We chase the light as we continue up, an infinite twilight that sees us through to the top.
When we get to the meadow, our meadow, I’m at a loss for words. Sang catches up to me, and we stand at the edge in silence. The full moon rises overhead, illuminating our flowers so they seem as if they’re glowing, iridescent, reflecting the stars.
I can’t believe this is the last time I’ll see our meadow. Maybe other witches on campus will discover it, and it will become their secret place. Maybe they’ll sit beneath our birch tree and find solace, peace, calm. Maybe they’ll come here to laugh or cry or think or paint. Maybe they’ll have conversations through flowers the way Sang and I did.
Sang takes my hand, and we walk to our birch tree. He throws a blanket over the dirt, and we sit down, looking at all the flowers that surround us.
“It really isn’t an efficient form of communication,” he says, and I lean my head into him and laugh.
“It really isn’t.”
He kisses my forehead and drapes the other blanket over our laps, then pulls out a thermos of hot tea. He sets a big piece of chocolate cake between us.
“You sure do know the way to my heart,” I say, taking a sip of tea.
“That’s the idea,” he says.
Our eyes meet, and I can’t look away. I want to memorize their depth, the way the center of gold, of sunlight, trails into rich brown, the way they crinkle at the edges when he laughs.
Sang pulls out a single candle and puts it in the piece of cake. He lights it, and against a backdrop of branches rustling and crickets chirping, sings me “Happy Birthday.” Then he hands me a package wrapped in white paper, secured with dried herbs and twine.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Open it and see.”
I tear open the wrapping paper, and inside is a hardbound journal. The words A Season for Everything are engraved on the cover in gold letters. When I flip through the pages, there are four section breaks, one for each season, each with a different flower that Sang painted himself.
“For your book,” he says.
I’m speechless, and I run my fingers over the forest-green cover, trying to find the right words to say. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful.
“Sang, this is amazing,” I manage to get out around the lump that has formed in my throat. “Thank you.” I lean in and kiss him, and he smiles against my lips.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“I love it.”
He kisses me again, then looks out over the meadow. “You know what I’ve been thinking about?” he asks, his voice quiet and deep in thought.
“What’s that?”
“Lightning.” He holds his hand out in front of him and pulls moisture from the ground until he’s formed the smallest cumulonimbus cloud, hovering above his open palm, stirring in the space between us.
“It doesn’t matter where you are when you see it,” he says, the storm above his hand lighting up with a flash. “Thunder will always follow.” And with that, the small cloud rumbles. He takes my hand and transfers his mini thunderstorm to me.
I laugh at it, so small and contained, and when I command another lightning strike, the electromagnetic charge moves through my body with ease. Totally natural.
Sang stands and walks to the far end of the meadow. He motions with his arm and pulls from my storm until he has a thundercloud in front of him as well.
Two parts of the same storm, separated by a field of wildflowers.
Summer magic flows through me, and I make another lightning strike. Seconds later, Sang’s thundercloud claps in response. He takes one step closer to me.
My storm lights up again, Sang’s cloud thunders in response, and he takes another step closer.
Lightning.
Thunder.
One more step.
With each cycle, Sang gets closer and closer until he’s back on the blanket. He sits down next to me, and I command one last bolt of lightning. The storms are so close together now that his thunder rumbles immediately after.
“You’re my lightning,” he finally says, his voice low, still playing with the storms in front of us. “And thunder always follows lightning.”
I look at him, my mouth dry and my heart slamming into my ribs as if it’s trying to get out to hear him better.
“Always?” I ask.
He takes my free hand and weaves his fingers through mine.
“Always,” he confirms, the word pouring over me, soothing me like one of his balms.
With lightning in our hands and stars above our heads, I pull Sang into me and kiss him, greedy, deep, long, and eager, soaking up every drop of him before I leave.
The storms dissipate in front of us, and I lie on my back, pulling Sang down with me.
He wraps his arms around me, and I do the same to him, clutching each other like we’ll never let go, like I won’t be moving thirty-five hundred miles away tomorrow. His lips are on my mouth, my neck, my chest, and I hold his face between my hands, run my fingers through his hair and down his back.
The autumnal equinox is in seven minutes.
I kiss him for all seven, touching him, memorizing the way his body feels against my own, the way my worries yield to him and my brain stops racing in his presence.
The way I feel as if I’m enough, as if I’ve always been enough.
Thirty seconds.
I roll onto my side and look at Sang. “Will you keep your eyes on mine when the season changes?”
“Of course.”
I lace my fingers with his and hold on tight, but I’m not scared.
Three.
I won’t let go.
Two.
I won’t.
One.
Autumn
Chapter Forty-Three
“It won’t always be easy. In fact, there will be days that are so miserable you’ll wonder why you do this at all. But I promise you one thing: it will be
