The Conditions of Will

by Jessa Hastings

Silence with him is silence. Silence with him is five fifteen in the morning before the sun’s up and it’s still dark but the birds are singing. He’s the heavy quilt you pull over your head when it’s too cold and too early to wake up. He’s the song no parent ever loved me enough to sing. He’s the way water runs and bubbles over stones in a stream. He’s a quiet mind.

“Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?” I stare up at the big arch, which is my favorite part, I think. “Even though it’s broken?” “Yep,” he says quietly, and he’s looking just at me.

“You’re the priority now.” I cross my arms over my chest, immediately uncomfortable. This is new, and the newness is unsettling. I don’t even clock it in myself that I’m placing a barrier between us with my arms—but Sam does, he stares at them, his face lightening in amusement. “And I don’t know whether you’ve been someone’s priority before,” he says as he reaches over and gently uncrosses my arms. “Maybe the mercenary’s, but then, maybe not—I don’t know. Doesn’t matter though. You’re mine now.”

And I think to myself, wouldn’t it be so lovely if we viewed ourselves through the same lens as the people who love us?

“I’m sorry, no,” Alexis says in a way that sounds like he means it, and I wonder what it might cost a person to spend their whole lives apologizing for loving who they love.

This.