Page 81

He beckons to me. “Coming, baby siren?”

God, but he looks magnificent and otherworldly, bathed in the dying light of our sun.

My own wings spread out. I take a running leap from the cliff, and then I’m diving, gliding, soaring. I laugh as the wind buffets me upwards, catching sight of my Converse’s in the process.

Fucking flying over the Pacific.

The two of us cut across the sky, the ocean blurring by beneath us. This moment could last forever, the breeze whistling through my hair, the blue water beneath me, the fading day above me. And Des and I, two strange birds ghosting above the world.

My body is filled to the brim with simple joy.

Inevitably, we close in on land. If we had any other destination in mind, perhaps that would be a disappointment. But up ahead I catch sight of my house, and a new sort of euphoria moves in to replace the old.

Home. Sweet, lovely, lonely home.

We touch down in my backyard.

I’m back.

Never want to leave.

I really don’t. I want to drink my wine, stare out at the ocean, think deep thoughts, sleep beneath my sheets.

I want to do all that … but I want to do it with Des.

The Bargainer and I head over to my sliding glass door. Des has only to stare at the handle, and with a snick, the door unlocks itself and slides open. Tentatively, I step inside.

Home is a house filled with sandy floors, chipped counters, and now, my soulmate. He stands in my house like he resides there—like he’salwaysresided there—and the way he looks around, I have every reason to believe he intends to make this place ours.

Ours.

Not going to get over that.

“Where are all of our things?” he asks.

There’s that word again.Our.

I move through my (our?) home, expecting things to be different. It feels like ages since I was last here.

“In the attic.” I couldn’t bear to part with all those trinkets Des and I collected during my junior year of high school, but I also couldn’t bear to look at them. The pain of his absence always sharpened when I saw those physical reminders.

Des clicks his tongue. “Cherub, we’re going to have to change that.”

He lifts his hand, and I hear a few distant thumps, then the sound of scraping.

Less than a minute later, a weathered box floats into the living room, scattering dust motes as it heads our way. It plops to the floor a few feet in front of me.

For several seconds all is still; suddenly, the lid pops open, causing me to jolt.

And then the procession begins. The prayer flags, the Venetian masks, the painted gourd and the silks, they float out of the box one by one, lining themselves up on the floor.

Once our old memorabilia has been removed from the container, my tasteful decorations are lifted from the walls, pushed off tables, and cleared from shelves. They amble through the air, then stack themselves neatly into the box. After they’re all settled inside, the cardboard flaps fold over them, and the box levitates off the floor. It cants drunkenly back and forth as it heads back the way it came.

I raise an eyebrow but say nothing.

Des smiles, a calculating spark in his eye.

All at once, the objects the two of us collected together—every shot glass and postcard, every hand drawing and note—lift into the air. For several seconds, the items hover in midair. Then, like an explosion, they scatter across the house.