared too intensely, muscles drowning in their own acid. Adrenaline coursed through our blood, endorphins lighting up in our brains like Christmas trees.
"Pops would have a fit if he saw us right now," Luke chortled; ancient adage about never standing under a tree in a storm.
"Your Band-Aid's coming off," I exhaled affectionately, lifting a calloused finger to smooth it back on. Luke's damp skin blew spreading warmth through my palm, tracing the various lines charted across the tanned roughness; head line, heart line, fate line, life line.
"Thanks," he mumbled, words seemingly tumbling over their own clumsy toes. "Want to know why I wear it?" he enticed, hoping to cover up the tongue-tied embarrassment that flecked our merlot cheeks upon realization of the dangerously close proximity of our faces.
I nodded my head silently, noticing the way molten gold flowed in his eyes.
He slowly peeled the plaster off, gradually revealing the umber-toned scar underneath. Tearing off his own skin and leaving himself completely defenseless. Stripped to the glistening ruby flesh; completely exposed.
My fingertips unconsciously grazed the raised mark, feeling the individual alps and valleys. Luke's piercing orbs followed my hand's movements, palpitating heartbeats audible in our throats.
"Got it when I was four. Fell when I was playing or something and it never healed right." A soft chuckle fell from his bowed lips. "I thought it was cool, but Pops says it makes me look scary, so he tells me to cover it up."
"You're not scary at all," I scoffed good-naturedly, withdrawing my fingers and using them to push sopping fringe out of my eyes. A lone droplet trickled down the side of my face, tickling watery fingers against my rounded cheeks.
"I am plenty scary," he pretended to growl, the equivalent of a puppy attempting to emulate a wolf. "Besides, the bandage looks pretty cool too," he threw in, trademark grin reaching for his ears. Our eyelids grew heavy with saccharine alcohol soaking into our bloodstreams, dizzying us with the pulsing burn.
Loud laughter got lost in the branching network of tree leaves, catching hold of our voices and furling their chlorophyll arms around the joyous sound.
"You know," Luke began, breaking the jolly shroud, "I can't help but keep sifting through pieces of my memory, wondering where I went wrong. What I did that was so awful that it messed us up forever." Selena. Even when he couldn't think straight, she still lingered in his mind; forever embedded into his bones. A love so intense that it had left the carnage scorched into his being. The slurred love letter for her spilled from his lips, plummeting into tulip petal existence.
"I love you more than my own skin, and even though you don't love me the same way, you love me anyways, don't you?" My hazel eyes couldn't tear themselves away, completely entranced by his painful lack of walls. All the people I'd been in love with, Chase and Gill, had both only ever known tongues like knives; to see someone who grew gardens on his was discovering a whole new planet. "And if you don't," he continued, signing off his unconcealed profession, "I'll always have the hope that you do, and I'm satisfied with that. Love me a little. I adore you."
A terse stillness calmed around us, raindrops seemingly pausing on their deathly trajectories. Luke was my friend and my partner in taking care of Heath – admittedly, a strange relationship – but never anything more. And yet, in that spellbound moment, I wanted to kiss him. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the silence; but all I knew was that I wanted to press seeds of apologies into his lips, moan incantations of healing into the permanently grinning edges. I'm sorry she couldn't give you all the love that you deserve.
"That's the last thing I said to her before she broke up with me," the carpenter admitted, waking me from my transient hypnotization.
"I love Sel, but she's an idiot for doing that," I sighed, shivering as a gust blew icicles through my skin, "Any girl would have killed to hear that."
"Not you, though." We both knew: Chase resided in a place of my heart that no one else ever could.
"Still made me swoon a little," I giggled, nudging him in the arm – undeniably muscled from his endless years of wood chopping – and looking out towards the downpour. "Ready?" I gestured towards the howling torrent, bracing myself for the shattering teardrops, the thousand flying fragments of a smashed mirror; tragic and magnificent.
"Let's go," the spritely carpenter donned his characteristic expression, grabbing hold of my hand and throwing us straight into the deluge.
Our feet pushed against marshy soil, hair completely matted to our scalps in the merciless bursting of clouds. "I never would've thought that this was where we'd end up," Luke acknowledged through slightly heavier breaths, "Ya know, taking care of a child and all. I know H isn't our kid, but –"
"It sure feels like it sometimes, doesn't it?" I cut him off, completing his sentence for him.
"Yeah. It's extreme," he responded, utilizing his all-time favourite word. His beam could have shone all the way to the moon and lit her up for months. "I never could have imagined it, but I'm pretty dang grateful for the way things turned out."
"Me too," I agreed, wafting silky fingers over our blessing in disguise. I fell quiet for a solitary instant. "But you know that Calvin's going to want him back eventually right?" I latched onto our ankles, planting them firmly on the ground, "He's been getting better."
"That's fine," Luke didn't miss a beat, "We're just here because the little guy needs us, nothing more."
Luke was goodness. He was a milk chocolate truffle that you reached for when you wanted to forget about the darkness in the world; the sweet cream melted on your tongue and made you believe in light, if only for a second more.
"You're right." The peculiar twinge tapped away at my nerves again. Another gush of wind swooped past our cheeks, wringing into our skin. Tightening the twisted cloth and dowsing it in glacial waters. "Goddess, is it cold," I shuddered, cupping my hands to my mouth and breathing balmy air into them.
"Come here," Luke murmured from a few feet behind me, gloved hands tucked into his vest pockets and holding them out so the ochre-brick leather spread out towards me, inviting me into what warmth it could provide, "I'll keep you warm." His white cotton inner shirt clung to his form, radiating heat.
Maybe it was the allure of his toasty offer, or the residual bewitchment from his mesmerizing recital of the words Selena had rejected, or the mélange of cocktails still swirling in our brains; either way, I laughingly trudged towards his chest, huddling my body against his. He wrapped his arms around me, so that I was bound to him by his sodden vest, encased in our cocoon of merciful body heat. Roasted marshmallows and seventy-percent cocoa sandwiched between solid graham crackers.
The stillness perched itself on our shoulders; the world pausing its revolutions for a passing breather. Raindrops dripped down Luke's face, his electric blue ponytail limp from the relentless onslaught of the storm. Petrichor emanated from the merrily pirouetting blades of grass, drinking in the invigorating liquid.
"Better?" he queried, razor sharp canines baring as he spoke – pure cat.
"Better," I concurred, resting my cheek against his collar and hearing his heart gallop against his ribcage. A lone butterfly fluttered in mine, threatening to escape through my trachea. "Nothing more, huh?" I finally came to say, alluding to Luke's previous words of, we're just here for him, nothing more.
His heart tore off from the starting line, ricocheting off each individual ivory rib. "I, uh –" he stammered, words failing him and dropping, frozen, on his toes. They flopped around our feet, fish out of water. "It started out that way," he ineptly spewed when he eventually regained some shred of composure, "but now I'm thinking there's something worth holding on to." A pause. A raccoon spied on us from behind a hawthorn shrub, peeking its bandit eyes out to watch. Luke coughed awkwardly. "Someone."
This wasn't about us falling madly in love, painted in sapphire enamour. This wasn't a marble tumbling in a washing machine, having fallen out of a stray velvet pocket, going for the ride of its life. This was reality, in all its plywood and plastic and olive drab, finally coming to hurl us out of our fantasies; it's time to move on. To settle.
This was being caught by our safety net.
"You're drunk," I purred, tilting my head ever so slightly upwards to meet his eyes.
"A tiny bit," he chortled, gazing back at me. The stars that night had found a hiding spot from the rain; they veiled themselves in his eyes, secretly swathed behind sparkling shawls. "But tomorrow, I'll be sober, and I'll still mean what I said."
My mind whirred uncontrollably. I couldn't pry my eyes off of his. The amber twinkled topaz and swallowed me whole. "Why do I feel so safe with you?"
Then, it happened.
We kissed.
He tasted like cotton candy ice cream and coconut syrup. The aroma of the liqueur infused into his lips, tropical creaminess blending onto mine. My vision whirled behind closed eyelids, blazing stars tangling in dusk, leaving trails of shimmering illumination. I inhaled his scent of heady lumber, and something within my heart simultaneously tightened and relaxed.
Kissing Luke was finding warmth in the desolate frost. Putting your bare hands by the timid bonfire and finding respite from the loneliness.
I didn't taste the next eighty years of my life on his lips. I didn't instantaneously think that these were the only lips I could ever conceivably spend the rest of eternity kissing. But my heart still glowed. She let herself slow to a lull, taking a rest from her tireless breaking and beating; ocean waves against the sandy shore.
I felt protected.
"H is gonna be all, 'I told you so,'" Luke breathed after we broke apart, face scorching so furiously that it turned the same deep shade of redwood he regularly spent his days axing down.
"He is," I burst out laughing, marveling at how it was both insanely weird and comfortably normal between us at the same time. Neither made a move to break away from our snug embrace. "I'll threaten him with vegetable juice," I jested, referring to our boy's arch nemesis; bright green smoothies.
"And octopus sashimi," Luke added thoughtfully, grin etched firmly into his features.
"But that's gross anyway," I crinkled my nose in repulsion.
His eyes widened in budding mischief. "I guess I know what we're having for breakfast tomorrow," he chuckled lowly.
"Then you'll have to have yogurt."
Utter revolt bore into his brow, horror imbuing into the faint creases; tart sourness churned in his cringing mind. I sniggered at his hysterically dramatic reaction, pressing myself closer to him. Upon realization that I was just teasing him, the carpenter exhaled smilingly, staring tenderly at me. "Geez," he sighed fondly, "I'm gonna get you for that one."
The clouds finally began to wipe away their mascara-stained tears, graciously parting to let the sunbeams glimmer through. Our lips found one another's again, tasting our silver lining.
Stability extended her arms, and we let ourselves fall.
"He was never the love of my life. He was always my friend, more than anything," I admit to my children, who listen to me as if I'm reading pages out of a fairytale, where the cobbler goes to sleep at night and wakes up to magical elves that have wondrously repaired his dainty shoes, all pointed toes and pearly luster.
"But," I continue, and I tell myself that I should be sure to pass this jewel of wisdom on to Heath as well; he turns thirteen this year, a prime time to be hearing this kind of thing, "just because two people make good friends doesn't make them good lovers.
If I could describe it in colours, Chase would have been kaleidoscopic rainbows: the rosy red of apples in chilled water, chasing a ginger cat with a coat of royalty that we had discovered in his backyard, dipping sticky fingers into our own homemade marmalade, sitting under falling cherry blossoms. Tumbling through gentle mint meadows in the setting honey sun.
Gill would have been icy slate teal waters, fearsome carmine infernos, twilight in the dead of buzzing nights, the transparent sharpness of an ice cube's edge and garnet for when it ended in roaring flames. Bleak grey for the ashes.
Luke would have been shades of beige or tan or eggshell. The crust of a toasted bagel. Luke was comfortable and reliable and there. We were his very own mocha leather gloves: frayed and battered and falling back into safety. Taking refuge in arms that we would never call home.
And yet.
"Did you love him?" Daisy's ears perk up at the word, 'love,' in all its dreaminess and enchanting promises. I'm suddenly reminded of the way Heath said it, all those years ago. Feels like forever ago, now. Nigel adores playing with him; they're both perpetually running on some mystical source of bottomless energy.
I smile in nostalgia, thinking of Luke, the boy – the sunflower – who knew how to grow back no matter how many times he was stepped on. Who had, twice, tasted loss on the back of his hand, and still dared to rip off a piece of his own flesh to give to someone who needed it more. Who did everything the way he learned to ride a bicycle: scared, but reckless, with no training wheels or elbow pads, so his scars could tell the story of his life.
The clumsy boy, whose heart refused to wear a helmet.
I suppose he made me forget to wear mine too.
"I loved him a little."
Disclaimer: I do not own Frida Kahlo or Rudy Francisco's work.
Author's Note: I realize that three years old is way too young to be conversing at the level Heath does, but hey, in the game they grow up in two weeks, so let's just play along. To be honest, I always have trouble keeping track of the years in the story, and then spend a long time calculating how old everyone should be. It works my brain.
I apologize if it totally seems like this relationship is progressing really quickly, there's supposed to be some time lapsed in between chapters. But anyway, thank you so much for reading and please let me know what you thought! You guys are way too sweet with your comments, they make me so happy!