So far we’d kissed only that once. Sometimes Koen would press his fingers into my palm and I’d feel their icy pressure and wait for the thrill of something, for that rush of lust that I was sure had been promised to me in my dreams. But it never happened. It was as if we were standing on the edge of a steep cliff ready to go tumbling over if only someone would give us a push. But neither of us was pushing. In fact, neither of us had budged.
One night I knocked on his door and straightened my shoulders, trying not to be unsettled at the sound of his dog’s high-pitched yelps. By the time Koen’s little sister, Stella, let me in, I managed to force a smile to my face. Standing in the doorway, I watched as he grabbed his knit hat and scarf. His parents’ screams tumbled down from the second story.
It was so weird to stand in his quarters. His home looked just like ours, with the narrow entryway and the long metal table and the rickety electric stove in the galley. But it felt so different. Our house was blue gaps of silence punctured by the white light of the arguments my father and I had, while Koen’s house was more like Rachel’s, a constant busy jumble of color and life and sound.
He buttoned his coat, looking at me with a hint of a grim smile. “Come on,” he said as he brushed by me. I followed him out. Then I heard him mutter something under his breath.
“Sorry about that.”
“Why are you always apologizing for them?” As we started down the street, the knuckles of his fingers almost brushed mine. I wondered if it was intentional, but then he stuffed his fists into his pockets. Sighing, I did the same. “It’s not as if my family is perfect.”
“Yeah,” said Koen, “but no matter how crazy your father is, I respect him.”
I let out a snort at that. “I don’t see why.”
“Because he’s good at his job. Because he truly believes in the ship’s purpose, in tikkun olam. He’s probably the best Asherati I’ve ever met.”
I bit the insides of my cheeks. How could I respond to that? My father was a noble Asherati when it suited him, sure. But only then. In private he could be cutting and cruel, obsessed with rank and with keeping up appearances. Koen knew all of that, but he went on anyway. “Besides, you don’t even know my parents.”
“It’s not like that makes a difference,” I said. I couldn’t bear to look at him as I spoke, timid, hesitant words. “They’re going to be my family soon either way.”
I stole a glance at him. But Koen seemed to be making a point not to look at me, instead gazing off into the distance. There the street narrowed into a cobbled path that ran between the cornfields. He didn’t speak, just blew the warm air of his breath into his bare hands.
As we walked down the path, through the dead, towering cornstalks that bent like dusty bones toward us, I chewed my lip, peeling away the dry skin, tasting blood. If I were Rachel, I’d know what to say. I’d know how to prove myself, to prove that I was worthy of the things he’d asked of me—marriage, a partnership, his trust. Love. But what did I know about love? Only the strange moans of my parents down the hall when I was little, and the dreams I had at night, wrong dreams, embarrassing dreams, dreams where I lay down in the warm dirt and was naked except for the vines that crawled over me and the purple flowers that blossomed over my skin.
And so I did the only thing I could. I let my gloved hand dart out of my pocket and up and grab Koen’s hat from his head. Then I took off running.
“Hey!” he called, and broke out in rough laughter. “Hey!”
I grinned, speeding forward down the brick path. Part of me kind of hated what I was doing—clutching his hat in my fist, blushing as Koen’s footsteps pounded behind me. It seemed cute, sort of coy. Like something Rachel might do. But it was easy to run, much easier than it was to stand by Koen’s side and take tiny, measured steps and feel like I might screw up at any moment. This felt different. Brave. I stepped into a gap in the rows of corn, kicking up loose soil with my boots as I did.
“Terra, where are you going?”
More of Koen’s laughter came tumbling toward me, but I just pressed forward through the scratchy, bone-white leaves. Reaching the far end of the field, I spilled out onto another cracked-stone pathway. Soon I came to an overpass, a rusted metal bridge that seemed to rise up out of the soggy ground on iron girders. I went to the edge, touching the cold rail with my free hand. Below, the brambles seemed to form a tangled net. I looked over my shoulder—Koen had just reached the far end of the field, his hair a ruddy smudge amid all that yellow and gray—drew a breath, and launched myself over the side.
It was dramatic even for me. My boots hit the hard soil, and I pitched forward, just barely able to catch myself before I fell face-first in the dirt. The force of impact made my ears ring. But as I gazed up, I knew it was worth it. Koen stared at me over the rail, those brown eyes deep pools of surprise.
“Are you okay?” he called. I flashed my teeth at him to show that I was. Then I watched him do a quick calculation in his head. Between where he stood and the ground below, there was a gap of at least three meters. A look of fear crossed over his brow, so quick that I almost missed it.
“You shouldn’t have looked!” I called, laughing.
“I’ll come around,” he said.
I waited there in the shadowed clearing. At first I stayed where I’d landed, crouched against the ground. But then a minute or two passed without any sign of Koen, and I started to get anxious again. I walked over to one of the girders that held up the overpass, pressing my spine against it. The metal was so cold that I could feel the bite of it straight through my coat. But I stood with my shoulders square against it anyway, resting my hand first on my hip, then in my pocket, shifting, suddenly hyperaware of what I looked like and trying desperately to look effortless anyway.
“Hey!”
I jumped, dropping Koen’s hat on the ground.
“Shoot.” I stooped over to pick it up. I tried to brush it clean, but the dirt seemed determined to cling to the nubby fibers. Koen came over and took it from me, pulling it down over his ears.
“Thanks,” he said dryly.
He was standing close—so close that I could feel the warmth of his chest through my lifted gloves. His eyelids were down, showing only the smallest sliver of brown beneath his trembling lashes. I could see the slight line of fuzz along his jawline, could smell the sharp odor of his body, a familiar cedar scent that I couldn’t quite place.
Then the clock tower bells rang out, deep and hollow, and I remembered: the floorboards beneath the bells. It was my father’s smell, or another version of it. For a moment I was sure this was it—he was going to bend close and kiss me again, finally.
But instead he drew away, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He was blushing again, his skin so pink that it was almost purple. But he wouldn’t look at me. “We should go,” he said as he turned his shoulder to me, starting down the shadowed path. “It’s late.”
I let out a gasp of breath, one I hadn’t even realized I was holding, and followed Koen through the darkening forest.
“What do you mean, he’s hiding something from you?”
Rachel stood in the window of her store, holding a pair of straight pins between her lips and speaking out of one side of her mouth. As we talked, she pinned the pleats of a dress around the hips of an old wooden mannequin. She frowned as she spoke, though I think it was mostly because of the way the silky material kept sliding out of her grasp.