When the first fingers of orange gripped their side of the world, Nat joined her. Being Southern, he asked permission, as if the cabin were a ship and she its captain, as if he had already made it hers. His generosity, his selflessness, sharpened her regret at leaving.
She shared the quilt. He sat close. She rammed her pen through the messy bun atop her head so it wouldn’t roll off the roof.
“Mae is good. She’ll be fine.” His voice was quiet, low, relaxed. Like they had all the time in the world when she knew they didn’t. This place was good for him. She never wanted him to lose the part of himself that craved the stillness.
January nodded.
“J, I—”
“Don’t,” she whispered. “I understand.”
She held out her palm for his. He took her hand and wrapped the ratty quilt tighter around them. Head tipped against his shoulder, she found she no longer held anxiety in her stomach at being honest with him. They were past that, right where they had always been.
“Want to know the real reason I’m going to Nepal?”
“Prayer flags and rickshaws?”
January smiled. “Someone once told me if I went to the right place, just high enough, I could see the curvature of the earth from there. Then, and only then, would I know my place in it.”
“Sounds like some advanced bullshit.”
A warm giggle originated in her chest. She let it out. It felt amazing. “It does, doesn’t it?”
“All you have to do is squint at the horizon to see it curve.”
She squinted. He squinted. Like a pair of octogenarians who had lost their glasses. Sure enough, Nat was right. Just high enough, in the right place, the world curved, and she felt her place in it.
“This epiphany calls for a celebration.” January wiggled off her right boot and sock then handed Nat the pen she had stuck in her hair.
His gaze settled on the path of tiny tattoos that circled her ankle bone and wrapped her foot.
“What are those?”
“One symbol for every place these feet have carried me that taught me a life lesson.”
He grasped her leg. She twisted position to give him a better look.
His close inspection sketched his brow into a scowl. “I wish it was lighter so I could see them better.”
“They’re simple. Nothing special but to me.” She pointed to the spot at the base of her shin. “This is the most recent—from Norway.”
“What is it?”
“A willow flute. One evening, I was headed back to the inn where I had a room, and I heard its sound from a distance. A shepherd in a distant field, a fisherman on shore, someone I couldn’t see. The notes were like messages from an angel—simple, enduring, unwavering, the purest form of human expression. True art. I stood there for the longest time, unable to move. The sound transported me in a way that I never wanted to end. Then it stopped, and I realized how precious it had been.” She brushed a fingertip over the tattoo. “It was a lesson to appreciate music—all music—because it’s a fleeting gift.”
“Where is Close Call on here?”
“It isn’t. Not yet.”
“You want me to draw your next symbol?”
She bit her bottom lip, positive that she wanted something from him on her forever, unsure if he would accept such a challenge. When he did and the ballpoint tip tickled her skin, she smiled and closed her eyes, relieved such a gesture ensured she would remember this moment.
As he finished, he drew circles around it with his thumb, an unmistakable caress.
“What did you draw?” She shifted beside him to get a closer look.
“It’s an eye with really long lashes.”