by Roan Parrish
He slept that night with the drawing under his pillow, as if perhaps in dreams she might merge with him and make him fiercer.
But come morning, she was still there, if slightly wrinkled, and when Corbin looked in the mirror, he saw what he’d always seen. Too-large eyes, a too intent stare, and delicate bones that made him, yes, look like he could be a girl. He sighed. He hadn’t thought anything would be different, but he realized in that moment that he must have hoped.
And then he heard Carbon’s voice in his head (though she hadn’t called herself that yet), and she said, Duh, you look like me, bro. Which is awesome. Lucky you. Corbin felt lighter immediately, and when he smiled, he thought his teeth were a little sharper too.
He’d put the drawing in his pocket and carried it to school with him that morning, and had ever since.
With Carbon there, he had someone to talk to, someone looking over his shoulder who could roll her eyes and laugh with him. She wasn’t there all the time. Why the hell would I want to chill at math class, bro? But she was there enough.
Jasmine came next, about six months later. Corbin read a book featuring her, Melt Away Homeward. In it, a woman—Jasmine Aweke—hid on a spaceship bound for the planet where her sister, who had disappeared the year before, had last been seen. She fought in an interplanetary war, only to find that her beloved sister was leading the army for the opposing side. She was strong and confident and loyal, and Corbin admired her completely. He read the book a dozen times and images of Jasmine began working their way into his drawings. He went to her for advice and liked to walk with her in silence.
Next were Wolf and Lex. They appeared at the same time because Wolf was dragging Lex out of a stream when Corbin found them. She was giggling too hard to grab at the shoreline, jubilant and unafraid. It had been Carbon who wanted her. Carbon found Jasmine stern and distant, and she thought Lex seemed fun. But Corbin had warmed to Lex too. She was forever laughing, and when she was laughing, nothing in the world could harm her. She made Corbin laugh at himself, and in those moments, he felt impervious too.
Wolf quickly became Corbin’s companion, rarely leaving his side. He was a guardian and a protector, and whenever Corbin needed him, he was there.
They got on like that for a few years. Then, when Corbin was fifteen, Finnian came. Finnian didn’t talk much, but he was handsome and brave and he listened to what Corbin had to say.
He held Corbin’s hand, even when Corbin’s fingers trembled, and he kissed Corbin’s cheek at night before he fell asleep. One night, Corbin asked where he went when Corbin was sleeping, and Finnian tapped Corbin’s temple and said, I’m always in here with you. “Then stay tonight,” Corbin had said, patting the bed beside him. “Please stay.” And Finnian had stayed, a warm weight next to him while he slept. Not every night, because he didn’t want the pleasure of it to wear off. Just when he really needed it.
After that, they were always together. Carbon, Jasmine, Lex, Wolf, Finnian—there, with him in his pocket everywhere he went.
When people at school teased him, he went away in his head where Jasmine would calm him down, or Carbon would curse them out. Where Lex would jolly him into good humor, or Wolf would run him ragged in the woods. Or, best of all, Finnian would kiss him sweetly until he forgot that anything else existed.
He didn’t tell his aunts about them—especially about Finnian. Not because they would think what his classmates thought—that he was a freak who talked to people who weren’t there—or what was quickly becoming clear his teachers and the school counselors thought—that he was mentally unstable. No, Corbin didn’t tell the aunts because he knew what they’d say.
They’d tell the same stories they’d told since he was a little boy and he first asked why they weren’t married. The same stories they’d told when he asked what happened to his own parents.
Davey, the love of Aunt Hilda’s life, had died in the Marines, when he was twenty-two. Aunt Jade’s wife had died six months to the day after their wedding, even though they’d had it in secret so no one—not even Hilda—would know. She’d been twenty-seven, healthy as anything, and had died of a heart attack in her sleep.
His parents had met canoeing around the Pictured Rocks, and fallen in love on the banks of Lake Superior. They’d shared whiskey, a tent, and a week of canoeing, and, drunk with love but restless, had planned to meet at the mouth of that same river the next year and do it all over again. Two months after their trip, when Madeleine had realized she was pregnant, she’d tried to find the man she’d met. And find him she had. In the obituary section of the Detroit Free Press. He’d died of an aneurism the week before.
Corbin, you see, was a Wale. And the Wales were cursed. Anyone who loved them, and whom they truly loved, died within a year.
So there was no point telling them about Finnian, nor about any other man, because Corbin could never fall in love. Not with someone who might love him back, anyway, because falling in love meant dooming his beloved to certain death.
He’d had a few encounters here and there—a few kisses, a few offers. But though he craved closeness and the feel of another’s hands on his skin, the encounters left him jangled, and wanting something else entirely, and he’d stopped even considering them years ago.
In that way, the fact that most people thought he was a freak made it easier to keep his distance. Not to accidentally connect. Besides, he had Finnian when he needed him, and Finnian was lovely. Lovely and impervious.
No one else had ever really caught his fancy in that way. No one had made much of a positive impression. No one had made their way inside the walls of his attention, or his home, or his dreams. No one had begun working their way into the fantasies where only Finnian had dwelt for over a decade.
No one until Alex Barrow.
For the first time in his life, Corbin felt like maybe he could belong. In the kitchen with Alex, sugar between his fingers, he felt at home. Every time Alex looked up at him and smiled, or moved next to him to show him how to shape a dough or mix a batter, he felt another piece fall into place, another chime sound. The air between them danced and burned.
That was how it happened, his aunts had always told him. First you fit together so perfectly there were no seams. Then you were torn apart forever.
They were putting pastries in the display case and Alex’s forearm brushed against his. Corbin shuddered. His entire skin felt hypersensitive these days. Every touch felt like a caress, every accidental press of flesh like an embrace. He thought if Alex ever actually kissed him, he might come on the spot. He always pulled away quickly, afraid to leave a blight on Alex.
Corbin dropped a muffin on the floor. Trouble’s coming.
Mac strode through the door.
Mac thought he was a freak. Jinx. That’s what Mac used to call him. Corbin gathered the crumbs of the pear streusel muffin.
“Alex, hello!” Mac’s voice scraped at the inside of Corbin’s head. “I wanted to talk to you about our Thanksgiving week Main Street promotions. Everyone’s participating, but I haven’t heard back from you. Did you get my email?”
“I did. Sorry not to have written you back sooner—new business and all, you understand.” Alex’s voice stroked Corbin’s nerves back into place. “I’m not going to be participating in the Thanksgiving week activities, but thanks for the heads-up.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving, and I’m not comfortable having my business make money from it.”
Alex’s voice was calm, but Corbin could see his frustration, his distaste. The air around Mac muddied, and Corbin took a step backward.
“Why not? You don’t have to believe in all that stuff about the pilgrims and the first Thanksgiving. Most people don’t. Nowadays it’s more just a time to celebrate with family, be thankful for everything we have.”
“I think you’re right about what the holiday means to a lot of people. That they agree it isn’t celebrating anything that should be celebrated b
ut they do it anyway. Because they don’t want to disappoint loved ones or they want to take advantage of a day off from work. But honestly, Mac, the only way to encourage people to stop celebrating it is . . . well, to stop celebrating it. So, I’m sure you’ll understand why I can’t be a part of any Thanksgiving week promotions.”
Corbin felt a smile tug at his lips. Alex’s fierceness, his conviction, stirred the air between him and Mac to a swirl of abject brown and glowing purple. The purple shuddered up Corbin’s spine and made him long for it to be Alex’s touch instead. But Mac’s brown froze him.
“Uh, yes, I suppose so.”
“I have a counter-proposition, though. Perhaps you and all the other small business owners could join me in donating half our profits made during that week to some Michigan area First Nations charities?”
“Ah. Well, the promotions are already set up, so . . .”
Alex nodded knowingly. “Maybe next year.”
Corbin had wanted to stay crouched behind the counter out of sight until Mac left, but a timer went off in the kitchen, so he stumbled to his feet, pan in hand. Mac’s frown fell on him, and he felt insects under his skin.
“Wale. Do you work here, now?”
Corbin watched as Mac’s outlines shifted at the sight of him. Anger, disgust, revulsion. He hates you.
Corbin shuffled past him and made for the kitchen, the beep of the timer like a friendly voice calling him home. He slid the almond torte out of the oven to cool and waited for Alex to come tell him what to do next.
Just the thought of Alex telling him what to do calmed Corbin.
But his calm evaporated when he saw that Mac was still talking to Alex. Because he knew what Mac would be saying. He would confide in him—from one business owner to another. He would warn him about Corbin. He would tell Alex that Corbin was untrustworthy, a space cadet. A freak.
Sometimes you can call his name for a full minute without him hearing you. Sometimes he doesn’t show up to work at all. And then there’s the way bad things follow him everywhere he goes. Mrs. Edelman’s freezer exploded. Mr. Sakaturi’s shop got broken into. My car caught on fire after he unloaded it. Everyone knows he ruins whatever he touches, so look out.
When Alex walked into the kitchen, Corbin looked up to see that he’d poured two dozen zucchini muffins and sprinkled the tops with pepitas and brown sugar without noticing.
For the next few minutes, Alex worked and Corbin writhed. The world had narrowed to a tunnel. At one end of it was the warmth and comfort of Alex and his kitchen, and at the other end was Corbin and the life he’d had before. He could try to pick his way through the tunnel, but it was long and sloped uphill. Or he could turn away and settle in with what he already had.
He was so tired.
“I should go,” Corbin said finally, as the first tendrils of vanilla and cinnamon snaked to his nose from the muffins in the oven.
Alex glanced at the clock and frowned. “Do you feel okay? You’ve got two hours left on your shift.”
Corbin’s mouth was dry, and he swallowed convulsively. Whatever magic it was that saw, in the bland woodiness of raw zucchini, the potential for the melting sweetness of zucchini muffins, that was the magic Corbin needed.
“No, I feel okay. But I can imagine what Mac said. I thought you wouldn’t want me to work here anymore.”
Alex frowned, and Corbin looked at his shoes.
“What did you imagine he said?”
Corbin longed to have Wolf at his side. He always felt steadier when he could lean into Wolf’s warm fur. “That I’m a freak. A weirdo. A jinx. That I ruin things. Break things. That I’m bad luck to have around, and you don’t need any bad luck.”
Then Alex was right there, closer than he usually came. Corbin shrank away like he always did. The last thing he wanted was to touch Alex’s bare skin and risk tainting him. Risk somehow allowing the curse to rub off on him. But where Alex usually pulled back too, as if he could sense that Corbin was dangerous, this time he took Corbin’s shoulders in his hands.
“I don’t care what Mac says. I don’t care much what most people say. You’re enjoying working here, aren’t you?”
It was difficult to think with Alex touching him, like all the places they touched throbbed with awareness.
“It’s the best thing in my life,” Corbin said, scattered and abstract, and watched the fierceness in Alex’s eyes fall away and his mouth soften.
Then Alex pulled him against his broad chest—slowly, so there was time to get away. But Corbin didn’t want to get away. He wanted to be enfolded, consumed, engulfed. He wanted to be held at the eye of the storm, and let the world rage around him.
In Alex’s arms, time was measured in breaths and distance in the wrinkles of the clothing between them. Though he was held firmly, his breath felt deeper, like his lungs could expand up to his throat and down to his stomach, filling him with all the air he’d need to stay there forever. In Alex’s arms, nothing else could touch him.
What if I could have this. What if this were possible. What if I could keep him.
There was no point asking questions if you already knew the answers. Then, questions were just regrets directed at the future rather than the past.
Because he couldn’t have this. This wasn’t possible. He couldn’t keep him.
He was a Wale, and Wales were cursed. It was the one immutable truth he’d always known.
He took one last deep breath, to impress the feeling of Alex’s arms on his bones, imprint the sensation of Alex’s skin against his own, catalogue the smell of Alex’s hair and breath. It was better than nothing. But in doing so, he pressed his face closer to Alex’s shoulder, and Alex’s arms came around him even tighter—a trap laid with the most tempting bait and teeth of snapping steel.
“Corbin,” Alex whispered.
His name. His name with everything in it.
And for just a moment Corbin saw how it could happen. Saw how quickly one of the pieces could slide, and you could say, I don’t care if it ends, as long as I can have it now. Saw that if he leaned back only a very little and tipped his face up toward Alex’s, he would be kissed.
Alex would kiss him, and he would be gone, and anything would feel justifiable. He saw how his aunts must have sealed the fates of their lovers though they knew the stories better than anyone. How his mother might have convinced herself to take a chance.
He saw the monsters that love and longing could make, and they all had human faces.
“Hey, you’re okay,” Alex said, and Corbin realized he was shaking. He pulled away and scanned the air around Alex desperately, to make sure the colors hadn’t dimmed, hadn’t absorbed any of his taint.
He gathered his words up like spilled acorns and tried to put them in order, but before he could, Alex was talking again.
“So then it’s settled. You’re not going anywhere, and the next time Mac or anyone else has something to say about you, just don’t worry about it. Okay?”
Corbin found himself nodding because Alex was a force. Not as strong a force as the curse, but strong. And because all that mattered was more minutes with Alex, more hours.
“Do you want to help me with this new recipe? I could use a taste tester.”
Corbin nodded.
“I’m going to start making challah to sell on Fridays for Shabbat, and I have a recipe I usually use, but I wanted to try a couple of variations. One with figs and honey, and one with sundried tomatoes and basil.”
Corbin nodded again.
Alex paused and looked like he was about to say something, but then he just smiled and got out what they’d need. He seemed more natural in motion.
As Alex mixed ingredients and kneaded dough, making one challah after another, he talked. He always talked as he worked. Sometimes he talked to Corbin, sometimes to what he was making, and sometimes Corbin got the sense he was just leaking words like a waking dream, letting them out so they didn’t gum up the works. Alex was a well-functioning machine.
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br /> Now he talked about Mac, about Thanksgiving, about small business practices and how sick it made him that people cared more about making more money than about doing the right thing.
“It’s a holiday that glorifies an American holocaust,” Alex said passionately as he tore basil. “Yeah, we’ve turned it into something that we say is about giving thanks, so no one can argue it’s bad. But that makes it even worse. Anything that we do to celebrate it only adds to the problem. There’s no way I’m trying to encourage people to spend money because of it.”
Corbin sat on a stool next to the table and listened, eyes half closed. He found Alex’s voice lulling, even at a rant. It reminded him of how Finnian would tell him stories some nights, or how he’d fall asleep to Lex and Carbon debating one thing or another. He didn’t notice he’d dropped off, head on his hand, until he almost fell off the stool.
“My mom used to say I could talk someone to death, but I’ve never actually seen it come quite that close to happening. You okay?”
Corbin muttered that he was and stood up.
“If you promise not to fall asleep in the middle, I’ll show you how to braid challah.”
“Please.”
Braiding interested Corbin. His aunts always said braiding was meditative. They wove baskets and knotted rope to hang bird feeders. They threaded ribbons through the hems of their skirts and braided sections of their hair at the new moon to anchor thoughts in the dark.
“Do you know how to do a three-strand braid? Okay, then we’ll do six-strand braids.”
Corbin watched as Alex’s strong hands made sense of the snakes of dough, winding them together neatly, saying the pattern out loud as he went: Over two, under one; over two, under one.
“My grandmother always made challah for Shabbat and dropped it off at our house. She said braided bread was a symbol of love because it’s like arms interlocking.”
“Did she teach you to bake.”
“Yeah. At first I wasn’t interested. Then, one day, I watched her make pizza dough. I watched her the way you watched me the first day you came in here. I was transfixed by that moment. That moment where things that were completely different came together to be one thing. It was like magic.” He chuckled. “My grandmother just thought I really loved pizza. Which, for the record, I really do.”