So We Can Glow

by Leesa Cross-Smith

  “The drummer from NightVision?” Brooks asks.

  “Yes!” she says. She huffs and puffs like a wolf.

  “Hello, Mr. Clark. Our apologies. And apologies to you as well, Ms. Mitchell. Doug’s a good guy. Their new album is really good…yeah.” The voice pauses awkwardly. “We’ll…um…get y’all to where you need to be very shortly. Pardon the interruption,” the voice says.

  Sierra is teetering on the edge of a full-on tantrum and it’s hot in the elevator. As stuffy and claustrophobic as she ever imagined the nightmare of a stuck elevator to be. She is scared to be there, she hates Brooks. She raises her voice when she asks the speaker guy how long he thinks it’ll be until the elevator is working.

  “Won’t be too long, I promise. You guys sit tight, okay?” the speaker guy says as if they have a choice. He clicks off.

  “Wait. What about the lights?” Sierra says to nothing.

  “They should come on in a sec,” Brooks says. And like he is God or something, the emergency lights flash on above them. They are unnaturally white and too-bright and there are only two of them casting shaky submarine-light across their faces. Brooks smiles at her. Sierra’s stomach drops like a broken elevator.

  * * *

  Something did and didn’t happen when they were in college. One night, Brooks had given her a ride home. He pulled up in front of her apartment and put his car in park.

  “You can come upstairs if you want to. I mean, I’m drunk, but…,” she said, pretending to be more drunk than she was. She wanted to see what he’d say and if it didn’t go her way she’d claim she had no idea what he was talking about.

  “I can’t. Actually, I have to go pick up my grandmother from the airport,” Brooks said.

  Sierra opened the door and said fine. He reached for her, put his hand on her leg until she moved.

  “Wait,” he said.

  “Fuck off, Brooks,” she said.

  “You don’t believe me? Come with me, then. Come with me to pick up my little old grandmother from the airport,” he said. He put his hand back on her leg.

  She snatched herself out of the car, stepped into the cold. Brooks rolled down his window.

  “What’s up?”

  “Goodbye, Brooks,” she replied, saying his name like it tasted gross in her mouth, something she couldn’t wait to spit out.

  One in the morning, he was back at her door. His clothes looked impossibly neat. He was bright-eyed and smiling. Sierra was half-drunk, rubbing her eyes. She asked him what he was doing there.

  “I took my grandmother home and got her settled. Her flight was late. Aaand she’s a talker,” he said, leaning against the door frame.

  “I was asleep,” she said.

  “I figured,” he said, motioning to her T-shirt and underwear. She tugged her shirt down so it would cover her bottom as she walked backward to the bedroom to retrieve a pair of pajama pants. Brooks turned to lock the door behind him and looked around her living room, inspecting things in the Christmas-tree light.

  * * *

  On the elevator, Sierra doesn’t want to seem interested in Brooks. That would be the worst. He is arrogant, a womanizer. She’s heard too many stories from her brother, from her friends. He hasn’t always been a gentleman. Fuck that. He’s a douche. The emergency lights are too harsh on both their faces and she half wishes they’d go off again. The elevator is even hotter now. Her phone no longer has reception.

  “Is your phone working?” she asks him.

  “Nah,” he says, shaking his head.

  “This place is too nice to have a jacked-up elevator.”

  “Ain’t that the truth.”

  If she doesn’t say anything else, maybe he’ll be quiet until they get the elevator fixed. The thought annoys her. Is it too much to ask for him to not be an asshole for once? Is it too much to ask for him to initiate conversation?

  And Doug? Doug won’t worry about her for at least a day. He never takes the elevator unless he has to. He is one of those freaks who takes the stairs unless he’s carrying a ton of stuff. He’ll never know the elevator is stuck and he isn’t expecting Sierra to text or call him. She’d said she’d call him later, but Doug is irritatingly chill about things. To him, later could mean a day or a week. She’d lied when she’d said Doug was her boyfriend. She doesn’t even want him to be. They are whatever they are to one another. Doug would be worried if he knew she was stuck in the elevator, though. She is sure of it.

  “Were you pretending like you didn’t know me?” she asks Brooks after some thin silence.

  “Pretending like I didn’t know you? Wow, really? You think that little of me, huh?” Brooks answers. He is sitting in the corner of the elevator, cattywampus to her, his legs stretched out.

  “I don’t know,” Sierra says, laughs a little. Nervous. She doesn’t want to talk to him, but also, she wants to talk to him. Who knows how long they’ll be trapped in there and thinking of the word trapped makes her feel on the verge of a panic attack. Water usually helps. She feels for her water bottle in her purse and gets it out. Chugs some. Lukewarm and plasticky, but it roots her quickly. “I don’t know! Seemed like it,” she says as friendly as barbed wire.

  “Sierra, I wasn’t paying attention. I was busy looking at my phone,” he says.

  Hearing her name in his mouth again makes her feel drunk. Five tequila shots deep.

  “You’re still a fancy lawyer?”

  “Mmm-hmm, I’m still a lawyer, yes,” he says.

  “Right. Okay.” Sierra nods.

  Big shot. He will pretend like he doesn’t remember what happened at her apartment. When they lay down on the floor together underneath her Christmas tree and looked up.

  * * *

  “Did you come over here thinking you’d get laid?” she’d asked him as they sat on her couch, sharing the last of her whiskey from a small glass.

  “No, Sierra, I did not. You always say the craziest shit to me, by the way,” Brooks said, throwing his head back and laughing. He held his stomach.

  “It wasn’t that funny,” she said.

  “You’re bonkers.”

  “You’re bonkers,” she said, taking the whiskey from him.

  “Are you still dating that…guy?”

  “I’m always dating some guy.”

  “I guess I’m always dating some girl too,” he said. He leaned against the armrest, made himself even more comfortable.

  “I used to be obsessed with you. Obsessed.”

  “You were not.”

  “I was! When I was in high school. When I was a freshman. You and Tyler were seniors,” she said. Her brother, Tyler, and Brooks had an extreme best friendship. Spending the night with one another everysingleweekend, alternating between their houses.

  “You were not obsessed with me. You throw that word out there, but that’s not the word you mean,” he said.

  “How are you trying to tell me how I felt? I was obsessed with you! I was!” Sierra said. She finished the whiskey and put the empty glass on the floor, tucked her feet underneath her. There was music playing: a folksy Christmas playlist. She didn’t recognize any of the artists and she loved it. Everything happening in the moment was new. Brand new.

  “Ah. You were too young for me anyway.”

  “No shit, I used to write fanfic about you. I made up stories where we would make out and you’d tell me you loved me,” she said.

  “Sierra!” Brooks said so bright and sweet, Sierra could taste it.

  * * *

  “Sierra, I wasn’t ignoring you. I promise,” Brooks says from his elevator corner.

  “Whatever.”

  “What can I say to get you to believe me?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  “Well, thanks for your honesty,” Brooks says. He pulls his phone out and sighs before putting it away again. Sierra feels guilty for being so rude, but doesn’t apologize. Can’t and won’t.

  “You’re welcome?”

  “I know who you ar
e,” he says. “Trust me.”

  * * *

  Sierra and Brooks got a little drunk together by that Christmas tree in her apartment even though all they did was share a small glass of whiskey. For her, some of it was the leftover alcohol in her system and some of it was desire. She didn’t know what it was for him, although she hoped at least some of it was desire. Lust. The guy she’d been dating had broken up with her recently, but she hadn’t told anyone yet. Not even her best friend.

  They lay on the floor underneath the Christmas tree, looking up.

  “Used to do this all the time when I was a kid, pretend like I was in a rocket ship,” Brooks said after a minute or two of not saying anything. The music was still playing. Some brushy acoustic cover of “What Child Is This?” The Christmas songs written in minor keys were Sierra’s favorites.

  “Same,” she said, turning to him. It would be a perfect time for him to finally kiss her, so she told him that.

  * * *

  “Right. And I know who you are too. Brooks Clark, West High class of ’05. Homecoming king junior and senior year.” Sierra starts counting them off on her fingers. “Football dude, ladies’ man, and yeah, um, you drove that black sports car your dad got for you the day you turned eighteen. It was all murdered out and you kept it annoyingly clean like it was the only thing that mattered to you in the world. You and Tyler would always take your car to Taco Bell after the football games and hang out in the parking lot so the popular girls would hover around y’all like vultures,” she ends and puts her hands back down.

  “Wow, okay. Well, I did love that car. That, you are right about,” he says.

  “I’m right about the other things too,” Sierra says confidently. There is a mechanical whirring and the emergency lights flash off and on again. The speaker voice clicks on.

  “Are you two doing all right?”

  “You could say so. How’s it looking?” Brooks says calmly. Sierra is grossed out and turned on by how he says it, by how quickly he takes control. It’s sexgusting. That’s what she and her best friend call something or someone they’re attracted to when they don’t want to be. Sexgusting. Brooks has crossed his ankles and folded his hands across his stomach like they are resting on a boat somewhere or in a park after a wine and cheese picnic.

  “We’re almost there. Thanks for your patience. Hang tight,” the voice says.

  “How long has it been?” Sierra asks Brooks when the speaker voice is gone.

  “About fifteen minutes,” Brooks says, flicking his phone on and off.

  “What happened to your precious car?”

  “Totaled it when I was in college. Walked away on angel’s wings,” he says. “I got another one exactly like it.”

  Sierra quickly remembers Tyler telling her about the accident, but that must’ve been after the Christmas-tree night. She'd only seen Brooks a few times since the Christmas-tree night eight years ago and those few times were horrible, awkward nightmares. She’s only been dating Doug for a couple weeks but she wonders if Brooks goes to NightVision shows. Good thing she’s never seen him at one, since seeing him brings up so much. A lot.

  She’d liked that car, although she’d always pretended to ignore it when it was parked in their driveway. Always looked away before Tyler shut its glossy beetle-black doors and came inside.

  “Hey, Sierra…I miss Tyler. Like, I really miss Tyler. Tyler was my brother too…my boy,” Brooks says, his voice wobbly.

  Sierra looks away when her own tears fall.

  * * *

  “I can’t kiss you. I’m sorry,” Brooks said under the Christmas tree. He slid himself out and sat up.

  “Oh,” Sierra said, wanting to die of embarrassment.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have come over.”

  “Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t have.”

  “I’ll go. But it’s not because I don’t find you attractive. I mean, you know that, right? You’re very pretty. I like looking at you. Always have,” he said.

  “Okay?” she said, annoyed.

  “I’m good to drive. Thanks for having me, Sierra. And I’ll see you around. I’d like to see you around.”

  “Yep. Goodbye, Brooks.”

  She didn’t want to see him around. She never wanted to see him again. She wanted him to disappear. She wanted to disappear. She locked the door behind him and lay in bed for hours, hot and embarrassed, not able to sleep until she was pulled completely under against her will.

  * * *

  “Do you know why I didn’t kiss you that night? That Christmas-tree night?” Brooks asks.

  Sierra is wiping away her tears and thinking of her brother, her big brother. She is still grieving. Everyone in her family is still grieving. Clearly, Brooks is still grieving too. Her parents hadn’t had a funeral or a memorial service. Brooks had come by their house several times, bringing flowers and a card. One time, a casserole his mom had made. Brooks kept in touch with her parents. Brooks had been with Tyler the completely normal night before Tyler hanged himself, because being shocking was Tyler’s thing. He did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.

  “No. I don’t know why you didn’t kiss me that night, Brooks, and I guess it doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  Sierra gasps when the elevator rattles and jumps. The lights flicker.

  Brooks sniffs and she looks at him. He is beautiful in the harsh emergency lights. He smooths his tie.

  “When we were kids I swore to Tyler…swore I’d never mess around with his sister,” he says.

  Sierra feels cool all over, like someone has opened a winter window in the stuffy elevator.

  “Are you serious?” she asks, thinking about it, not super-surprised at Tyler’s intensity. It’s who he was.

  “Swear,” Brooks holds up his hand in promise. “Are you serious? He was hella protective of you. His baby sister? He reminded us regularly that you were completely off-limits. No exceptions.”

  “And that’s it? That’s why I’ve been feeling like an idiot for like…eight years?”

  “You’re not an idiot,” he says.

  Sierra leans her head back and laughs.

  “Won’t be long now, you two. Still holding up? Not freaking out?” the speaker voice clicks on and asks.

  “We’re fine,” Brooks says.

  Sierra laughs some more.

  “Sound good enough since you’re laughing. Would you like us to leave it stuck for a bit longer, maybe?” the speaker voice asks.

  “Ha! Ha!” Sierra says, exaggerating.

  “Five minutes,” the speaker voice says. The elevator rattles.

  “I always wanted to kiss you. Always,” Brooks says to her.

  Sierra is looking over at him and takes a deep breath. Brooks inches closer to her. Closer. And when he asks permission and leans over to kiss her for the first time, something crooked in the universe is finally fixed. The elevator rattles once again—shivers for a split second as it powers up and begins its descent.

  Crepuscular

  The curtain separating my real life from my daydream life was as thin as Bible paper, almost like I could hear the shh-crinkle when I pulled it back. My real life was coffee, traffic, work, dinner, drinks, TV, sleep. My daydream life revolved around Abe Forrest, wildlife biologist and host of my favorite nature documentary show, Forrest Ranger. I watched it every night before bed and I loved him. I was enraptured by everything he did—how he moved, his white work truck, his hands touching things. I dreamt of morning mimosas with Abe Forrest, lunch with Abe Forrest, dinner with Abe Forrest, bed and life with Abe Forrest. Abraham. He tagged and tracked animals like deer and coywolves. He looked at me through my television and said words like crepuscular and wilderness and predator. Sometimes I talked back.

  I love you, Abe Forrest. Marry me, Abe Forrest.

  I got his email address from the website and sent him a something and practically nothing email.

  Abe. Abraham. I’m Lacey. I don’t know what crepuscular means and I don’t want to look it up.
I want you to tell me. I only want to hear it from you. It’s more special. So do it. Go on. Tell me.

  Two days later he wrote me back. Frisson sparked my shoulders and warmed my cheeks, the top of my head. I got the email when I was at work, so I left my desk and went to the bathroom to read it on my phone.

  Hi Lacey. I talked about it in more detail in another episode, but simply put, crepuscular refers to an animal that is active primarily at dusk/twilight and dawn/early morning—an animal that is most active on the edges, when the day pages are turning. Thanks so much for your question and for watching. Best, Abe.

  I replied. Three words. Made it holy.

  Are you crepuscular?

  Sent.

  And two more words in my follow-up email: I am.

  That night, Abe’s show was a rerun. He was discussing coywolves and he used words like coyote and bones and feast and young. I sat there on my bed in my long-sleeved Forrest Ranger shirt and flowery underwear, watching him. He was wearing the army-green pocket T-shirt he always wore, the same chunky black watch. No wedding ring.

  I loved his hands and his fingers. I loved his short fingernails, each with their own little pale crescent moon. I watched his arms, his hands as he lifted the tranquilized coywolf pup, as he gently tagged its ear and placed it back into the little dirt hole he’d pulled it out of. “This way we’ll be able to track its growth,” he said quietly, as if he didn’t want to wake a sleeping baby. He was on one knee saying the word hybrid when my phone buzzed with his email reply.

  Ha! Yes, I am crepuscular too.

  Abe was talking and talking, his voice coming from my television as I typed out: We should be crepuscular together sometime. Love, Lacey.

  I wondered if he’d notice the Love. It was true. I loved his compass, his Leatherman, his Swiss Army knife, his headlamp and folding saw. His brown cargo pants, how careful he was around the sleeping baby animals. How wide-eyed he got when he stumbled upon something unexpected. Abe Forrest was my magnetic north. Once he was tagging a tiny fawn and he said look at how small and beautiful she is, she has the prettiest markings. He bent down and said hey there girl in his scratchy, sleepy morning voice. And I wished his voice and those words were crackers so I could eat them. I attached my favorite picture of me to the email, the picture where I’m wearing a white triangle bikini and sunglasses and my hair is all wild and wavy with weather. I was on my brother’s boat, eating a peach. It was taken last summer and I wanted Abe to know what I looked like, that I wasn’t a dude or a kid. I wanted him to think I was pretty, but, even if he didn’t, he’d still like the picture. Maybe it would remind him of a fun summer he’d had on a boat once or a happy, sexy beer commercial or something.