My fingers graze his chest. I trace the scars on his ribs, like Braille. A history of pain. But without that pain, he wouldn’t be who he is: someone with enough empathy to reach out to me, enough courage to love me. “You’re perfect, Stanley.”
Suddenly he seems very interested in his own bare feet. “You don’t have to say that.”
I kiss a jagged scar on his collarbone, and his breath shivers in his throat. My lips brush against a scar on his left pectoral. His chest heaves as I kiss another scar, then another. I take his hand in mine and kiss the palm. When our lips meet, I taste salty tears.
His hands slide over my skin. When his palm settles over my left breast, I push into the touch.
I want more. I want to touch him, to feel him respond to me.
My hand drifts down to his boxers, and his muscles tense.
“My legs are still—”
“You won’t have to move your legs. You won’t have to do anything. Just let me.”
He looks baffled. Then his eyes widen as realization sinks in. “You want to . . .”
“Yes.”
He closes his eyes and breathes in slowly. He seems to be struggling for control. “Alvie . . .” His eyes open, and he reaches out to touch my face and tuck a few strands of hair behind my ear. “I can’t ask that of you.”
“You aren’t asking,” I reply, a touch of impatience in my voice. “I want to.” I kneel beside him on the bed, feeling suddenly uncertain. “Do you not want it.”
“Of course I do,” he blurts out, then bites his lower lip. “It’s just . . .” His voice softens. “I want our first time to be more than that for you. It shouldn’t be about pleasing me. It should be something perfect, something you can remember for—”
I grip his wrists and pin them down to the bed. “Stanley.” He blinks up at me. “For once in your life, stop being selfless and let me suck your cock.”
His eyes go so wide I can see the whites all around. “Okay,” he says, breathless.
I release his wrists and examine his tented boxers. Carefully, I ease them down, and for a moment, I just look at him.
I’m well familiar with male anatomy, of course. I’ve seen photos. But this is different. This is Stanley.
My heart is beating fast, my mouth dry, and I realize that I’m nervous. Of course. I’ve never done anything like this. Before I met him, I’d never allowed myself to get close enough to anyone to even consider it. After opening my mind to him and telling him the darkest secrets of my past, physical contact shouldn’t feel so overwhelmingly significant.
Our eyes meet. There’s an expression on his face I have no words for. It calms me, somehow, to know that this is just as new for him. I rest my hands on his slender thighs. “Are you ready.”
He nods. I swallow a few times, trying to generate some saliva, and lower my head.
He tenses briefly, then relaxes. Surrendering, trusting.
Once I let go of my anxiety, it’s not difficult. I lose myself in it, my mind a daze of concentration, noting his responses and adjusting my movements accordingly. I listen to everything; the little hitches and shivers of his breath, the soft, husky groans rising from his throat, the rustle of sheets as he shifts.
Stanley never lets himself relax. Not like this. I didn’t realize, until this moment, how much I’ve longed to see him this way, with all his guards down—not worrying or thinking or distracted by concern over me, not doubting himself or striving to be worthy. Just lost in feeling, in his own nerves. Somewhere deep in my body, there’s a pulse, a growing ache. I ignore it, pushing all those sensations into a corner of my mind, leaving the rest of it a cool, efficient computer.
When his eyelids slip shut, I freeze. I need to see his eyes; I need all the available data, to know if I’m doing something wrong. I lift my head long enough to say, “Keep them open.”
His eyelids snap up. And I lower my head again.
His muscles tense beneath my palm, then clench. His breathing grows faster. “Alvie,” he gasps. “I—I’m gonna—” He cries out.
I pull back, not quite fast enough, and double over in a fit of coughing. Eyes watering, I retreat to the bathroom to rinse out my mouth and drink some water from the tap. When I return, he starts stammering apologies. I silence him with a kiss, then lay my head on his chest. His heart is still pounding. After a moment, it begins to slow. He rests his hand on my back and murmurs, “That felt really good.”
My head is buzzing. I feel the way I did after my first few sips of wine, before it started to cloud my head. Light. Pleasantly warm.
I did that, I think. I made him feel that.
He reaches out to touch my face, fingertips brushing over my cheekbone. He tucks a lock of damp hair behind my ear. “How do you feel? Are you— I mean—” His eyes move in small flickers, searching my face. “Do you want anything?”
“Like what.”
He touches me through my jeans—a light, soft touch.
My heartbeat quickens.
It would be easy to stop now. To retreat, reassess, find my center of control. But I don’t want to stop.
Slowly I remove my jeans, then my underwear.
At first he is gentle, almost cautious. I hold still, barely breathing, as he explores me . . . then, gradually, I begin to relax. I find myself arching into his touch, like a cat, my body moving on its own.
The sensations are strange. New. But not bad. There’s pressure, some stinging. I squirm.
“Alvie?” he says, his voice low and anxious. “Are you—”
“Keep going.”
He does.
For a brief moment, I find myself thinking about the nature show that first gave me the idea to proposition him—the polar bears rutting in the snow, how businesslike and unceremonial it was, and how at the time that had appealed to me because it seemed simple. This is different. I should have known it would be different. His breathless, intent focus, the way he looks at me through wide eyes, as though I am the only thing in his world—I feel seen. Every move, every breath, is significant. We are both so vulnerable, so open to each other, and for once, I don’t feel the urge to look away.
Stanley, I think. Stanley, Stanley . . .
Then everything goes white.
When I come back to myself, I’m lying next to him, his arms around me. There’s a sense of weightlessness, as if I’m lifting out of my body, looking down at both of us in the bed.
He holds me tighter. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” My skin is damp with sweat, my head is spinning; it’s too much to absorb, too much everything, and for a moment I want my Rubik’s Cube, the cool comfort of plastic beneath my fingers, the straightforward simplicity of rows of color clicking into place. Instead, I focus on the gentle pressure of Stanley’s arms around me, the heat of his skin.
For now, this is enough.
His hand brushes my leg. I curl against his side, resting my head on his shoulder.
“I love you,” he whispers, his lips moving against my ear.
I open my mouth. At first, the words don’t want to come out. Even now, my throat closes up, my body resisting through sheer force of habit. Then something inside me relaxes. “I love you, too, Stanley.”
He holds me close and tight, his arms a sheltering burrow around me, and buries his face against my hair.
I hear a low, peculiar sound, almost like the cooing of a dove, so soft it’s nearly inaudible, and I realize it’s coming from my own throat. It’s the same sound that rabbits make when they’re happy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“Are you sure about this?” Stanley asks.
I look around the condo. It’s empty, save for the stacks of cardboard boxes labeled BOOKS and DVDs and MISC. STUFF. “I’m sure. Anyway, it’s a bit late to be questioning our decision.”
The movers will drag in the rest of our furniture tomorrow. For now, all we have is a bed and a TV. And Matilda’s cage, which sits on the floor. She’s nibbling a food pellet, seemingly oblivious to
the change in scenery.
I sit on the edge of the bed and turn my Rubik’s Cube over in my hands.
Stanley limps over, leaning on his cane, and sits next to me. “I know that change is a big deal for you,” he says. “And I know you liked my house.”
“This is closer to Elmbrooke, and to your school. It’ll be easier.”
A few boxes labeled MOM’S STUFF sit next to Matilda’s cage. “What are you going to do with those,” I ask.
“Probably donate them to Goodwill.”
I nod and look at him from the corner of my eye. “How does it feel.”
A smile quirks at one corner of his mouth. “Terrifying. But in a good way.” He looks around the condo.
He’s been getting a new treatment, a series of injections designed to strengthen the collagen in his bones, and his sclerae aren’t as noticeably blue now. But I can still see a faint tinge, like the sheen on a pearl. “Yes.”
Sunlight pours in through the picture window in the living room, illuminating the white walls. Everything here feels so bright. It will take some getting used to.
“The kitchen stuff is still in boxes,” he says. “Want to go out for dinner? I think there’s a pancake restaurant around here.”
I nod and slip into my hoodie, and we leave the condo. On the way, we pass a park. It has a small pond, and a bench. “Wait,” I say.
He parks, and we get out and sit on the bench, side by side. A pair of geese glide across the water. A rabbit is digging in the grass. She stops and looks up, ears alert and quivering.
We sit, comfortably quiet. Beneath our feet, the winter-brown grass is squishy from the melted snow. A few tender green shoots are visible, pushing their way toward the sun. I breathe in the sharp, cool air. It holds a smell that is familiar yet new.
“It’s funny,” he says. “I was just thinking, about that phrase from Watership Down . . . ‘My heart has joined the Thousand.’ I know it’s about mourning, but to me, that part of it always sounded kind of . . . hopeful. Like it’s about becoming something bigger than yourself. About connecting with other people, or the world.”
Overhead, the sky arches, blue and clear, and there’s a sensation of lifting in my chest—a sense of opening. My heart has joined the Thousand, I think, trying out the new meaning. It feels accurate.
I remember the first time I saw Stanley, sitting on a bench in a park just like this. I was upset, I recall, because a stranger had invaded my territory and disrupted my carefully planned routine. I thought about getting up, walking away, and never coming back. I came so close to doing it. But something stopped me. Something—what?
A hint of curiosity. A random pulse of electrical activity in some deep, hidden fold of my brain. The opening and closing of an ion gate on a single nerve cell. The spin of a subatomic particle within that ion gate. Something so small, so seemingly random. And now Stanley and I have a home together. Being with him feels easy and natural—like something that could last forever.
Intellectually I know there is no such thing as forever. Someday we will die and our bones will turn to dust. Someday humankind will be gone and the earth will be ruled by sentient rabbits, or by the machines we leave behind, or by creatures we can’t even imagine. And then the sun will go supernova and swallow the earth and all the other planets, and the universe will continue to expand until the bonds of gravity loosen and all things drift away into the darkness, and all stars will go silent and cold, and matter itself will break down into nothingness. Time will end, and there will be nothing but vast, cold, empty space. The atoms that once composed our bodies will be dispersed across unimaginable distances.
But then, subatomic particles are connected in ways we don’t understand. Two particles that have interacted physically are bound by quantum entanglement. They will react to each other even after being separated, no matter the distance, linked by intangible cords across space and time.
I tilt my head back, looking into the bright sky, and smile. Stanley reaches for my hand, and I take it, fingers slipping easily and naturally between his. And I find myself thinking of that moment, years ago, when I awakened in the hospital after swimming to shore. I remember the doctor’s words: She’s a lucky girl.
For the first time, I believe it.
BACK AD
DISCOVER
your next favorite read
MEET
new authors to love
WIN
free books
SHARE
infographics, playlists, quizzes, and more
WATCH
the latest videos
www.epicreads.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A. J. STEIGER has lived her entire life in the Chicagoland area. She’s a graduate of Columbia College, where she majored in fiction writing.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
BOOKS BY A. J. STEIGER
When My Heart Joins the Thousand
CREDITS
Cover art by Philip Pascuzzo
Cover design by Michelle Taormina
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
WHEN MY HEART JOINS THE THOUSAND. Copyright © 2018 by A. J. Steiger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.epicreads.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017938997
ISBN 978-0-06-265647-6
EPub Edition © February 2018 ISBN 9780062656490
17 18 19 20 21 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
FIRST EDITION
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
When My Heart Joins the Thousand Page 26