She grabbed both scruffs-of-the-school-shirt.
She held them out and away.
Like boys hung up to dry.
A week later, she was in the hospital; the first of many visits.
But back then, way back then, that handful of days and nights earlier, she’d stood with them in their bedroom, in that sock-and-Lego pigsty. The sun was setting behind her.
Christ, I’m gonna miss this.
She’d cried and smiled and cried.
Early on Saturday night, Clay sat with Henry, up on the roof.
Close to eight o’clock.
“Like old times,” Henry said, and they were happy in the moment, if feeling their various bruisings. He also said, “That was a great run.” He’d been referring to Carey.
Clay stared, diagonally. Number 11.
“It was.”
“She should have won. A protest, bloody hell.”
* * *
—
Later, he waited.
The Surrounds, and the steady sound of her; the quiet rustle of feet.
When she arrived, they didn’t lie down till they’d been there a long time.
They’d sat on the edge of the mattress.
They talked and he wanted to kiss her.
He wanted to touch her hair.
Even if just two fingers, in the falling of it by her face.
In the light that night it looked sometimes gold, sometimes red, and there was no telling where it ended.
He didn’t, though.
Of course he didn’t:
They’d made rules, somehow, and followed them, to not break or risk what they had. It was enough tha
t they were here, alone, together, and there were plenty more ways to be grateful.
He took out the small heavy lighter, and Matador in the fifth.
“It’s the best thing anyone’s ever given me,” he said, and he lit it a moment, then closed it. “You rode so well today.”
She gave him back The Quarryman.