V. H. King's Ink

They stopped for milkshakes. 

Cookies and cream for Bridgett. 

Strawberry for Libby. 

She had called him Libby.  Caleb sighed quietly, remembering the night before.  Scraps of paper across the coffee table, trying to sketch out the details of the scene.  An arm gently around Bridgett’s neck, adding pressure until she thought his arm was just tight enough.  Wanting to feel that sensation of what could happen and not knowing whether it would. 

Sometimes, Caleb thought she toed far too close to the line between experiments and accidents.  He loved her for it.  He loved that she had called him Libby at the restaurant.  Loved that no one else had heard, except for him.  There was no way he could guarantee it, but that’s what it felt like.  A name that could only mean something specific to his ears.  Just like a vial of blood that a mercenary might keep around his neck. 

Bridgett hadn’t said anything about the appointment, the night before.  He hadn’t wanted to persuade her into talking, and he didn’t try.  Bridgett could tell you everything you wanted to know and some things you didn’t, but she always gave you the information you needed.  If she didn’t want you to know, she didn’t say it.  And a lot of times, she didn’t want you to know something yet.  When she was ready to say it, she would. 

Like the third time they had gotten milkshakes, and she had told him not to get the mint chocolate chip anymore.  Kissing him afterward tasted like toothpaste, she’d said.  He’d hugged her tight, kissed her deeper, until she was breathless and the taste was gone. 

Had something else gone, between them?

The appointment affected both of them.  So did the lurch in Caleb’s stomach.  He rolled onto his side.  Slowly.  Breathing through his nose.  Steadily out through his mouth.  Concentrating on loosening his jaw.  Letting his grip on the pillowcase relax. 

He sat up once the nausea had passed and went to the kitchen.  Eggs.  Spinach.  Red peppers.  Only a few onions.  Feta cheese.  He told himself not to overthink the ingredients.  Instead he replayed the memory of Bridgett calling him Libby.  He’d never told her not to call him that in public.  She had saved it for when they were alone and had nothing to hide. 

Maybe the fact that she had called him that was a good sign.   A premonition of a fortuitous future.  Bridgett would laugh, if she heard him say that.  Laugh like sunlight on seawater, warming him from head to toe.  Hug him around the waist and press a kiss to his cheek. 

Shit, the hollandaise.

He gave it a quick stir, relieved that it hadn’t stuck.  He turned off the burner and moved the pot.  The omelet flipped, he started on the coffee.  He shouldn’t have any, but there was a chance he still could have it.  Life was all about chances.  He eyed the four pieces of multigrain bread, waiting to be plunged into the toaster.  Caleb felt the same anxiety, unsure of what exactly it was that he was dreading.

She called you Libby.

Sometimes, Bridgett said it with a pout.  Other times, a little quiver in her bottom lip.  It was different every time, and yet it was just enough of the same.  It was the fact that no one else knew.  He wondered if some day, other people would.  If anyone else would call him that. 

He didn’t know if he would let them. 

Poking the omelet.  Turning off the burner.  Grabbing two plates and setting them on the table. 

Wrapping his arms around Bridgett’s middle.

“Morrin,” she said, sighing into his shoulder as her eyes closed again.  “I love when you make me breakfast.”

“Sure you’re not too sleepy to eat?”

“After.”

Bridgett leaned into him, her shoulder pressing against his.  He took a deep breath.  Felt a flutter.  Smelled sauteed onion and pepper, a hint of rosemary, the rich brew of coffee.  Bridgett hummed, her nose registering the coffee too.

“Big mug?”

“Mug hug.”

She untangled herself and weaved her way to the table.  Bridgett might be half asleep, but breakfast was still her favorite meal.  A luxurious morning feast followed by long naps and late afternoon snacks.  He would stay another day, if she asked. 

He brought the coffee and mugs first, the creamer already set out.  While she fixed her coffee, he went back for the omelet and the hollandaise.  The bowl of fresh berries was already on the table.  The toast popped up and he brought that too, along with the jam. 

“Morrin’ Libby.”

Caleb kissed her forehead.

“Morning to you too.”

He spoke softly.  He didn’t hesitate. 

He wondered though, if she would tell him about the appointment.  They couldn’t ignore it—but they were human, and sometimes humans did strange things out of fear or pride.  He stirred sugar into his own coffee, wondering if he was afraid of how Bridgett would react or if he was simply at a loss because she hadn’t shared her secret yet. 

Would he hold it against her?  Were these the seeds of resentment?

Does he choose his self-hatred or love?

The characters in Bridgett’s story weren’t based on the two of them.  So often, though, it became a way to talk about themselves.  To name fears and dreams they didn’t otherwise know how to put into words.  Would telling her the news—would saying it out loud—introduce a new reality they couldn’t escape from?

Except they were already in it.  Burying your head in the sand and then denying the sand was there was another level of absurd. 

Warm drinks made him sleepy, but there was nothing for them to do today.  He sipped the coffee and let his own eyes close for a moment.  He could hear the fork and knife against Bridgett’s plate.  She hummed around the bite, her chair squeaking as she leaned back.

“Spoil me,” she said.  “Merrily, merrily, rowing our dream out to sea.  That’s what this whole thing is like.”

“Which whole thing?”

“Mine.  Yours.  Ours.”

Were those three different things? 

Bridgett’s face was free of wrinkles or frown lines.  She looked at peace.  Caleb added the other half of the omelet to his plate and began to eat.  He probably should have started with the toast. 

“It’s scary when dreams come true,” Caleb said.

“Even for you?”

Bridgett’s eyes were still vaguely unfocused with sleep, but her shoulders had straightened.  She closed her eyes and sipped her coffee, and the very act reminded him to remember where he was and what he was doing.  Letting the anxiety of unanswered questions run away while he was supposed to be enjoying his breakfast. 

He wanted to smile.  He wanted to feel this warmth all the time; the assurance of being with Bridgett, who sometimes let him call her Birdy.  The secret things they held for and with each other.  The days they had spent, near and far, listening and learning.

How many dreams had he broken already?  He tried not to think about it too often.  He tried to wipe that mental slate, but chalkboard dust had a way of getting all over the place.  He’d betrayed so many promises.  Hurt so many hearts.  And here he was, living a dream he’d never had the courage to speak out loud.  And now there was something else growing inside him.  Did he want silence to be an option? 

“I’ve been afraid of a lot of things.”

Bridgette’s eyes opened and her focus was square on him.  Please, he thought.  Please don’t look away.  He wasn’t sure how honest he could be, if he wasn’t looking right at her.

“Are you afraid for us, Libby?”

He wanted to ask about the appointment.  He wanted to tell her, but—

“We’re a different kind of ‘us’, aren’t we?”

“Are we?”

“A lot of people do what we do, I suppose.” He wanted to shrug, but instead he spoons berries and cream onto a small plate.  “It feels different, for me.”

“To me it feels perfect.”

“Like a dream come true?”

Bridgett reached across the table and laced her fingers through his.  The questions he wanted to ask scalded his throat.  Was it perfect the way things were?  Would they be perfect if he told her?  Could they be perfect together even if it wasn’t just the two of them?  If things felt perfect, what did that mean about the appointment?

They’d not exactly planned for this. 

They’d talked about it—a hypothetical someday.  An if or when, not necessarily expecting the here and now.  The berries were cool and tart on the way down.  The whipped cream complimenting perfectly.  That hand over his was a silent I love you.  Bridgett was the queen of words, but it was her silent gestures that conveyed the deepest commitment. 

But love could shift. 

No matter how much you meant it one way, it could turn into something else.  Love was a pot you had to keep stirring, but not too fast or not too slow, always trying to keep it at a specific temperature. 

“Tell me one of your dreams,” Bridgett said.  “One you’re afraid might come true.”

“You.  Your place in my life.  Or our lives together.”

“Yours, mine, ours?”

“Something like that.”  Caleb’s stomach gurgled, and he reached for his toast.  “How long does perfect last?”

“As long as we mean it.”

“You think so, Birdy?”

Bridgette set her fork down and came on his side of the table.  She settled in his lap and kissed his cheek, her thumb smoothing over the bump behind his ear.  A softball accident from a few years ago.  Bridgett had decided sports weren’t worth it for her, after that. 

I’ve hurt you, that touch said. But we can heal.  We can always heal. 

“I know so,” Libby.”

“As long as we work at what works for us, right?”

“We can learn.  We can let go.  We can take space and time and whatever else we need, to figure things out.”

“It’s scary.”

The words come out whispered around toast crumbs and berry-juice.  It’s too early for kicks, but something in his stomach shifts anyway.  He can’t hold out, waiting for a reason to resent her.  He doesn’t want to look for a reason to hate himself.  He wants to enjoy what they share.  However much, however little, whatever is between them. 

Could he be patient with himself?

“I know, Libby.”  Bridgette’s voice is at his ear, her forehead touching his.  “I know, and it’s okay.”