in my eyes, and Jack smiles at me and reaches forward, puts his palms against my cheeks.
Here is my life, this life I never knew I could have, here is the whole world waiting for me, all the possible things. My future is as big as the wild night, the wine-dark sea. The smell of him, the heat of his palms on my skin, the curve of his mouth, the line of his throat, his dark hair falling around him. The last
“Cut the deck,” I say, “and lay out three cards.”
He moves slow, serious, turns over each card like it has instructions written on the other side. The Fool. The Lovers. Death.
“Death,” he says. “That’s heavy.”
“Not always. This is the past.” I point to the Fool. “This” —the Lovers— “is the present. And the third card is the future.”
“Death is the future?”
“It doesn’t mean literal death. Not usually. The Fool is someone who’s a dreamer, who wants big things. You’ve set out on a journey on a new road. You’re about to discover new things. But you can’t keep your head in the clouds forever. You have to make the right choice. You’re fearless, but also naive.”
“How will I know the right choice?”
“That’s up to you. The Lovers is—”
“—Kind of obvious?” He smirks at me, and I blush.
“Not like that. I mean, it can be. It’s another choice card. It means part of the choice is a temptation. You can pick the thing that is comfortable, or go somewhere that’s scary but can take you to what you really want. It can mean falling in love, too.” I can’t quite look him in the eye.
“And Death?”
“Death is change. It’s a trial, but also renewal. It means transformation, new ideas. A new opportunity.”
“So I’m making a choice that will change my life.”
“That’s what the cards are saying.”
He’s quiet for a long time. “That sounds about right,” he says. Here’s my heart, beating out a tattoo rhythm. I could take it out and hand it over. But maybe I’m not what he’s thinking about at all.
“I didn’t know my father, either,” he says. I wait, but he doesn’t elaborate.
“Did it bother you?”
“I never knew anything else. Did it bother you?”
Aurora and I lived in a world without fathers, but full of men: musicians, our mothers’ lovers, our mothers’ friends. A father seems so much tamer and less interesting than the pack of wolves who raised us.
“No,” I say.
“Did you know Aurora’s dad?”
I think of the drummer, asking me the same question the night Aurora took me to that show. A million years ago. I was a different person then. A person without Jack. “Not really,” I say. “He wasn’t around long enough to count.” He’s silent, thoughtful.
“Do you think it makes a difference?”
“Having a dad? I don’t know. Do you?” Raoul has a dad, but he never talks about him. Tracy, the normal girl whose house I used to go to, had a dad. A dad like in a movie, who came home in the evenings in a suit he changed out of. Raoul seems happy. I don’t know if Tracy was. Jack tilts his head, thinking.
“It must. But then we would be different people.” I wait for him to say something else, but he’s done.
I know Jack’s voice, and his body. I know his music. I know the way he looks at me, and I know how to make him laugh. I know the books he likes and that he doesn’t drink and that he is old enough for me to be a lot younger. I know about the restaurant where he works and the crazy waitress who comes in every night shaking from too much speed and the cook who drops fifty-dollar steaks on the floor before he puts them on the plate when he doesn’t like the customers. But about Jack’s life before he came here, I barely know anything at all. It’s like he began when I met him and before that he didn’t exist. How much do you need to know to love someone? I used to think you had to know them inside and out, the way I know Aurora; that you had to know every story that went into them, every place they had been. But it turns out love is easier, and infinitely more complicated. It turns out I don’t know much.
Jack blows out the candle. The cards scatter beneath us like leaves. He runs his hands along my bare thighs, slides a thumb under the elastic of my underwear. Where he kisses me, my skin turns to fire. We do not talk about fathers after that.
AUGUST
The three of us are in my room. Jack is sprawled on the floor, long legs everywhere, too big for the small space. I’m curled up in a corner, drawing Aurora. She’s sitting on my bed, smoking, with her knees drawn up to her chin. Long bony arms, long fingers, beautiful bird-sharp face. The cuts on her knuckles have healed to faint red lines. You wouldn’t think they’d both be so hard for me to draw, considering how much I look at them. We’re planning her birthday party. Our made-up world is animated on the opposite wall, the evening light playing tricks. The dragon flies over a choppy sea. Aurora reaches over and stubs out the cigarette in a candle. “What’s for dinner?” she says, yawning.
“Cass said there was stuff for stir-fry.” I put down my sketchbook. “Story of my life.” Cass is out doing a reading for a client, told us to eat without her. Cass hates Jack with an intensity that is as palpable as it is irrational, but she tolerates his presence in the house.
“You poor deprived thing. I’ll buy you takeout.” Aurora waves a hand over my protest. “It’s a salary. I’m putting you to work. We have to figure out the guest list and the decorations and the menu and the bands. And what caterer to use. And how much food we should get. And what we’re going to wear. And we should design the invitations if we want to get them printed. Don’t you think we should have them printed? I think that would be extra classy. Printed invitations.”
“Aurora, your birthday is in a week and a half.”
“Then we’ll have to plan efficiently.”
We order a feast from my favorite Chinese restaurant and eat it in the kitchen. Mu shoo pork, six kinds of dumplings, noodles slippery with sesame oil and tossed with scallions and prawns. Aurora bosses us around, makes me unearth three sets of almost-matching silverware and put out cloth placemats and napkins. She lights candles, turns out the lamps. In the gentle glow we are even more beautiful. We fill our plates over and over again until Aurora wails aloud and pushes herself away from the table. “I’m going to die,” she cries, “if I eat any more.” Jack leans forward and steals a prawn off her plate and she smacks the back of his hand with her fork. They smirk at each other, the air hopping with electricity. I look away. “I want you to play at my party,” she says.
“I’d be honored.” The warm light falls across his dark skin, his shoulders, the sharply defined muscles of his forearms that flex and tense as he gathers up the plates and carries them to the sink. I imagine the two of them together, her white hair tangled with his black, their long limbs entwined. They belong with each other more I than I belong with either one of them. The thought creeps in like poison from a sting. I shove back my chair and get up, measure milk and honey and herbs into three mugs. When the tea is ready we take it into the living room. I put on New Order and Jack sits close to me on the battered couch. Aurora sits on the floor with a pen and a page torn out of one of my sketchbooks, going on about decorations and cocktails and the different kinds of food she should order, and should there be a costume theme—“Masks,” Jack says, his breath warm against my ear. Aurora likes that and writes it down.
“Masks,” she repeats, tapping the pen against her lower lip. Jack’s hands are on my belly, fingers winnowing under the waistband of my jeans. I want to throw Aurora out of the room and arch my hips to meet them. I close my eyes. “I wonder if we could get hummingbirds somewhere,” Aurora says. “Wouldn’t that be cool? A flock of hummingbirds?” If anyone could get a flock of hummingbirds for her birthday party, it would be Aurora.
Later, in my room, after Aurora goes home, he unbuttons my jeans and tugs them off my hips, pulls my
