No Tomorrow

Once the car stops sliding, I park crookedly in front of the old, forgotten house, wondering how I’m going to get to the backyard because the driveway hasn’t been plowed and the walkway hasn’t been shoveled. Because it’s an abandoned house and it has to keep looking abandoned, even though Blue is basically living on the property. I understand that he can’t be shoveling a path for me, and as I schlep through the snow toward the house, I’m worried about leaving all these boot prints on the property. Just as I’m walking around the side of the house, Blue appears.

“I thought I saw car lights,” he says, leaning down for a kiss. “I didn’t know if you were coming today since you didn’t show up yesterday.”

“It was snowing, and my mom was freaking out about me driving and upsetting my grandmother—”

His warm lips are on mine again. “Don’t worry about it,” he says with a smile. “I missed ya.”

“I missed you, too.”

“Jump on my back and I’ll carry you the rest of the way. The snow is almost up to your waist, shorty.”

Laughing, I smack his arm. “It is not.”

“Jump on anyway.” He turns, and I jump on his back, hanging on to his shoulders and giggling as he trudges through while Acorn frolics around beside us. At the shed door, we stomp our feet to get rid of the snow and then quickly scoot inside.

“Wow,” I exclaim instantly. Blue’s been busy… rearranging. Everything’s in a different place, as if he moved all the stuff in the room clockwise. The best part, the part that makes my heart jump into my throat and gives me such a burst of happiness that I almost cry, is the tiny fake Christmas tree in the corner decorated with a few strands of glistening silver tinsel. One wrapped present is placed nearby. Blue’s standing in the middle of the room, smiling from ear to ear.

“I cleaned up a little, and I fixed the door so it shuts better. And I got this tree.”

“It’s beautiful.” His smile and bright, excited eyes are drastic changes from the last time I saw him when he was still sad, depressed, scribbling, and walking around all night. That mood lasted for days, and I was starting to worry he would never come out of it. Seeing him relaxed and happy again is the best present in the world, and I have to throw my arms around him and hug him because I missed this version of him so much. His embrace is tight and fierce enough to make my ribs hurt, and I wonder if he misses himself when he gets that way.

“I know I’ve been fucked up,” he whispers into my hair.

“It’s okay. We all have bad days.”

We slowly let go of each other, and he crosses the room to get the present from under the tree. “This is for you.”

I bite my tongue to keep myself from saying, “You didn’t have to get me anything,” because I know how much it bothers him when I say things like that. Instead, I take off my coat and sit on the bed to open his gift. I unwrap it slowly, wanting to relish and remember this moment with my first Christmas present from him. Inside the cardboard box, under crumpled white tissue paper, is a tiny wooden trinket box with a blue bird painted on the front. A few small scratches mar the surface of the wood, but I’m not bothered by them at all. My breathing stalls for a moment as a wave of total adoration for this man washes over me.

“It’s so beautiful.”

“Open it,” he urges.

I do, and it begins to play a melody. It takes me a few seconds to realize it’s not just any melody—it’s the first song he ever sang for me that day in the park. It sounds very different coming out of this itty-bitty box, but it’s definitely “Slayer of My Heart.”

I gape at him. “Oh my God… is this your song?”

“It is.”

I’m almost speechless with the shock of such an unexpected special gift. “It’s amazing,” I finally say, still holding it delicately in my hand. “How did you do this?”

He sits next to me, and the air mattress sinks considerably under his weight. “There’s this old guy downtown who owns an antique shop. Sometimes I play in front of his store. Mostly for him, though, ’cause he likes music. I bought it from him, and he knew a guy who could make it play my song.”

Tears are in my eyes when I turn to put my arms around him again. “Thank you. I love it, and I love you.”

“I wrote that song about you, so I felt like you should have it.”

Wow. A song about me. And those lyrics… How did they go again? My mind races back in time to grasp them, but he yanks me back with a touch of his hand on my thigh and his lips burning across my cheek.