by Leylah Attar
“What are you doing?” I asked, as he got up and covered me with another blanket from the car. He was kneeling on the ground, fussing around, when all I wanted was for him to come back to me.
“Covering your feet.” He cupped my heel and ran his finger down my sole until my toes wiggled. “You have traitorous feet. Tomorrow, they’ll carry you away from me, but tonight they’re mine.” He kissed the tops of my feet softly. “Do they know the way back, Rodel? Do they know that if they ever walk these fields again, they belong to me? Because I will claim them. Make no mistake about that.”
“And I claim you.” I pulled him to me and looped my arms around his neck. “If you’re ever in England. And not just your feet. I claim all of you. This, and this, and this, and this.” I took inventory of his firm, bronzed body. It would have been funny if we weren’t both aching inside.
“I think you missed a spot.” He rolled over onto his back and took me with him. “This right here.” He placed my hand over his heart.
“Yes. This right here.” I lay my head on my favorite spot and closed my eyes.
A chorus of frogs croaked around us, the waterfall cascaded over moss-slicked rocks, but all I heard that last night in Africa, as stars hung suspended above us, was the drumbeat of his heart. Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack.
THE SKY WAS low and somber the next morning, as we drove to the airport, the squeak of wipers un-blurring the world every now and then. A fine drizzle fell around us as we turned in to the drop-off area.
There are moments that remain frozen in time—every sound, every color, every breath, crystallized into vivid shards of memory. Sitting in the idling car with Jack, outside the departures terminal, was one of them. Suitcases clattered over concrete slabs. The smell of diesel hung heavy in the air. Backpackers got off shuttle buses with colorful decals stuck to their luggage.
I conquered Mount Kilimanjaro
Kili—19,340 feet
A sea of faces moved through the doors, under the bright yellow letters of the departures building.
Jack and I watched silently. It was easier to focus on something outside of us. All the combinations, of all the letters, could not form a single word for what we wanted to say. We were circles and spirals and heart beats, rolled up into a glorious mess. We were a bundle of memories parked briefly in the drop-off zone.
“Don’t come inside.” I took my bag from Jack when we stepped out. “Please.” My eyes pleaded with him. “I never learned to cry gracefully, like they do in the movies—with perfect, luminous tears rolling down my cheeks. I look like a withered crabapple when I cry.”
“Rodel.” He crushed me to him, my name falling from his lips in a hoarse whisper. Another car slid into the spot behind us, its hazard lights flashing rhythmically like the ticking of a clock.
Jack’s arms tightened around me. “It’s like a piece of me is being ripped away again. First Lily, now you. And yet . . .” His voice softened as he gazed me. “I wouldn’t change a single thing. I would do it over and over again.”
We said goodbye in the language of ghosts, with unspoken words and haunted longings, oblivious to everything and everyone around us.
“Kiss me hard, then let me go,” I said, when the touch of his hand became suddenly unbearable in its tenderness.
I felt the movement of his breath before our lips touched. My heart throbbed at the sweet, savage sensation of his mouth. It was like running without air—breathless and beautiful. I clung to him for a soul-bursting moment, before wrenching myself away and stumbling toward the building. I paused for a beat as the sliding doors opened.
Turn around, Rodel, a part of me screamed.
Don’t look back, the other part countered.
I turned. Because I couldn’t help it. Because Jack honked.
He was sitting in the car, his palm splayed against the window in a frozen goodbye. Our eyes met through the droplets of water that clung to the glass like little pearls of silver. I retraced my steps, wheeling my bag behind me until I was standing beside his car. Then I lifted my hand and placed my fingers against his. The glass was wet and cold between us, but something warm and powerful hummed in my veins. When I removed my hand, my palm print was etched on the damp window, just like Lily’s had been. As our gazes locked, I could feel the connection throbbing between Jack and me through that window. And it was enough. To know, and to have known.
I smiled.
A corner of his mouth tilted up in a way that made my heart skid.
I held on to that image as I walked through the sliding doors and checked in to my flight. As the plane took off, I watched the cars and buildings get smaller and smaller: the pastures where cows grazed, the fields of corn, the mud huts thatched with sheets of corrugated iron. And then the clouds were floating below us like spools of lambs’ wool. I reached into my handbag for the little parcel that Goma had asked me to open on the plane. It was a lace handkerchief, tied into a pouch with a jute string. I was almost done opening it when I looked out of the window and caught my breath.
Kilimanjaro rose through the clouds, like a bride of the Gods, its ice-capped peaks glistening like a crown of majestic crystals. Silver mists swirled around the summit, changing and shifting under the rays of the sun. There was something delicate and poignant in the fleeting, moving play of light—the kind of beauty that only transient things can hold.
I blinked back the tears that trembled on my lashes. The mists reminded me of Mo and Lily, of the albino children who appeared and disappeared without a trace, of a love that reached for the summit, if only to kiss it goodbye.
A hot tear rolled down my cheek and splattered on Goma’s handkerchief. I wiped my face and untied the knot that held it together. A bunch of M&M’s spilled onto my lap. There was a note folded among them. I opened it and read Goma’s bold handwriting.
“Chocolate makes everything better,” it said.
I laughed. And sobbed. It came out like a strange snort.
“Are you all right?” the lady sitting next to me asked.
“Yes.” I dabbed my eyes with Goma’s handkerchief. “I just . . .” I looked at Kilimanjaro and thought of a white manor with a green swing, sitting in the foothills. “I’ve been on a grand adventure.”
“Well, I’m all ears. You must tell me about it.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.” I smiled at her and stared out the window.
Once in Africa, I kissed a king . . .
I FINISHED MARKING the last paper and flipped to the front to tally up the final grade. My pen wavered momentarily as I noted the student’s name.
Jack.
Four letters strung together to form a name. Simple. Common. Ordinary.
Four letters that had held no meaning, but that now felt like I had fallen ten stories and hit the ground—splat—every time I came across it. How many Jacks had come and gone before him? None had warned of the Jack that was to come, the one whose name would leave me breathless in the middle of the day.
It was July in the Cotswolds, ten months since our rainy goodbye at the airport. Peach colored roses bloomed outside my window. Bees and butterflies darted from flower to flower. It was the end of another school year, my last day at work before the summer holidays. I finalized the exam marks and glanced around my classroom.
“You’re still here?” Jeremy Evans popped his head into the room. He was a temp, filling in for the music teacher’s maternity leave.
“Just leaving,” I replied.
“Me too. You want to grab a drink? I’m heading to the pub for a pint.”
“Thanks, but I’m going to pass.” I powered down my laptop and smiled at him. He was cute, with soft brown eyes and dark hair that curled on his forehead.
“Ouch.” He clutched his chest. “Shot down again. You’ll have to cave one day, even if it’s just to shut me up.”
“Have a good summer, Jeremy.”
“Ah. I see what you did there. You just blocked me out of your entire summer. You might as well just sh
ut the door in my face.” And with that, he proceeded to drag himself out by the tie and slam the door behind him.
I was still smiling when I unchained my bicycle and headed home. How can you dislike anyone who makes you laugh? I cut through the cobblestone alleys that meandered around honey-hued cottages and little box hedges. Bourton-on-the-Water was a hot spot for tourists in the summer, and the main routes were teeming with visitors. It was a small price to pay for the way I felt every time I came home—the wooden gate, the slate blue door, swathes of yellow flowers spilling out of the window boxes, lavender growing wild against the golden stone.
I secured my bike and collected the mail—bills, a postcard from my parents, flyers . . . a letter from Tanzania. I unlocked the door and dropped the rest of my things on the couch.
I want a clean break, I’d said. And Jack had given me that. I hadn’t heard from him since I’d left—no calls, no texts, no emails. Sometimes, when I thought of him on the porch, sitting on the swing and looking up at the stars, bombs exploded in my chest.
Is it you? I asked the letter sized envelope, my heart pounding as I tore it open.
It wasn’t. But I laughed when I saw the photo that Bahati had sent. He was on a billboard, looking very debonair in a business suit, modeling a fancy watch. On the back, he’d written: It’s not the big screen I thought it would be, but it’s pretty big :)
A surge of aching pride filled me. Underneath all the fancy stuff, Bahati was a warrior, every bit as fierce as his brothers and sisters in the boma. He had held fast to that tradition of pride and self-sufficiency. Not only had he come through when the children and I had needed him, he had also managed to carve out his own path while earning his father’s respect, and more importantly, his own.
I climbed the stairs to my study with his photo in my hand. There, on a corkboard, I pinned it next to the Christmas card I’d received from Josephine Montati. She had stayed in touch, filling me in with updates on the children. I admired her for her tenacity, her dedication, and her passion. She was the kind of person who changed lives. And lives changed worlds.
My eyes fell on the photo she’d sent of Jack, Bahati, and me with the kids. I looked distracted. Jack was grinning.
What’s the matter? Your English garden can’t handle the tropical heat?
Yes. That was the moment pinned on my board.
How did you do that? I traced the lines of his face. How did you tug and stretch and grow my heart, and make it sound like sweet, sweet music?
I unpinned the photo and sank into my chair.
Life is good, Jack. Life is grand. I’m exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I want to do. I love my job. My students amaze me. They inspire me. They challenge me. It’s not always easy, but it’s rewarding. I eat croissants in bed, and feed ducks I’m not supposed to feed. I buy overpriced candles and exotic teas. Last week, I went out for a plain white shirt and came home with silky camisoles. I sleep in. I take bubble baths. I think of you every time it rains. In a good way. Not with my withered crabapple face. I’m whole and centered and strong. I’m whole because you loved me for me, not for what I could be to you. And maybe that’s why it hurts. Because your love was so good and pure. And it sucks. It sucks because my book boyfriends don’t cut it anymore.
You’ve ruined me, Jack. But it’s okay. I’m good, I’m well, I’m freaking magical. But you want to know something pathetic? I’ve subscribed to all kinds of flight alerts. Every time the price drops on airfares to Tanzania, I get a notification. And every time, I stare at the screen, a click away from getting on a plane so I can see your face again. Because I miss you. Because, so what if you didn’t invite me? So what if the memory of me is starting to fade?
That’s usually the point I tell myself you’re a shithead, Jack. How could you let me go? How could you just go along with this no-contact bullshit and not fall apart like I do? So many times a day. Yup. You’re a shithead, Jack. I hate that I miss you. Summer is here, and it’s warm and beautiful, and I miss you. I miss you so much.
I held the photo to my chest and closed my eyes. Some circles never close, some wounds never heal. Love is like that. It leaves you forever open, forever vulnerable.
I took a deep breath and got up. It was time to move on, time to open the door and allow myself other possibilities, even though sometimes at night, if I listened closely, I could hear my heart saying Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack.
JEREMY EVANS ARRIVED early for our dinner date. The doorbell rang while I was drying my hair, upside down. I flipped it back, ran my fingers through it, and went downstairs to get the door.
“Hello, Rodel.” It wasn’t Jeremy. It was Andy, the estate agent through whom I’d bought the cottage. He’d called to offer his condolences on Mo’s demise, but I had not seen him since I’d returned from Tanzania. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d pop in, see how things are going. Everything all right with the house?”
“Yes, thanks. Everything’s fine. I’m really happy with it.”
“Good, good.” Andy shifted from one leg to the other. “Well. I was thinking maybe you want to give it another shot and go for a drink? The last time was . . . it was terrible, finding out about your sister like that. I didn’t want to rush you, but since I’m in the area and all, I thought . . . you know. Why not?”
“That’s very sweet, Andy.” It wasn’t going to happen, but he was so earnest and awkward, I wanted to let him down gently. “I’m actually waiting for my date. He should be here any minute now.”
“Oh.” He colored. “That’s fine. I was just checking on the cottage anyway.” His eyes settled on the window box. “Nice flowers.” He patted them like they were little old ladies. “Well. Have a good . . . date.” He waved goodbye and took off.
I shut the door and went back upstairs. My hair was still damp, but it would have to do. I was putting my makeup on when the doorbell rang again. I glanced at my watch. I still had fifteen minutes. I finished swiping on my lipstick and smoothed my dress. It was a pretty shade of coral, made for picnics and ice cream and sunshine. The skirt flared out and ended just above my knees. I picked up my sandals, grabbed my bag, and headed downstairs.
“I’m sorry, Jeremy. I’m not quite—” My heart slammed in my chest as a black-clad figure straightened, filling the entire frame with his broad-shouldered physique.
Not Jeremy.
Jack.
Jack Warden was standing at my door—dashing and beardless, his thick, tawny hair tapered neatly to his collar. T-shirt, jeans, polished oxford shoes, and a pair of ear buds dangling around his neck—a picture of devastatingly cool urbanity.
He looked good. He looked fucking amazing. And it packed a power punch right to my gut. The shock of seeing him, the shock of seeing him like that, with nothing obscuring his face—the square cut of his jaw, the way his lips looked rounder and fuller, his blue forget-me-not eyes, so vivid and real and in my face—it robbed me of my breath. I stood there frozen, sandals in my hand, gaping at him. And suddenly, it struck me. It struck me hard.
“I’ve been living with a broken heart all this time,” I said it to myself, finally admitting the truth, but he caught my words.
A muscle clenched along his jaw. “You know what’s heartbreaking?” He slipped his hands into his pockets, as if to keep them from touching me. “It’s not when bad things happen to you, or when your life turns out completely different from what you thought it would be, or when people let you down, or when the world knocks you down. What’s heartbreaking is when you don’t get back up, when you don’t care enough to pick up the million broken pieces of you that are screaming to be put back together, and you just lie there, listening to a shattered chorus of yourself.
“What’s heartbreaking is letting the love of your life walk away, because you can’t give up your work or your home to go with her, because everything you love gets taken away from you. So I’m saying no to heartbreak. Right here, right now. This is me getting back up, crossing an ocean and coming str
aight to your door, Rodel.
“I can’t unlove you. And I can’t stop thinking about you. So I’m here to say the words because I never said them and that is what’s breaking my heart. I’m not saying them to hear it back. I’m not saying them so we can have a happily ever after. I don’t know where you’re at, or if you still think about us, or if we can even make it work. I’m saying them for me. Because they’ve been growing in my chest with every breath I take, and I have to get them out or I’ll explode. I love you, Rodel Emerson. That’s what I’m here to say. This is me, unbreaking my heart. I know it’s selfish and thoughtless and just plain arrogant to show up like this, but I couldn’t go another day without seeing you.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My chest was so full of absolute, unbelievable exhilaration that I didn’t want to let a single breath out.
“You’re late.” The words came out choked and raw. And then I was conscious only of a low, tortured sob as I buried my face in his chest. He gathered me into his arms and held me snugly.
“My date ditched me,” he whispered into my hair.
It felt like we were back at the orphanage, saying those words, reliving the intense relief of seeing each other again.
“Speaking of dates . . .” I tried to take a step back when I saw Jeremy approaching, but Jack wouldn’t let me go. “Here comes mine.”
“Umm . . . hello?” Jeremy tapped Jack on the shoulder. “I believe that’s my date you’re holding.” He was a cocky fellow. I had to give him that. Persistent too.
Jack turned around, one arm wrapped possessively around my waist and looked at him. He didn’t have to say anything. His massive, self-confident presence did all the talking.
“Riiiiiight.” Jeremy backed up and shot me a questioning expression.
“Rodel.” Jack kept his eyes fixed on him. “Did you make plans with this gentleman?”