Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #41

And that's how both of you end up on the floor, leaned against your bed, passing the wine between you. You like the idea of it, an intimacy that comes from sharing.

Clair flipped the light off awhile ago, and though you have no constellations dotting across your ceiling, a thread of moonlight spills through your curtains. It's enough to see the shadows of your room by, enough to drink by.

Your whispered conversation, punctuated by laughter, glows in the half-light. Until it dies like an ember, letting comfortable silence (save for the slosh of wine) replace it. That would've been enough, but you are glad when Clair interrupts it.

"I thought there was something out there," she says, tilting her chin towards the window and vaguely gesturing around the room. "We're made stars, right? I always thought we needed to keep looking, to find something outside of us that matched up with the star pieces inside of us. Stars and stars.

"I never really thought that someone else might have those things I was looking for. That their stars might match up with mine. That someone else might be the truth I was looking for."

She takes another swig, the green glass flashing silver in the moonlight. Clair smiles and glances at you out of the corner of her eyes.

By the time her gaze cuts back to the window, your head is spinning, and you finally realize how drunk you are. (You test it, touching the tips of your fingers together. Sure enough, the nerves don't fire quite right, numb as they are.) Maybe that's why her words ring so true. Stars in her, stars in you, the truth. Her words swim under your skin, raising the hairs on the nape of your neck, on the back of your arms. You don't understand the math of it (Clair has dovetailed this train of thought with astronomy, and it's getting too complicated for your fuzzy mind.), but you know what you've seen: stars shinning beneath her skin, in her smile, in her eyes. Her and you.

And that's the truth. Your truth.

And that's the thought that drags you into the morning. You've found this truth that you're probably too tired (among other things) to understand, but the next day—

Yes, morning will bring clarity.

And when you wake up to her smile, to her dancing eyes, there it is.

"Morning."

She yawns, jaw cracking. "Morning."

You grin at her, and she smiles, sleepy-eyed. "Any plans today, M.?"

"Breakfast."

And her eyes light up. "Excellent. If there was one plan I wanted, it would always be breakfast."

You punch her shoulder. "Funny. Let's go."

Breakfast has always been (and will always be) your favorite meal. Everyone straggles in (your dad starts cracking eggs, your mom pads in wiping sleep from her eyes and putting on a pot of coffee, and when the machine stops sputtering, there you are. Tyler is always last to arrive, after the eggs are ready and table is set and the orange juice is poured.) There's a familiarity to it that isn't found in other meals (maybe it's because everyone is in sweatpants and pajamas, hair mussed and eyes dream-bright, and the coffee tastes better in chipped mugs and with company.)

This routine is right, and no matter who joins in (Tyler's buddies from high school or your gaggle of cousins or Clair), it always will be.

Tyler always clears the table, and you always do the dishes. It's unwritten at this point, but you can't stretch your mind back to a time when this wasn't true. And when he's finished, he'll pull a towel out of the drawer and come over to your side to dry the dishes. (You have a dishwasher, but it's never used these mornings. There's a pleasure that comes with your labors, small as they are.)

Easy talk comes between you, or comfortable silence. That's how it goes.

Today, Clair takes Tyler's place drying the dishes and setting them in the rack. She hip-checks you when your hands are covered in suds, and you almost make her drop a glass when you return the favor.

When you both finish with the dishes, she spins out of your reach and saunters down the hall. A minute later, the shower starts, so you slide into the chair across from your mom. She's got the paper laid out before her, and you steal the section with the crossword.

"You two seem close," your mom says, eyes flitting between you and the bathroom.

You hesitate, trying to form the right words. "We're friends."

And while that's true, it's not wholly true. You'd thought, only for a moment, how you would try and explain it, but it's not really a straight-forward relationship. (The truth. You sort-of-kind-of figured it out some time ago, but it's still a fresh thing.) But you know what it comes down to: You love her, and that's all you need to know.

You sigh.

"All right, all right. Just know that I love you; okay, M.?"

You feel sort of prickly all over your skin, and your hands shake a little. "Yeah, yeah. I know, Mom." You get up and hug her, though, so she won't think you're being totally dismissive.

A moment later, the shower stops, followed by the click of the bathroom door unlocking. A flood of relief sweeps through you as you untangle yourself from your mom, and take the steps two at a time.

Love isn't the way you thought it would be. You know all the stories about how boys fall in love with girls. Fairy tales.

But this is different. You and Clair aren't self-conscious in front of each other, but you still knock before going into your bedroom. She's standing in a towel, combing through her hair with her fingertips. When she meets your eyes, she lights up.

(You study her, trying to figure her out. You've never kissed her, but somehow that's become okay. You can't even remember wanting to, even just for a moment. But she makes you dizzy when she steps into a room. She's beautiful, but you care more that her eyes are alive and she is bright as starshine. How could her body compare with her heart?

You're mesmerized by her body because it's hers, but it still elicits no deeper reaction than that. There is no thread between your heart and body, and while it still bothers you sometimes, you're just happy to watch Clair flick a sheaf of hair off her shoulder, exposing a smattering of freckles across her collarbones)

You'd spent so much time afraid that you couldn't love, not the way fairy tales told you that you were supposed to.

But when her eyes smile at you, you know.

She is your truth.