Beneath this typed text, in his flawless handwriting, Nash had added, "I hope you'll forgive me taking the liberty of writing this instead of having you write it yourself. Editing and Production were on a deadline. Both departments have okayed this, but if there's anything in it that you don't like, tell me in your next letter, and we'll change it. —Nash"
Wes stared at the note and chewed his lower lip. Nash must've written this days ago, intending to mail it with his next letter. He'd incorporated details they'd talked about in their first meeting and things Wes had mentioned in his letters. Wes felt warmed knowing Nash cared enough, even when they'd been barely friends, to write a bio that reflected who Wes really was. But he'd written it before he'd had any idea Wes was interested in him, before he knew there was a possibility of Wes not being single anymore.
Wes rushed into the tent, unearthed a pen from the depths of his backpack, and slashed a heavy line through the last sentence. Then he ripped the previous day's page out of his festival schedule and wrote his shortest letter to date in the bottom margin: "Nash: You've just left, and I already miss you. One change to the bio. Thanks for taking care of this for me. Yours, Wes."
He smiled through the night, so often and so widely that Ivy took to asking if he felt all right. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt better.
August 30, 2016
Mr. Wesley Piedmont
c/o Wildwood Festival, Ohio
Dear Wes,
I'm writing this on the evening of the day we saw each other. I made it home fine. I may have driven a little fast on 35, but I didn't get pulled over, and I didn't hit anything. Besides, who would blame me for trying to go faster when my heart felt like it was flying?
(Oh, gods, that was terrible. Like something out of a bad YA novel about first love. Not that I—you know what? Let me stop that train of thought and apologize for being weirdly sentimental. Especially after all the time I spent convincing you I'm not sentimental. Because I'm not. Usually. Ask my best friend. Actually, ask anyone who knows me.)
I never noticed how many polo shirts I have until you pointed it out. It's an impressive collection. I don't know what that says about my personality—a desire for uniformity? I've been accused of that, and I hope it won't drive you crazy. I don't need everyone and everything to conform to my standards. It's just that, for so many years, my life felt out of my control, so now, yeah, maybe I hold on too tightly to the things I can control. But the shirts are comfortable, and my boyfriend says I look good in them, so I don't let it worry me.
I went outside last night after it got dark and looked for the constellations you talked about in your last letter. I think I spotted Cygnus and Andromeda, but I couldn't find the others, and even those two I'm not sure about. My niece has an app on her phone that shows the night sky; maybe I'll get for myself, too. I'll never be half the sky-watching buff you are, but I'd like to find the stars and constellations you mention in your letters. While I was sitting on my balcony trying to find Deneb and Altair and the others, I imagined you sitting in front of the tent at Wildwood, doing the same thing. It made me feel like I wasn't so far away from you.
I made French toast this morning, which wouldn't be worth mentioning except that it finished up the bread our coven made for Lughnasadh. Three weeks ago. I told you we always make too much.
To answer your questions:
—Mabon
—14, 17, and 23, respectively (and a lot of bad decisions between the last two)
—navy blue
—The Planets, Gustav Holst, second movement, "Venus: The Bringer of Peace"
—anything spicy
—I don't know that I ever wanted to. My family's so practical, it was always going to be something like law or medicine. I don't have the patience or the facility with people to be a doctor, so lawyer seemed like the best choice.
Now you?
I miss you. Is it strange, how much I miss you? I tend to be more of an "out of sight, out of mind" sort when it comes to any but the most important people in my life. Does that make you one of the most important people in my life? You aren't yet. But I think you could be.
Yours,
Nash
September 12, 2016: Truthsinger Festival, West Virginia
Dear Nash,
Gods, Truthsinger is a rush! There are mountains here. We're camping in actual mountains. I'm going to climb one of the small ones tomorrow. Ivy and I have seen basically every kind of topography the U.S. and Canada have to offer, and the only thing I can't get over is mountains. How huge they are, how long they took to form, how long they're taking to erode. They humble me in a way nothing else does. Maybe it comes from growing up in a flat part of Ohio. No mountains in Akron.
I signed up for a full-day workshop on body care with wildcrafted plants tomorrow. Usually I avoid organized workshops and classes like they're on fire. But Ivy's been talking about using more botanicals in our soaps and lotions, and when I saw the listing on the scheduling board, I knew I had to take it. Helps that it's tramping around outside all day, not sitting in a field or someone's tent for hours. I guess I want to grow. Be a better person. Is that because of you?
OK, your questions:
—Beltane
—13 and 16 (I didn't know the word "asexual" until I was 20, but I knew about sex, and that I didn't want it, at 16)
—silver
—"Bohemian Rhapsody" (I traded someone with a smartphone a bar of soap to play "Venus" for me. It's pretty.)
—bacon cheeseburgers, obviously
—I don't know how to answer this question for myself. After our parents died, Ivy and I did the best we could for ourselves. We made decisions I'm not proud of, but we stayed alive and off the streets and both managed to graduate high school. It was a joke at first; no matter what roof we had over our heads or clothes on our backs, we were always scrounging for soap, and Ivy made some comment about making our own so we'd never be without. And, I don't know, after we got settled enough to start traveling the circuit, xe figured out that soap-making isn't that hard, and we started doing it during the off-season.
Wanna know my secret to constellations? Make them up. When I was traveling in Australia, I didn't know the Southern constellations, so I made up my own. And not just patterns, but names and stories to go with them, too. It was fun, and it helped me feel less adrift. I mean, the patterns weren't what everyone else went by, but at least I had patterns to guide me. Helped everything seem less chaotic. If you start making up new constellations, tell me about them. We'll have a mythology nobody knows.
Oh!
Bluebell sighting. Hiding behind a barrel for a minute. Which reminds me: could you send me a picture of yourself? Bluebell cornered me about Kathy again the other day. I was so happy to say I'm not single anymore, but she didn't believe me. A picture would help. A picture of us both would be best, but you are not driving to West Virginia for a picture.
Since I'm talking about it already: how's it going with the new calendars? I saw a couple in the Silver Grove booth the first day. They're gone now; did you have them taken out of circulation? You're my hero for sure.
If missing each other is weird, then I'm weird, too. Let's find a way to call each other. Our phone's a piece of crap and reception is hit-and-miss at the festival sites, but I could call you from hotels in between.
Can I tell you something? Wait, of course I can. I can tell you anything, can't I? This is the other reason I'm taking the workshop tomorrow: it gives me something else to think about for a while. Ivy is enjoying every second of watching me. Xe claims I'm "staggering around like a newborn foal." Such a sweetheart. Xe's right, though (not that I'll ever tell xem). I've dated plenty, but no one's ever made me feel this... unmoored. Like I could float into the sky and it'd be OK. Would you bring me back down to Earth?
Yours (really, really yours),
Wes
September 26, 2016: Deep Magic, South Carolina
Rage.
Wes didn't experience
it often; he tried to keep his emotions on an even keel and never be blinded by anger. But right now? Right now, he was feeling blinded by anger, and his emotions were on such an uneven keel they had practically capsized.
He found Ivy in the truck bed, sunbathing naked despite the early autumn chill while weird, hippie sitar music wheezed out of their ancient boom box. "Phone," Wes growled.
Ivy lifted xyr head and squinted at him. "Wes?"
"Phone," he repeated. He couldn't handle Ivy being nice to him right now.
Ivy pointed toward xyr backpack. "Left side zipper pocket. Wes, are you—"
"Where's the best reception around here?"
Ivy's hand shifted. "East end, by the fire pits." Wes nodded and moved toward Ivy's bag and the phone. Ivy's hand shot out, xyr fingers clamping around Wes' wrist. Wes winced. Ivy cultivated an impression of being fae and ethereal, which sometimes led to Wes forgetting that xe had serious upper body strength. "Wes," xe said in a seldom-used elder sibling tone of command, "don't do anything you'll regret later. Nash is good for you. Letting him in has been good for you. Don't use a calendar as an excuse to push him away like you've gotten so good at doing."
Wes yanked his hand free and stormed away. This wasn't about the calendar anymore—at least, not the way Ivy thought—but he didn't have the time or the energy to explain that now.
The festival grounds were too far from the Blue Ridge Mountains to be mountainous, or even hilly, but the terrain was uneven, peppered by ridges and rises. It complicated Wes' attempts to stomp around in a snit. By the time he had tramped across the festival grounds to the fire pits, he'd cooled off enough that he trusted himself to get his message across without descending into incoherent ranting or uncontrollable profanity. But he had a healthy head of steam on his anger, and he held that anger tight. He was going to need it in a minute.
How easily he'd found Nash's business card either spoke highly of his attachment to Nash or badly of his laundry skills, but either way he was grateful as he clutched the smooth cardstock, letting the paper crinkle under the pressure and heat of his hand. He found an empty spot by the fire pits and sat on a nearby log for a nanosecond before popping back up. He needed to stand for this. He needed to pace.
Ring. Wes paced. Ring. Wes waited. Ring. Wes glowered at the glimmering lake he could just make out over the next rise.
"Hello, you've reached Nash Larsen, associate legal counsel for Silver Grove Publishing. I'm sorry I'm unable to take your call."
Wes growled at the recorded message. He was a boiling cauldron of anger; he wanted to unleash that on a person. But he couldn't make Nash answer his phone, so an angry voicemail would have to do.
"—back to you as soon as I am able. Thank you."
The high-pitched beep shrilled in Wes' ear, and he launched into his tirade. "Nash, this is Wes. I just had the weirdest conversation with the woman at the Silver Grove booth at Deep Magic." Now that the words were pouring out of him, they sounded less righteously indignant than hurt and confused. He didn't like that one bit, but he couldn't seem to force any other tone into his voice. "Her name is Paloma. She doesn't know anything about a correction to the calendar or any plans to stop selling it. She doesn't know you. But she was more than happy to offer me her number so we could 'talk about it more over coffee.'
"What the hell's going on, Nash? Did you mean anything you said at Other Realms? Did you give that corrected bio to anyone but me? Do you work for Silver Grove at all?
"Ivy says being with you has been good for me. I thought so, too. But not if you've been lying to me this whole time. I couldn't handle that.
"I'm going to stay right here, where I know I'll have reception, until I hear from you. Please call me, okay?"
That sounded fucking desperate. Wes growled as he ended the call and dropped the phone to the ground by his feet. He sank onto the log, buried his face in his hands, and groaned. He felt like he'd been punched repeatedly in the gut. Each letter he and Nash had exchanged had felt more intimate, more connecting, than the last, and some mornings he still woke up feeling the faint press of Nash's kiss against his lips. He'd thought he was getting to know Nash on the deepest levels, and he'd let his own deepest, darkest places show on those pages. The thought that what Nash had showed him in return might be a lie (but why?) cut Wes so deeply that his breath started coming in ragged gasps.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, staring at the phone and willing it to ring, before Ivy came to bring him to lunch. As they crossed the uneven terrain to the mess tent, Wes glanced up at Ivy, tall, solid, and dependable. "I don't know what I'd do without you," he said.
"Be sad," Ivy replied dryly.
"No, I'm serious," Wes said. "Significant others dump us, friends flake out, our family up and died on us, but we've always been there for each other, haven't we?"
"Yes, we have." Ivy's voice had a tone of fond indulgence.
Wes huffed. Xe didn't get it. "You're my best friend, Ivy," he said.
Ivy grinned, squeezed Wes' hand, and steered them toward the dining tent. "You're mine, too, Wes," xe said. "But I swear by all that is holy, you and Nash better get your shit together, because I can't stand you when you're maudlin."
The phone lost reception in the dining tent, and by the end of lunch Wes had almost managed to forget about Nash. The memory came crashing back when he reached the Dog Stars booth and discovered the phone had a voice mail—a voice mail he didn't get a chance to listen to for another hour, as traffic at the booth went through its usual post-lunch surge.
When he finally heard it, it said only this: "Wes, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Look, I'm in the middle of something right now, but I promise we'll talk about this as soon as I get the chance. Just... don't go anywhere, okay? Bye."
Wes deleted the message and stared at the phone. Don't go anywhere? Where the hell would he go? Why did Nash care? And one rushed "I'm sorry" that didn't mention the underlying issue didn't cut it as an apology. Flames of anger flared up inside Wes. He took a lot of deep, centering breaths, but if not for the steady stream of customers who strolled past the booth all afternoon, he would've ended his shift a roiling mass of frustration. (He almost did, anyway.)
*~*~*
Wes was burning off excess post-ritual energy by getting the tent in order before bed when Ivy came inside and zipped the flap closed—something they only did when they went to sleep at night. Wes had twenty-six years of practice watching Ivy's expressions. He couldn't read the one on xyr face now, and that worried him. He straightened. "What?" Ivy looked at him, mouth opening and closing. Wes' stomach churned. Ivy was never at a loss for words. "Ivy, what?"
"You... have a visitor," xe said.
Wes sagged. Was that all? He didn't have as many friends as Ivy, but he wasn't entirely solitary at these things. Someone coming to visit him after ritual shouldn't surprise xem that much. Wes smiled and tried to move past xem. "Thanks."
Ivy's broad hand came out and planted itself against Wes' shoulder. "Wes," xe said, voice soft and careful, "be open, okay? Listen. Ever since Mom and Dad died, you—"
Wes jerked back like he'd been shoved. He and Ivy had gone through extensive therapy when their parents died, and they'd talked through their feelings with each other, and now they didn't discuss it. Ever. What the hell conversation did Ivy think Wes was about to have that xe needed to bring this up?
"I don't blame you for being closed off," Ivy said. "But it's not healthy, you not having any friends besides me. It's time you let someone in. That's all I'm saying."
Wes stared. He had let someone in—at least, he'd been trying—and look where it'd gotten him. Lies, evasions, and heartbreak. "That's rich, coming from you," he snarled, and, in the space created by Ivy's shocked stillness and pallid face, Wes shoved past xem and out of the tent.
And then turned around and started walking back into it when he saw who his visitor was. Crap, how out of it was he, that he hadn't even considered the possibility that this was his visitor?
Wes paused. At his side, his hand clenched and unclenched. He couldn't decide if he wanted to form it into a fist and punch Nash in the stomach or leave it open to wave Nash away. He kept his gaze forward, focused on the teeth of the tent flap zipper.
He heard a rustle and felt a slight shifting of air, and then Nash was right behind him. Nash's body poured heat between them, and Wes hated that he wanted to lean into that warmth, into Nash's space, into his body, and let himself be convinced that everything was all right.
A cascade of silvery female laughter floated through the night air, and Wes' uncertainty hardened into cold resolve. Everything was broken. Women were incessantly trying to date him and set him up with their friends. Nash had said he would fix it, and Nash had lied. Wes couldn't take comfort from anyone as long as that was true.
"Wes," Nash said, his voice scratchy and wobbly, "can we go somewhere and talk? Please?"
"Here," Wes said, still not turning around. "If you want to talk, talk to me here. I make no promises that I'll respond."
"But Ivy—"
"That's the price. Anything you need to say, you'll have to say in front of Ivy."
Nash paused, and Wes almost wished he could see his face to know if he was resigned, resolved, or pulling himself together.
Before Nash could speak, the tent flap fluttered open, and Ivy came outside with xyr backpack over one shoulder and xyr bedding under the other arm. "No," xe said decisively. Xyr long index finger poked Wes' sternum. "That's unfair to all of us." Xe looked into Wes' eyes, and Wes had to fight hard not to look away from that penetrating gaze. "Some things need to be spoken in private." Xe waited until Wes nodded grudgingly and then looked at Nash over Wes' head. "And some things an older sibling does not want to know about the state of xyr baby brother's love life."
Mr. March Names the Stars Page 5