A Postcard Would Be Nice

by Steph Campbell

  Holding onto the bag of burgers with one hand and the railing with the other, I make it about halfway down the staircase into the dungeon-like area that is the costume wing, before I hear the music.

  (Written while waiting for Oliver in the museum) (Undelivered)

  37.

  I take the steps slower now, the space now completely filling with music.

  When the room opens up, Paloma’s back is to me. She’s stepping away from the speaker she’s set her iPhone in, admiring the setup.

  The room itself is lined along the walls with costumes, and there are two big rows in the center of the room. The theme this season is ‘Mourning,’ and the costumes showcase what people from all walks of life and time periods wore while grieving their dead.

  It’s probably not the most romantic spot to have a makeshift prom, but it works. At least for us. Whatever us is—has always been a little less than ordinary.

  She’s playing my favorite album.

  I stop at the bottom step, and my foot skids a little. The noise makes her back stiffen, and she finally turns around.

  I can’t help it. When I see her facing me, I stagger back a little. I grip onto the handrail to steady myself.

  “You—” My jaw goes slack. “Wow. You look incredible, Paloma.”

  Her dress is knee-length and light blue. I don’t know what the material is called, but I do know that I love the way it clings to her curves.

  She opens her mouth to reply, but it’s like her words get all tangled, so instead, she does what amounts to a half-curtsy thing.

  She’s nervous.

  “This is—”

  “Operation Ivy,” she says. “Your favorite.”

  I smile and nod. “And you’re here first. I didn’t expect that.”

  I’m not annoyed, just genuinely surprised. I can’t believe that loud-mouth Colm had managed to keep it a secret that she was already here. She’s completely caught me off guard.

  “I sort of coerced Colm into letting me down here early and not telling you.”

  “Oh yeah? What’d you threaten him with?”

  “Told him I’d complain to management about his facial hair if he didn’t let me set up early.”

  “Nice one,” I say with a light laugh. “This looks awesome.”

  She shrugs. “It isn’t much. Colm wouldn’t let me bring candles down here, so I brought a few strands of twinkle lights, which felt incredibly cheeseball, but I guess so would candles.”

  “I love it.”

  I step down off the bottom stair, holding up a white paper bag, and say, “I brought dinner.”

  “In-N-Out?” she asks.

  “Yeah, you hungry?”

  “Always,” she says.

  There’s only a single bench in the absolute center of the room so we both automatically gravitate that way without discussion.

  “I didn’t ask what you wanted,” I say. I take two burgers and fries out of the bag and set them down on the middle of the bench. “Hope this is okay.”

  “This is great.”

  We sit there and both nibble on the fries for a while, but don’t really make a dent in the food.

  “This playlist is awesome,” I finally say.

  “Yeah? It was fun to put together. I’m sure there’s some stuff you won’t like, but maybe you can give me some more recs soon?”

  “I’d love to.”

  More silence. I take another salty bite of fry and gather my courage. The night is really nice so far. I think both of us are scared of pushing too hard, so maybe we’re settling for ‘really nice’.

  “Speaking of music, have you been writing any more songs lately?” she says.

  I finally take a bite of my burger, and chew slowly, avoiding the question for as long as possible.

  She does the same. Then, rather than repeating the question, she tries a new one.

  “Do you feel weird? Missing prom?”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call this missing anything,” I say, gesturing around the room to our little set-up. “We had dinner. We have music, and … Shit!”

  “What?” Her eyes dart around the room, a little panic flickering in them like she’s worried we might have been caught.

  “I forgot to get a corsage!”

  “Oh,” she says. “I don’t need flowers. This is good. Right here.”

  “But you missed your senior prom to be here with me. I should’ve done it all right.”

  “Oliver, it’s fine. Really. And I’m happy where I’m at right now.”

  I think how strange it would be if she were at her own prom tonight. If whatever ‘we’ are didn’t happen. If I still hadn’t had a chance to talk to her at all.

  I touch the top of her hand softly and hold my breath.

  “I have something for you,” she says. Breaking the quiet. Killing the moment. Protecting herself.

  “Oh yeah?” My tone is laced with both intrigue and guilt.

  She slides away from me and crosses the room to where she stashed her purse. Her hand slips inside and she rummages around for a few moments before walking back over to me. I tap my foot on the shiny floor, feigning impatience. Really, it’s just nerves.

  She slides onto the bench next to me, and says, “Hold out your hand.”

  I do, and she uncurls my calloused fingers one by one before setting something smooth into it. Before I can look at it, she presses it into my palm and closes my fingers around it.

  I’m not sure if I’m supposed to open it right away, but instead, I lock my eyes on hers.

  “What’s this?” I ask.

  “You can look,” she says. “It’s not much.”

  “I’d rather you to tell me,” I say.

  “It’s—” Paloma clears her throat and straightens her posture a little. “It’s this stone I found one day. It was a really shitty day at school— and with Martin—” I blink several times when she says Martin’s name. “I found this rock, and it’s—it just reminded me of you. And I know it’s not a corsage, but it’s something to remember this night by. It’s something to remember me by.”

  I slowly uncurl my fingers and stare down at the stone.

  I run my thumb over the dark center. It gets lighter toward the edges. It’s solid and polished. I wonder why Paloma saw me in this.

  “This is awesome,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “It’s small, so you can keep it with you, you know. When you go off to college. When I’m in another country.” She drops the last bit nonchalantly.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “My dad and I have been looking into this gap-year abroad program. At first I didn’t take it very seriously, but the more we found out about it, the more I think it might be the right thing for me to do.”

  “Wow,” I say. My breathing picks up, and I run my hand through the front of my hair. “So you’re leaving. Wow. Where will you go?” Before she can answer, I ask the real question quietly, “How long will you be gone?”

  “Italy,” she says. “And about six months. Dad and I checked out the materials on Spain, Italy, and France before I made my final decision two nights ago.”

  I want to ask more, but I’m having a hard time playing off the sadness that surrounds us now.

  “How about you? When do you leave for school?” she asks, just as the song on the playlist changes. “Uptown Funk” is now pumping out from the tiny speaker in the corner.

  The song from that night.

  The song that, in my head, is ‘our song.’

  I clear my throat, swallowing the lump in my throat. My voice drops a little when I ask, “Do you want to dance?”

  “To this?”

  “It seems fitting, right? And it is our sorta-prom after all.”

  We both stand, and I reach over and hook an arm around her waist. I want to pull her in a little closer, but I stop myself from doing it. This feels like the closest I’ve been to Paloma, and may ever be.

  Maybe our secrets are what keep us sane.


  Maybe our secrets are what keep us safe.

  38.

  I wish I wasn’t thinking about my ex-girlfriend right now, but, for a moment, she does cross my mind. I can’t help it. Because when I held Cora in my arms, when I danced with her, it never felt like this. It was stiff, and I wasn’t able to relax and just feel the music.

  But with Paloma, I can feel more than just the beat carrying the cheesy chorus. I can feel her. It should be sensory overload, the way the soft skin on the tips of her fingers trace a line down the back of my neck; the way my arm feels, wrapped around her waist, like it belongs there, holding her steady and close to me; the way both of our hearts appear to be jumping through our clothes, even while we both try to keep our voices steady so we don’t give away our nerves—or our hopes.

  Our feet have slowed so much that we’re barely moving at all, just a gentle sway of her hips, and me holding on tight, hoping this song never ends.

  “I don’t think this is the way this song was meant to be danced to,” she says with a light laugh.

  “I think it works,” I say.

  “Hey, you never finished your top five,” she says. “What are the rest?”

  This one. It takes up every space. Again and again.

  “Beck,” I say. “‘Go It Alone.’”

  “I don’t think I know that one,” Paloma says. “What else?”

  I press my palm flat against her back, bringing her even closer. Like I’d promised myself I wouldn’t.

  “I’m saving the rest of the spots,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “The ones I have on my list so far, I picked those for the music.”

  “How are the others going to be picked?” Her voice is soft, just like her eyes, and I know she already knows the answer to the question.

  The song ends, and I don’t want to separate, but Paloma pulls away first.

  “You know the cool thing about this ceiling” I ask. “Here, come over here.”

  I tug gently on her hand and pull her to the side of the room where there aren’t any costumes displayed. I wish I would’ve prepped more and brought a blanket or something, but I pull Paloma down to the shiny, cool floor with me anyway.

  “This is one of the only low spots in the museum,” I say. I lie down on my back and hold my breath as she does the same. Next to me. Paloma Medina is lying next to me.

  “Why is that?” she asks. I turn my head to find her smiling at me. I wonder if she can feel my hand shake a little as it holds hers. Vibrating happy nerves that ripple through me and transfer to her like tiny earthquakes.

  “More or less, the ceilings are high in the museum to hold a large reserve of air conditioned air, which just means less fluctuation of temps. Everything always feels so big in this place because of the ceilings, though, right?”

  “You’re right.”

  “So I love these little pockets where the ceilings are low. And this one,” I say, pointing up. “Not too bad, right?”

  The square section is bordered with pastel-colored tiles that alternate inward until the middle two-thirds of the ceiling, where there’s a pale, blue circle. Inside of that is a heptagon, sectioned off so that each point has a cluster of ornate detail scroll work. The very center of the shape is a painting of Acontius and Cydippe, from Greek mythology.

  “Whoa,” Paloma says. “How have I never noticed that before?”

  “Most people don’t think to look up in the museum, since everything is right in front of them. But sometimes there’s more to it, you know?” Paloma locks her eyes on mine, and I clear my throat. “Do you know the story of Acontius and Cydippe?”

  Paloma gives a small shake of her head.

  “It’s Greek mythology. So, Acontius was a guy from Chios, who was at a festival when he fell in love with Athenian Cydippe. So he throws a coin at her, and when she picked it up, she read, ‘I swear by the temple of Artemis that I shall marry Acontius.’ And because she said it out loud, she was then obligated to marry him.”

  “That’s … romantic?” Paloma laughs. “Or, you know, just drilling home a tradition of male aspirations taking precedence over a woman's.”

  “Well, it’s cool to look at,” I say, cursing the ancient couple whose misogynistic story has just ruined any shot at romance I had with Paloma.

  Several minutes pass with Paloma and me staring at the ceiling. With me trying to match her breathing. With her fingers linked through mine.

  The song on the playlist ends, and it must be the last because the room goes silent. Now, I can actually hear her breathing, not just see the rise and fall of her chest.

  “So this was prom,” she says quietly, appreciatively.

  “This was prom,” I repeat.

  “We missed the last song.”

  “Night’s not over yet.”

  “What do you have planned?”

  “In honor of starting a new tradition for those two...” I point up at the couple on the ceiling. “What is it that you want to do now? Your choice.”

  “Ah, see, neo classical art does it for me. I’m good.”

  “Yeah? That’s it?” I ask, grinning. “That was easy.”

  “Well, this is good, I mean.”

  But she pulls herself up to sitting and glances around the room before getting up and walking to the bench where we sat and ate.

  “One second,” Paloma says.

  “Where you going?” I ask.

  “I need a drink.” She reaches for the black bag on the floor. “You want?”

  “Nah.” I shake my head, my brows pulled in. I try to cover the disappointment I feel that this night wasn’t enough for her sober. I mask it with a smile and add, “I’m good.”

  “Chill, Oliver, I’m not giving you alcohol,” she says. I wonder if she can hear the long exhale of relief. “But you can give me something.”

  “Name it,” I say, without hesitation.

  I prop myself up on my elbow as she walks over to where we were laying.

  “Tell me the truth, Oliver. About that night. Tell me what really happened.”

  My smile falls. “On second thought, maybe I’ll take that drink.” I half-heartedly reach for her bag, and not even I know if I’m joking or not at this point.

  “Very funny,” she says, without a laugh to match the words. “I’m not letting you drink. Besides, it’s just water.”

  She pulls the bottle out of her purse, uncaps it, and take a few sips.

  I just had a revelation while writing my essay that I wasn’t just a victim. That I wanted to let people in—that I wanted to let Paloma in. But, dammit, this feels like it could backfire. She just said she’s leaving, and I’m going to let her go with the truth burning into her brain?

  She recaps the bottle and waits.

  “Oliver.”

  “It’s…” I rub my palm over the back of my neck, and I feel the sweat bead up on my forehead. “It’s complicated.”

  “Sometimes things feel like that until you say them out loud. Then you realize they aren’t such a big de—”

  “I just want to forget that night,” I cut in, my voice raspy. My eyes are wide and unblinking as I stare blankly into the middle distance. “But it’s like no matter how hard I try, it won’t fade away. At least the parts I can remember.” I press my palms together and lean my forehead against my hands. “And you just won’t let me forget.”

  “So you were … drunk?” Paloma asks, shaking her head. Trying to make sense of it.

  “I don’t know how to answer that.” I admit, my shoulders dropping.

  “I know you don’t drink, so maybe you didn’t realize your tolerance,” she starts to lecture.

  “I’ve never had alcohol,” I insist.

  “Okay.” Paloma draws the word out, and then waits.

  “But I get what it means to be drunk. I’m not a fucking idiot,” I say, running my fingers through my hair and grabbing tight at the roots.

  “Like you know from personal experience?”
she asks, her voice quiet. When I nod, she says, “So … you drank?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “But you got drunk?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How can it be ‘something like that,’ Oliver? It’s a simple question. Did you dr—” Paloma stops herself. “Wait.” She presses her fingertips to her temples, like that’ll help it all become sharper, clearer. “Oliver? Did someone … did someone maybe put something in your drink?”

  39.

  I stare down at my hands, but she forces me to look back up. She forces me to look at her when I say, “It’s possible. I can’t remember.”

  There’s no way for me to make her understand that some things you can’t erase. You can’t outgrow. Sometimes the memories—or the dark blanks where memories should be—are just there. Always.

  And I don’t want this night to be yet another that’s ruined because of that stupid drink.

  I lean in toward Paloma and pause just before my lips touch hers. I’m close enough that I can feel her breath on mine, and the quick intake as she waits for me to close the rest of the space. I kiss her so softly at first, it almost feels like a tease.

  I let out a shaky laugh, not knowing if it was the wrong thing to do. Not knowing if she knows that I’m trying so damn hard to replace a shitty memory with a good one.

  One that means something. One that I’ve wanted for so long.

  She presses her full lips back on mine, harder than I’d had the nerve to do the first time, but still slow enough that I can take the time to really feel her. To close my eyes and hope that somehow my mind replaces the memory of Tarryn with the memory of Paloma here with me. Almost perfect. And then … our own perfect.

  “Oliver, wait,” she says. She pushes back a little, and I fucking hate it. “What do you remember?”

  Her voice is a little breathless.

  “Can we do this later?” I beg. “Can tonight just be this?”

  She nods slowly, then sinks to the floor. I do the same until we’re lying shoulder-to-shoulder.

  My hand touches hers, and she shivers.

  “I think if I heard a song that reminded me of this night, it’d go on my list.” I say.