Page 35 of We Are Okay

He could have looked at us and seen our kiss-swollen lips and blushing faces. Could have seen how neither of us could look him—or each other—in the eye. But he was looking at the bottle instead.

“Sorry, Gramps,” I said. “We only took a few swigs.”

“We’re lightweights,” Mabel tried to joke, but her voice was thick with regret.

He reached out and she surrendered the bottle. He held it eye level to get a good look at how much was inside.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It was only a little.”

“I’m really sorry,” Mabel said.

I wished I were back on the beach with her. I willed the sky to turn dark again.

“Gotta be careful with this stuff,” Gramps said. “Best not to get involved with it at all.”

I nodded, trying to remember kissing Mabel’s mouth.

I wanted her to look at me.

“I have to get home,” she said.

“Have a good day at school,” Gramps told her.

“Thanks.”

She was standing on the sidewalk in torn-up jeans and a sweater, her dark hair falling to one side, so long it grazed her elbow. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes were sad until she caught me, finally looking, and she smiled.

“I hope you don’t get in trouble,” I said, but how could trouble find us?

We were miraculous.

We were beach creatures.

We had treasures in our pockets and each other on our skin.

chapter eleven

ABOVE ME ISthe head and neck of a deer. A buck, I guess. His antlers cast long and graceful shadows along the wall. I imagine him alive, in a field somewhere. I think about spring, grass and flowers, hoofprints and movement and a body, intact. But now there is stillness and drips of candle wax and quiet. There are the ghosts of who we used to be. There is theclinkof Mabel setting our dinner bowls into Tommy’s sink, and the exhaustion that comes with knowing that something will have to happen next, and then after that, and on and on until it’s over.

We haven’t talked about sleeping yet. On the sofa are a set of sheets and a comforter, a reminder of the space we are supposed to share.

Maybe we’ll stay up all night.

Mabel returns from the kitchen. She crosses to the bookshelf and picks up a deck of cards.

She turns to show me, and I nod. She shuffles and deals ten for me, ten for herself, places a card faceup. Queen of spades. I can’t believe I didn’t buy a deck of cards for us. It would have answered the question of what to do each time it came up. We wouldn’t have had to trick ourselves into sleep to stave off the need for conversation.

We dive into gin rummy as though no time had passed. I finish the first round ahead twelve points, and Mabel gets up to find us a pencil and paper. She comes back with a Sharpie and a postcard mailer for a Christmas tree lot.Nothing beats the smell of fresh-cut pine,it says, and below the sentence are photographs of three types of fir trees: Douglas, noble, and grand. Mabel writes our names below a P.S.—We have wreaths, too!—and adds the score.

It’s a close game, which means it’s a long one, and by our last hand my vision keeps blurring from tiredness and the strain of seeing in the dark. Mabel keeps losing track of whose turn it is, even though there are only two of us, but in the end she calls gin and wins the game.

“Nice job,” I say, and she smiles.

“I’m gonna get ready for bed.”

The whole time she’s gone I don’t move. Maybe shewanted me to pull out the bed, but I’m not going to do it. It’s a decision we have to make together.

She comes back a few minutes later.