The Counting-Downers (27 page)

His eyes soften at my words and we just stare at each other, suspended in saccharine sentiment. If Blaise were here, he’d be making gagging noises.

“So what do you want to do now?” I break the spell. “We have a few hours before dusk descends. You want to hang inside the house for a few hours?” I look around to check on Leo who is playing a game of catch by himself. Throwing the ball with his mouth every time he catches it.

“Actually, I had another idea.” He shifts, restless, with an anxious expression on his face, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out the packet of seeds which I had seen him put in there earlier. Looking out at his outstretched palm, I see the forget-me-not seeds that we give out to the people who are part of our legacy listing.

At my quizzical look, he elaborates further. “I thought we could plant them. You give these to everyone else, but you don’t receive any back. These are from me to you as part of
my
legacy list. So you don’t forget me.”

“I could never forget you.”

“I don’t know how long I have left,” he whispers as my eyes swing, unbidden, to the clock above his head. “For all I know, I could go tomorrow.”

I want to shake my head and tell him not to worry, but I know I can’t without catastrophic consequences for both of us. I’m restless with a love for life at the best of times, but I’ve never had a harder time keeping still.

He continues in a hoarse voice. “If I go before you, I just want you to have something from me that I left behind. Something that will always be with you when I can’t be. I remember you saying that your dad is the one who planted you that field of daisies that you use for the flowers in your hair. Every time you see a daisy, you think of him. Well, every time you see a forget-me-not, I want you to think of me. Of us.”

“Tristan…” I don’t know what to say.

“From what I can tell, there are two types of women. The ones who wait to receive flowers and the ones who go out and pick them. The first type are the ones who prefer diamonds around their neck to flowers in their hair.” His fingers glide down my fishtail braid filled with daisies as if proving his point.

“And there are
three
types of men. Ones who do nothing, ones who buy flowers from a store, and the ones who plant a field of flowers for the woman they love. I love you, Matilda. Let me be the type of man who plants a field of flowers, so you can be the type of woman who picks them.”

“I… I love you too. So much.”

Air rushes out of him at my declaration as if he’s been winded by my words. I know the feeling.

He cups my face with his spare hand and gives me the kiss of a lifetime, before dropping his hand into his pocket to pull out his watch. He breaks apart from me to fiddle with the clasp as I reach down to my stopwatch underneath my denim shirt and press the button to stop our world of two from spinning. We both whisper, “Pause,” against each other’s lips before joining them together.

After we break apart, we walk hand in hand, heart to heart, through the meadow, looking for the perfect place to sprinkle pieces of our souls across the earth. The field is crowded with flowers, but we find a large, untouched patch of grass with the ideal conditions for forget-me-nots to thrive. After I retrieve the appropriate gardening gear from the house and a few more packets from my supply, we plant the seeds of ourselves into the soil and hope that they live forever, even though we won’t. Especially because we won’t.

AS WE LAY entwined outside underneath a blanket of stars a few hours later, I study Tristan’s silhouette in the glow of the moonlight. I ignore the small white numbers counting down to his departure and instead focus on his features.

He’s beautiful. I guess you aren’t supposed to call a man beautiful, but to me he is. His strong, masculine features are offset by long, think lashes, which kiss his cheeks every time he blinks. Catching me watching him, his head turns toward me.

“You okay?”

I nod as I shift down on his body so that my head rests against his chest instead of his shoulder. He runs his loving hands through my hair, which I’ve taken down in preparation for sleep. A contented silence falls over us like a comforter as we gaze up at the infinite depths of the galaxy.

I’m at once small and safe in Tristan’s arms as I try the impossible task of counting the stars. Drowning in the majesty of the constellations is a reminder that the universe was here long before us, and it will be here long after we’re gone. When our bones become nothing but ash and earth, the world will keep on spinning. People will die, cry, love, and live as if we never were.

But
we are now
. And that’s all that matters.

In this moment,
we are
.

Nothing but a boy and a girl.

On the cusp of something greater than ourselves.

Entering into the unknown and hoping we make it out to the other side.

With a strong sense of ourselves, and only a faint idea of who we want to be.

We are what we are.

And We. Are. Now.

Young, free, alive.

Here, together,
loved
.

“I almost forgot,” I exclaim, shooting upward in excitement.

“What?”

“Just give me a second,” I tell a perplexed Tristan as I run back into the house to retrieve what I need, my long hair whipping in the wind behind me.

“Are you okay?” he asks on my return, giving me a worried frown and opening his arms for me to get comfortable in my spot.

I love that I have a spot.

“I am now.”

“What did you forget?”

“This,” I say, holding up the official papers with pride for him to see. The only light is that provided by the cosmos, but I know when he understands what he’s looking at when his squinted eyes widen like mini-moons.

“You named a star after me?”

“After
us
,” I correct. “Look.” I take back the papers and flick through them to find the page I want. “This is a map of where they’re located.” It takes me a while to follow and match the patterns on the paper to the ones in the midnight sky. “There! Do you see?” I point to the location of ‘our’ stars.

“To the top left of those ones shaped like a line. Do you see the two stars that are just sitting off together by themselves? They’re ours. That one is called ‘Tristan’s Star’ and the one right by its side is ‘Matilda’s.’”

“You’re amazing.”

“It was on the legacy list, remember?”

“Of course, I just didn’t think we’d do it so soon, and I thought when we did, I’d be the one to name a star after you.”

“What would be the point in that? I don’t want to live forever, in the sky or down here on earth if I’m not right by your side. This way, we can look down on the earth for light-years to come. Together.”

“You know our stars are probably dead, right? They died long before we will. They were
born
out of something that died.”

“That is probably the least romantic thing you could say right now.”

He laughs at this and pulls me in for a slow kiss of apology. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant that it’s kind of amazing. That they live on long after they’ve burnt out. Their legacy is the light that shines on the earth. It’s kind of poetic.”

“Look at you, finding meaning in everything. Whatever happened to
‘sometimes a cloud is just a cloud’’
?”

“You happened.”

I don’t know how, who moves first, or what magical forces pull us together, but between one heartbeat and the next, we’re kissing, all thoughts of stars forgotten.

This kiss is different from all the ones that have gone before. It’s just
more
. In all the ways I know, and ones I don’t. Hands glide under clothes and over bare skin, pulses press against each other, and our souls speak words that only our bodies can hear. Tristan’s lips caress my neck as our clothes are removed piece by piece until all that remains is the sacred stopwatch around my neck.

Time ceases to exist as we focus only on our mutual pleasure. Our eyes are closed, but even without seeing, they’re only for each other. We give and take until our bones are liquid in ecstasy.

As we lie side by side, chests heaving as they attempt to recover our escaped breath, we turn our heads towards each other and entwine our fingers. Gazing into one another’s eyes, we have a silent conversation about whether the time is right to take the next, inevitable step on our journey through life together. I give a nod to his unspoken question, as he smiles in answer to the one I’ve just asked him with my eyes. We’re both in agreement; the time is not only right, it’s now.

While Tristan retrieves protection from the tent, my ears strain to make out his movements over the furious fluttering of my heart. When he returns, his mouth traces the chain of the clock, which is hot against my slick skin, before he presses the button to halt time and breathes out before he whispers, “Pause,” against my wet, swollen lips.

The muscles on his arms strengthen his grip on the earth as he suspends himself above me. For a blink and a breath, I feel time halt without us having to pause it. The exact moment the world stops turning is the same split second that I gasp as he slowly sinks into me for the first time.

Then he’s inside me. And nothing has ever been more right or more perfect than this feeling of fullness within my body, mind, and soul. Our bodies are locked together as every part of him is pressed against every part of me.

Sweat clings to our skin like raindrops, and tingles as it cools in the crisp night air. My nails make crescent moons into Tristan’s broad back as his steady movements push me further into the same earth that made us who we are.

I’ve never been more present, more grounded, more connected, more
alive
than in this moment, losing and finding myself in the arms of my forever, as we become one under the star-sprinkled sky.

“DUDE, YOU LOOK like Grizzly Adams.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” Blaise questions Jacob as he casts his fishing rod out into the lake.

“On Grizzly, it looked great. On you, not so much.”

“No? Think about all the wildlife this beard is giving a home to. I’m pretty much an eco-warrior at this point.”

“Yeah, a
homeless
eco-warrior,” Jacob retorts.

“Hey, don’t disrespect the homeless like that, Son of a Preacher Man. There are some damn good-looking people living on the street.”

We both laugh at Blaise being Blaise. “You’re ridiculous,” Jacob tells him.

“Ridiculously handsome.” Blaise counters.

“Seriously though, are you that broke you can’t afford a razor? Because I’ll lend you mine. ‘Love your neighbor as yourself,’ and all that.”

“You’re just jealous of my manliness and the fact puberty overlooked you. Don’t give up hope, Jake. Your first period will start any day now.”

“I am so close to throwing one of these worms at your face.”

“You’re welcome to, I don’t discriminate. All animals are welcome in my magnificent beard.”

I soak up the banter as they continue, relishing this experience. Sometimes, I look around and I can’t quite believe I’m seeing my life. I often feel like I’m watching a TV show or film, before I realize I’m not just a spectator, but one of the main characters.