Laura Miller - By Way of Accident

She smiles and then buries her head into my chest.

I laugh once to myself. “Like bees and honey,” I repeat, pulling her close.

“River.” Her voice is almost a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“I heard this quote once by F. Scott Fitzgerald that said there are all kinds of love in this world but never the same love twice.” She looks up at me and smiles through her dark eyelashes, and I’m automatically transported back to a creek and a summer that’s permanently tattooed on my heart.

“Do you think that’s true?” she asks.

I’m already lost in her and her beautiful thoughts. “Sure,” I say, nodding.

“River?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember what it was like to be young and in love — before you knew what love was?”

I nod again. “Sure,” I say. “Awkward.”

She laughs and shoves my shoulder at the same time. “Speak for yourself.”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I was talking about myself.”

She smiles wider. “Okay, awkward,” she admits. “But also…it’s like that feeling you get in your dreams when you’re falling, but at the last second, you realize it’s only a dream and that you’re really safe. And then all of a sudden, that falling feeling becomes kind of invigorating. It’s like once you know you’re safe, all the crazy, awkward, scary moments just make for a full life — make it all worth it.”

She pauses and finds my gaze. “I think that’s what being young and in love is like,” she goes on. “It’s scary and awkward and uncertain, but somehow safe. And I think some people can be young and in love even when they’re old and in love. And I think that’s the best kind of love there is. You know?”

By now, I’m glued to her, mesmerized by the way her smoky eyes turn a different shade of gray when they light up. “Yeah,” I eventually agree. “I know.”

She takes my hand in hers. Her touch still makes my heart race and my breaths short and my body ache for her. “I want that kind of love — that love we had,” she says.

I feel my chest rise and then fall. “Brooke?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“Does that mean you want us?” I ask.

She keeps her eyes on me and takes a moment before she says anything again. “Mm-hmm,” she confirms at last, nodding her head into the muscles in my chest right before she angles her face back up at mine. And I don’t know what it is, but I’m just drawn to her. I’m drawn to her just like I was that first day I ever kissed her. I was young then, and I was stupid, and I had no clue what love was. But I know what it is now. And I know now that what I felt back then was love. I guess sometimes we just need the years to confirm it.

I look into her eyes, and she stares back into mine, and it’s as if all the kisses and touches we ever stole and all the desires we ever had for one another are just floating up to the surface. I lean in, and I stop right before her lips, so that I can taste and savor all the memories — all the sweet, soft memories that only we can see — floating between us. And I can feel her hot breaths hit my lips. They come fast and short. My heart is racing, pumping me full of adrenaline. Every part of me feels alive, and all that matters is her. And the last thing I see before her eyes fall shut is a look of want. And I know that same look is in my eyes too. Then just like that, the world stops. And I close my eyes, and I press my lips against hers — for the first time in nearly a decade. And it feels just like the first time — raw and hungry, yet faultless. And just like the first time, I know without a doubt, I love this girl. I still my lips against hers; I want to savor the moment. And I think she does too. She stays close, and her heavy, short breaths fall one by one onto my lips . God, I’ve missed her. I love this crazy, beautiful girl and all the life that’s in her. It’s as if I’m falling in love with her all over again — and I don’t even think I ever fell out.

“It’s kind of like snow in April.” Brooke touches a white flower on one of the dogwood trees. There’s like a dozen of them in every square acre of this town, and each one of them is completely covered in the white flowers.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It kind of is.”

Her eyes stay focused on the flower until I notice them wander off after a few moments.

“Look, Riv, an antique shop.” She points to a little house down the block. There are trinkets and old things — an old grape press and a hand plow — lining the walk, and there’s a little painted, homemade open sign hanging on the door.

Her eyes light up, and she grabs my hand. “Let’s go look inside.”

I smile at her and wait for the inevitable tug. When it comes, I follow her to the little house.

We step inside, and a little bell rings above us, alerting an old woman sitting in a rocking chair.

“Well, hello.” The voice is small but chipper.

Brooke says hi , and I touch the brim of my cap and bob my head — something my grandpa always used to do.

The old woman smiles kindly. “What brings you young folks to Marthasville?”

I notice Brooke’s eyes get caught on something, so I take over the conversation. “We’re just passing through really,” I say. “I’m originally from Detmold just about forty miles west of here.”

“Aah,” the woman says. “Wonderful. Well, don’t be shy. If you have any questions, I know everything about every piece in this whole place.” She uses both her hands to smooth out her long cotton dress.

“Thanks,” I say, spotting Brooke again.

“Oh, wait,” the woman says, stopping me. “You never mentioned your name.”

I turn back toward her, and I must have had a questioning look on my face because she goes to explaining herself.

“I always ask everyone from anywhere around here. It usually turns out you find you’re connected in some way or another — like that six degrees of Bacon.”

I smile. “Kevin Bacon.”

“Yes,” the old woman exclaims. “Six degrees of Kevin Bacon or separation, whatever you prefer to call it. But I’ve always thought that that Bacon was quite a handsome young man.”

I lower my eyes and laugh to myself.

“It’s River,” I say, lifting my head again. “River Asher. And this is…” I look up, and Brooke’s not where she just was. But I notice the old woman coming out from behind the counter with a concerned look on her face, and I put finding Brooke on hold.

The woman hobbles more than she walks as she makes her way over to me. She stops when she’s about a foot in front of me. Her head is barely at my chest. And I stand still as she takes my hand in hers.

“River?” she repeats.

“That’s right, ma’am.”

She nods her head and then turns her focus to Brooke, who has reappeared all of a sudden. “And who might you be, dear?”

Brooke looks at our two hands and sends me a questioning glance. I know she’s probably wondering the same thing I am.

“I’m Brooke.” Brooke quickly replaces her puzzled look with the soft smile I love so much.

“Have you two been together long?” the old woman asks.

I glance at Brooke, who is already looking at me.

“It feels like a lifetime,” Brooke says. “But really, I guess it’s only officially been about eight months now.” She smiles at me.

“Yeah, it’s funny,” I start to say. I’m not sure why I’m telling this stranger about my life. It’s not something I’d normally do, but I guess she’s less and less of a stranger as the seconds draw on. She is still holding my hand, after all. And she seems more than willing to listen. “We met by way of accident really — when we were both thirteen. And then we were separated that same year. But it was almost a year ago that we were reunited by accident again.”