Audition (North Security 4)

Bethany

The old swing behind Mamere’s house should probably be torn down. It’s creaky and rusted over, but it can still bear weight. There’s a lesson in there, if I cared to learn anything from all of this.

There’ll be time to learn later. When my heart comes back to life.

If it comes back to life.

Even if it does, I know it won’t beat the same.

“A sorry sight, you here alone on that swing. Not even the spirits to keep you company.” Mamere shades her eyes against the setting sun. “Does it help?”

“To swing?” I try to imagine a set of circumstances that would be helped by sitting on a derelict swing. None of them look quite like the one I’m in. I finally got to show the world the dance of my soul. It was beautiful and heartbreaking, because I had no one to share it with. A theater full of people. Alone. “No, Mamere. It doesn’t.”

The breeze runs its fingers through my hair and pats my cheek, as if New Orleans is comforting me. Not completely alone. I have Mamere. I have the city. I have dance. What I don’t have is the man I love, because he’ll never let me in.

Not five years ago. And not now.

No more, Bethany. No more hoping he’ll come back. No more wishing for pebbles against my window. All that is done. Someday I’ll feel peace about that. There will be wise words about serendipity and the vagaries of the heart.

Someday isn’t today.

Mamere shuffles through the tall grass and grips my shoulder. I put my hand over hers, feeling the papery skin and the tendons in sharp relief. She’s always been this way, ethereal and so very real. We stand that way for a long time, my toes pressed into the grass, my gaze on the pink-orange sherbet sunset.

Then she releases me and goes back into the house. I lift my feet from the ground to let the swing move again. Back and forth. Back and forth. The creaks become a sort of music. They mark a slow and steady rhythm.

There’s beauty in everything, even heartbreak.

I once sat on this swing as a terrified little girl. Then I grew up into a scared young woman. I’m not afraid anymore, and I wouldn’t go back to what I was—not even for the man I love. He’s too afraid to be vulnerable; that’s the irony of strong men.

The wind stills. A presence makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. My heart pounds faster. I couldn’t say what changes, whether I feel the bend of the grass or the shift in the air. It could be anyone. It could be no one. My soul whispers: Josh.

I know better than to hope for that. Don’t I?

My breath catches. I turn around to prove myself wrong.

The sunset provides a saturated spotlight. Peach light limns his tanned skin. It skates over the stubble on his jaw. It turns away from heavy shadows on the angles of his face. Objectively I know he’s a handsome man. Rugged and masculine. My heart jumps into my throat. I’m not objective. He doesn’t look handsome to me; he looks like fire.

How did I think I could swing and swing and swing?

How did I think living without him was an option?

“Josh. You’re here.” I stand, abrupt and clumsy, without an ounce of my dancer’s grace. The swing doesn’t want to let go. One of the rusty chains scrapes against my palm, leaving a thin line of blood. I hiss, more surprise than pain, but I barely glance at it. I’m transfixed by the man standing in the yard, the light trapped in his emerald eyes.

He closes the distance between us with his long strides and takes my hand in his. He turns it over, and I’m struck by the memory of reading his palm. He’s reading mine—not the lines in my skin. He’s reading the pinpricks of blood. His eyes flick up to meet mine, and a shock both foreign and familiar ripples through me.

“You’re going to need a tetanus shot,” he says, his voice grim.

A wild laugh tears from my throat. The sound floats above us on the breeze. Josh cracks a smile. “Is that all you have to tell me?”

“There were a few other things. They can wait.”

Such practical ideas—bandages and Neosporin. I have no desire to walk through those rituals. I have no interest in the lines on my palm. They don’t decide my fate. That’s in the hands of a man with violence and anger and unspeakable tenderness. He came back. “You walked away from me, Josh.”

“I’m an asshole.”

That makes me smile. “I know.”

He glances away. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “That probably won’t change anytime soon. Not at the core of me. Even if I—”