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“I’d really like it if…” I watch as she scrapes together her bravery. It might be the most incredible thing about her. How she’s always willing to try. “I think it would be nice to have a picnic,” she finally says. “A picnic,” I repeat. “Yeah,” she says slowly, still ping-ponging her attention around the studio. “It doesn’t have to be outdoors either. Maybe on the living room floor. Nothing fancy. Carry-out from a burger place and a fort made out of sheets. Maybe a movie in the background. I don’t know. The idea always seemed nice.”
“I like thinking that I’d be worth the trouble of something like that,” she confesses quietly. Her shoulder shrugs up to her ear. “I like thinking that it doesn’t need to be fancy to be special. Maybe…maybe they’d remember I like fountain soda best or daisies instead of roses. Little things that’d let me know they’ve been paying attention.”
“I like that. Thinking that I’m worth paying attention to. Something ordinary made extraordinary by the person you’re sharing it with.”
She took her hand back about an hour ago, before the aforementioned beers, and I’ve been silently scheming on the other end of the table for ways to get it back.
What am I going to do with all this information when she’s gone? All these tiny data points of Lucie. How she sips her coffee. How she arranges her body in her chair. How she rubs at her ear when she’s uncomfortable. Where will it all go when she goes back to her life and I’m still here?
I’m drunk on her smile. Desperate to know more about her. I want to know her favorite pizza toppings. What sort of toothpaste she uses. If her blush disappears once it reaches the top of her chest or if her whole body flushes pink. I’m buying mint chocolates at CVS because I can’t quit the craving. I want my hands in her hair and my mouth at her throat. I have fantasies where I bend her over this table. Others where I wrap her in a blanket and feed her toast.
But I’ve never claimed to be all that good to begin with, and I’ve been on my best behavior for weeks. Lucie’s mouth forms the shape of my name and my restraint crumbles, reduced to dust at her feet. I don’t want to fight it anymore. I can’t. “Fuck it,” I whisper, and I drag her mouth to mine.
I twist one of her curls around my finger.
This line always gets me, as a mom/daughter moment. It makes me smile, because my mom still does this to me to this day. I have little wisps of hairs on the side of my face that like to curl up and she always likes to curl them around her finger when we’re talking.
“People like to create narratives around that sort of thing. For about six months when I first started, people thought Jackson and I were hiding an illicit affair.” “Were you?” “Nah, he’s not my type.” Sheets rustle again. “I prefer leggy brunettes who steal my coffee.”
I’ve heard so many sounds out of Lucie these past couple of weeks. Her laughter and her sighs and the small amused huff she makes in the back of her throat when we have a ridiculous caller. The rasp in her voice when she’s tired and the way she licks around the edges of consonants and vowels when she’s saying my name. I’m an expert on the soundtrack of Lucie, but I think these sounds might be my favorite. The music Lucie makes when she’s chasing her orgasm against my thigh, both of her hands twisted through my hair, her mouth open against my shoulder.
“You have a pineapple pizza?” I nod, annoyed with myself. “I do.” “You said pineapple on pizza is disgusting.” “It is.” “Then why do you have it?” “Because you said it was your favorite,” I admit. “And I want your favorite to be my favorite.” Because when the guy behind the counter asked me what I wanted, I said “pineapple” without thinking. Because my brain has been rewired to only think about one thing, apparently, and she’s sitting next to me in a tow truck looking a combination of bewildered and bemused.
Now I know what he was doing with his seven minutes. He was collecting every spare blanket and a beach towel—if the blue sea turtles are any indication—to create a makeshift tent. “Like a picnic,” I breathe. I look up at him and grin. “You remember what I said.”
“I remember all the things you’ve said,”
“Condom,” I grind out from between clenched teeth. “Get a condom. Please.” “So polite,” she says, fumbling with the box. My hands squeeze. “I’m about to be really rude, to be honest.”
Feeling nosy, I reach for it and unfold it across my lap. Chocolate mints Daisies Fountain soda Coconut ChapStick Christmas cookies, the shortbread kind Yellow starbursts Pink starbursts The coffee creamer in the orange bottle I read it once and then again. It’s a list of—it’s a list of my favorite things. Things I’ve mentioned on the show and things I haven’t. Things he must have noticed.
“She told me once she doesn’t want to settle anymore and I think that’s what I’ve been doing. My whole life, I’ve intentionally broken everything down because it’s been easier for me to handle. And it’s been the same with her. I’ve been letting myself have sips of her, afraid of what might happen if I let myself go. But I want—I want to kiss her when other people are around. I want to hold her hand. I want to have pancakes at her house on Sunday mornings and I want to help with Indiana Jones costumes. I want her people to be my people too.”
“I don’t need the right words. I just need your words.”
“Missed you,” I murmur into her hair. She gives me a look that is somehow both exasperated and pleased. “I was gone for three minutes.” “I can miss you in three minutes,”
I’m thinking about her, about us, about this. About this tiny café across from her house and all the places we almost met. About the right time, the right place, the right moment. I’m thinking about the way her hand fits in mine, and the way my heart drums out a beat that matches her name. Lu-cie. Lu-cie. Lu-cie. The almosts and the maybes and the what-ifs. The universe lining up for one perfect moment and handing me her. I got so fucking lucky.
