Out on a Limb

by Hannah Bonam-Young

“Are you tall for something?” He can’t stop laughing now. I can’t stop wanting to make him. “What?” he asks, eyes lit with enjoyment. “Seriously, what are you? Nine feet tall?” “Six.” “Six what though?” “Six-five.” “Wildly unnecessary for daily life. Do you play basketball?”

“So…do we—do we get married?” “What?” I jump back. “No! What? Why would we get married? We don’t even know each other!” He sits straighter, blowing out a breath. “Sorry, I’m not sure what came over me just then.” “The ghost of your great-grandfather, evidently,” I say.

“I’m going to friend the shit out of you, Freddie McNulty.”

“You’re on,” Bo fires back. “And don’t call me Freddie,” I say, crossing my arms. “Sure thing, Frederick.”

She’s wearing leggings and a cute, oversized sweater with the word Velaris written across it. I think that’s from a favorite book of hers, but if I ask, we’ll never get out of here on time.

“What are you thinking? Why are you looking so sad?” “The idea of having a constant supply of ice is making me a bit emotional,” I say, raising a slow finger to point at the fridge. “Your priorities are, as always, impeccable,” she says, pushing past me toward the hallway. “Let’s see what your bedroom looks like.” I follow her down the hall, caressing the fridge longingly as I pass by.

You bring forty-six houseplants into the guy’s home, and he barely bats an eye. But you defend orange juice with pulp in it, and he’s ready to go to war.

“I will tell you everything, but you need to promise me first that you will not tell my wife.” I cross my fingers behind my back and nod twice. Puh-lease, as if I’d ever promise such a thing. “I’m so serious right now. We have been friends for fifteen years, Winnifred McNulty. I have never asked you for anything, but I am now. Please, god, please, do not tell my wife I play Dungeons and Dragons. She will never drop it. I will be ridiculed until my dying day.”

“If our food doesn’t arrive soon, I’m going to eat my other hand,” I say, unfolding my napkin. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bo says exaggeratedly. “You can eat mine. It’s far bigger.”

“It’s good to meet you too,” I squeak, swallowing. “Bo’s told me so many wonderful things. And please, call me Win or Fred.” I don’t miss Bo’s crooked smirk when I offer his father the nickname that, until very recently, I was not fond of. I don’t miss, either, the warm affection in Robert’s eyes as they land on my stomach.

“You’re perfect, Win,” Bo says, as easily as breathing. “Of course I’d want them to have every part of you.”

Let me in, I want to say amidst the silence. Love me. Trust me. I won’t let you down. I swear it.

“You are my soul’s purpose, Win. To know you, to love you, to build a family with you, to spend every day taking care of you, to watch you shine and get all the good things you deserve out of this life.”