“What would Sister Josephine say?” I whispered.
I felt her smile against my collarbone.
It took her a couple tries to get my bra unclasped with one hand, but when she did, the cold air against my skin was nothing compared to the warmth of her breath. I unbuttoned her sweater, pushed her bra over her breasts without unfastening it. I had never felt so ravenous. It’s not like my experience was vast. It’s not like I was used to being touched this way. But even if I had already been kissed by dozens of mouths, I would have known this was different.
I loved her already.
With our jeans unfastened, Mabel’s fingers grazing the elastic of my underwear, she said, “If we regret this tomorrow, we can blame it on the whiskey.”
But the sky was fading from black to gray; it was already tomorrow. And I didn’t regret anything.
We opened our eyes to the morning fog, a flock of sanderlings darting across the sky. Mabel’s hand was in mine and I was looking at her fingers, smaller than mine and a few shades darker, and I wanted them under my clothes again but didn’t dare say it.
Without the darkness we felt exposed, and the early-morning commuters were already heading to work. The overnight shifters were finally off. We had to wait at every crosswalk.
“What are they all thinking of us?” I asked.
“Well, we’re clearly not homeless. Your jacket’s too nice.”
“And we did not just roll out of bed.”
“Right,” she said. “Because we are covered in sand.”
The light changed and we crossed the Great Highway.
“Maybe they think we’re beach creatures,” I said.
“Mermaids?”
“We’re missing the tails.”
“Maybe they think we’re scavengers, up early to comb the sand.”
“Yes,” I said. “Like you probably have a few gold watches in your pockets, and I have some wedding bands and rolls of cash.”
“Perfect.”
I was aware of how our voices were a little higher pitched than usual, our words rushed. I was aware of how we hadn’t looked into each other’s faces since we stood up and dusted the sand off our clothes. Of the sand that still clung to my skin and the scent of Mabel everywhere.
Gramps spotted us before I saw him. He was waving at us from across the street with one arm, pulling the garbage bin out to the curb with the other.
“Hello, girls!” he shouted, as though it were a pleasant surprise to see us out this early.
We didn’t know what to say as we walked toward him.
“Morning, Gramps,” I finally mustered, but by then his expression had changed.
“My whiskey.”
I followed his gaze. I hadn’t even realized Mabel was carrying it like that, by its neck, totally exposed.
He could have looked at us and seen our kiss-swollen lips and blushing faces. Could have seen how neither of us could look him—or each other—in the eye. But he was looking at the bottle instead.
“Sorry, Gramps,” I said. “We only took a few swigs.”
“We’re lightweights,” Mabel tried to joke, but her voice was thick with regret.
He reached out and she surrendered the bottle. He held it eye level to get a good look at how much was inside.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It was only a little.”
“I’m really sorry,” Mabel said.
I wished I were back on the beach with her. I willed the sky to turn dark again.
“Gotta be careful with this stuff,” Gramps said. “Best not to get involved with it at all.”
I nodded, trying to remember kissing Mabel’s mouth.
I wanted her to look at me.
“I have to get home,” she said.
“Have a good day at school,” Gramps told her.
“Thanks.”
She was standing on the sidewalk in torn-up jeans and a sweater, her dark hair falling to one side, so long it grazed her elbow. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes were sad until she caught me, finally looking, and she smiled.
“I hope you don’t get in trouble,” I said, but how could trouble find us?
We were miraculous.
We were beach creatures.
We had treasures in our pockets and each other on our skin.
Chapter eleven
ABOVE ME IS the head and neck of a deer. A buck, I guess. His antlers cast long and graceful shadows along the wall. I imagine him alive, in a field somewhere. I think about spring, grass and flowers, hoofprints and movement and a body, intact. But now there is stillness and drips of candle wax and quiet. There are the ghosts of who we used to be. There is the clink of Mabel setting our dinner bowls into Tommy’s sink, and the exhaustion that comes with knowing that something will have to happen next, and then after that, and on and on until it’s over.
We haven’t talked about sleeping yet. On the sofa are a set of sheets and a comforter, a reminder of the space we are supposed to share.
Maybe we’ll stay up all night.
Mabel returns from the kitchen. She crosses to the bookshelf and picks up a deck of cards.
She turns to show me, and I nod. She shuffles and deals ten for me, ten for herself, places a card faceup. Queen of spades. I can’t believe I didn’t buy a deck of cards for us. It would have answered the question of what to do each time it came up. We wouldn’t have had to trick ourselves into sleep to stave off the need for conversation.
We dive into gin rummy as though no time had passed. I finish the first round ahead twelve points, and Mabel gets up to find us a pencil and paper. She comes back with a Sharpie and a postcard mailer for a Christmas tree lot. Nothing beats the smell of fresh-cut pine, it says, and below the sentence are photographs of three types of fir trees: Douglas, noble, and grand. Mabel writes our names below a P.S.—We have wreaths, too!—and adds the score.