The Seven Year Slip

by Ashley Poston

The mirrors on the ceiling were warped even then, and on the slow ride up, I found a spot where the mirrors were uneven and it bowed my face and twisted my arms like a fun-house mirror. My aunt had said in a conspiratorial voice, “That’s your past self looking back at you. Just a split second, from you to you.”

She’d smiled at me from the front porch and said, “Let’s go chase the moon, my darling Clementine.” And we did. She didn’t know where we were going, and I certainly didn’t, either. We never had a plan, my aunt and I, when we chased an adventure.

“I guess I just never had a perfect meal, then,” I said finally, putting the chocolate down on the edge of the table. “I’ve just always felt so out of my element every time I go to one of those fancy places you’re probably talking about. I’m constantly afraid of choosing the wrong spoon or ordering the wrong dish or—something. Pair the wrong wine with the wrong cut of steak.”

“It’s less about the food, then, and more about—” “The memory,” we finished together. His grin slid into a smile, crooked and endearing, and it made his eyes glimmer. I felt a blush creeping up my neck to my face again. “That’s what I want to make,” he said, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. The sleeves of his T-shirt hugged his biceps tightly. Not that I was looking. I definitely wasn’t. “The perfect meal.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t you ever color outside the lines, Lemon?” No, I thought, though that wasn’t exactly true. I used to, just not anymore. “I warned you,” I said, downing the rest of my wine, and gathering our plates to take to the sink, “I’m boring.” “You keep saying that word. I don’t think it means what you think it means,”

“New things are scary.” “They don’t have to be.” “How are they not?” “Because some of my favorite things I haven’t even done yet.”

“When was the last time you did something for the first time?” he asked, as if daring me. And if there was one thing I was more than a practical pessimist, it was someone who never backed away from a challenge. I resisted. “I assure you I’ve danced before.” “But not with me.” No. And—despite his insistence—this was frightening, but not because it was new or spontaneous. It was frightening because I wanted to, and the Wests never did spontaneous things. That was my aunt. And yet . . . here I was, reaching up to take his hand.

There was something just so reassuring about books. They had beginnings and middles and ends, and if you didn’t like a part, you could skip to the next chapter. If someone died, you could stop on the last page before, and they’d live on forever. Happy endings were definite, evils defeated, and the good lasted forever.

The past was the past was the past, and it couldn’t be changed. Even if I somehow met her here in this apartment seven years in the past, it wouldn’t change anything. She would still die. I would still find myself on the floor crying at two in the morning. And then Nate came along three months later and thought he could fix me, I guess, with a little well-placed love. Except I didn’t need to be fixed. I’d gone through the worst day of my life by myself, and I came out the other side a person who survived it. That was not something to fix. I didn’t need to be fixed. I just needed . . . to be reminded that I was human.

“Cooking was like that for me. I liked keeping it secret—just between me and my granddad. It felt powerful, you know? This little thing that no one else knew about.” “And if you show it to anyone else, you’re afraid it might spoil.” “Yeah, that’s it.” “But you did—obviously. Since you cooked for me.” He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I thought I just wanted it to be a pastime, but then I decided . . . what the hell?” I looked down at the tiny bit of paint still stuck under my fingernails. “Do you regret it?” He cocked his head in thought. “Ask me in a few years.” If I find you, I thought, I will.

“You kiss like you dance,” he murmured against my mouth. I broke away, suddenly appalled. “Terribly?” He laughed, but it was low and deep in his throat, half a growl, as he stole another kiss again. “Like someone waiting to be asked. You can just dance, Lemon. You can take the lead.” “And you’ll follow?” “To the moon and back,” he replied,

Romance wasn’t in chocolate, it was in the gasp of breath as we came up for air. It was in the way he cradled my face, the way I traced my finger over the crescent-shaped birthmark on his collarbone. It was in the way he muttered how beautiful I was, the way it made my heart soar. It was in the way I wanted to know everything about him—his favorite songs, finally guess his favorite color.

“Wait,” I gasped, breaking myself away from him. My heart was quick and loud in my head. “Wait—is this smart? Should we? This might be a bad idea.” He froze. “What?” “This—this might be a bad idea,” I repeated, letting my hand unwind from his tie. My lips felt tender, my cheeks flushed. He blinked, tonguing his bottom lip, his gaze still drunk on our kisses. “You could never be a bad idea, Lemon.”

Sometimes the people you love don’t leave you with goodbyes—they just leave.

“Seriously, look at that knife,” James said, tsking. “That’s got to be the dullest thing in that kitchen—and that includes you.” “I’ve feelings, bro.” Isa said while plating another fajita, not missing a beat, “No, you don’t. I squashed those years ago.”

“I hate this story so much,” James groaned, pulling his hand down his face in agony. “He was asked—Isa, what was he asked?” She took another chip from the bag. “He was asked what he was doing.” “I was following directions,” James mumbled. “He says—to this super-stodgy chef, by the way—‘What does it look like I’m doing? I’m beatin’ it.’ Elbow deep in dough. Flour on his face. Yeast spilled across the counter. Using—what the fuck were you using? A wooden spoon? He was pure chaos.” Isa cackled. “And the teacher just looked at him and said, ‘Whisk, you whisk it.’ ” James pointed out, “To be fair, I’d never seen a Danish whisk in my life. Then Isa decided that we’d all go out drinking that night and wound up at a tattoo shop and”—he shrugged—“that’s it. That’s the story.” To which Miguel and Isa both showed me the utensils behind their left ears, too—a spatula and a ladle.

“Just keep listening,” I told him, and to my surprise, he did. After a moment, I asked, “Do you hear anyone laughing?” “I hope they aren’t.” “I don’t mean at you, I mean with each other.”

“I think,” he finally said, choosing his words carefully, “that nothing lasts forever. Not the good things, not the bad. So just find what makes you happy, and do it for as long as you can.”

That was love, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just a quick drop—it was falling, over and over again, for your person. It was falling as they became new people. It was learning how to exist with every new breath. It was uncertain and it was undeniably hard, and it wasn’t something you could plan for. Love was an invitation into the wild unknown, one step at a time together.

Sometimes the people you loved left you halfway through a story. Sometimes they left you without a goodbye. And, sometimes, they stayed around in little ways. In the memory of a musical. In the smell of their perfume. In the sound of the rain, and the itch for adventure, and the yearning for that liminal space between one airport terminal and the next. I hated her for leaving, and I loved her for staying as long as she could.

“Happy Birthday, Lemon.” “What?” I gave a start. He pulled up a small bouquet of sunflowers. “Happy birthday.” I took them hesitantly. He’d remembered my favorite color. Of course he had, because he was still the same person—thoughtful and kind. Like he’d always been. For everything that changed, something stayed the same. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said anything the other week—especially not at your opening.” “Perhaps,” he replied, folding his hands together. We sat there quietly for a moment, looking at the paintings. Tourists migrated around us, the gallery a soft rush of murmurs. “How did you know I’d be here?” I asked after a moment. He gave me a sidelong look. “You said you would be. Every birthday.” He gave a small laugh. “You have no idea how many times I debated coming here any other year. Just sitting down beside you, wondering if—maybe—you’d recognize me.”

“You have no idea how many times I walked past this building hoping I’d catch a glimpse of you,” he said as we slipped inside. “I was half afraid that man would recognize me eventually.”

“I never got over that,” he murmured, breaking away just long enough for a breath. I slid my hands up his chest. “What?” “How well you kiss. Over the last seven years,” he went on, resting his forehead against mine, “I went on so many dates, I kissed so many people, I tried to fall in love again and again, and all I could think about was you.” I wasn’t sure what to say. “All seven years?” “Two thousand five hundred and fifty-five days. Not that I was counting,” he added, because clearly he had been, and that made the butterflies in my stomach awfully happy. Seven years—seven whole years.

“I have dreamed of this for years,” he murmured, kissing the dip of my neck. “I dreamed so much of you.” “How’s reality?” I asked, myself around him, never wanting to let him go. “Fuck, so much better.”

Because the things that mattered most never really left. The love stays. The love always stays, and so do we.