Page 76 of Courtroom Drama
I contemplate his question. Do I? I suppose I have assumed most everyone is out there doing extraordinary things and I’m the only one who has opted for small, safe.
“There’s one thing that comes to mind,” he says eventually, looking at the door as if Raphael might burst in at this very moment to stop him from divulging.
I lean in, and our knees graze.
“You know all those wild animal documentaries on Netflix? I watch one almost every night. It’s like my weird comfort before I go to sleep.”
I smile, picturing Damon—big, wide, tatted Damon—curled up in bed watching Antarctic penguins singing for mates under Barack Obama’s or Morgan Freeman’s narration.
“I can’t believe I just told you that.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say.
“You’re not laughing. I thought it’d make you laugh.”
“I don’t think it’s funny. I think it tells me a lot about you.”
“Oh?” His eyebrows raise.
“Yeah. I think it’s your way of coping with the world. It’s so heavy out there.” I flick my hand in the direction of the window. “Sometimes you need to shut it all out and focus on something not so heavy. That’s whatAuthentic Momsis for me. Or was, at least. I don’t know that I can watch it anymore after all this.”
He tilts his head as if surveying me, and my cheeks grow hot. “I suppose you’re right,” he states. He exhales and presses his hands atop his knees, ready to change the subject. “What about you? What’s your weird thing?”
“I don’t have a weird—”
“Stop.”
After some thought, I say, “Okay. But if you tell anyone—”
“Who would I tell? Cam? Judge Gillespy?”
He has a point.
“Okay,” I say emphatically. “Every time I pass a fountain, or any body of water of any kind, really, I have to throw a coin in and make a wish. I purposely keep change on me at all times specifically for that reason. And I always make the same wish.”
“What’s the wish?” he asks.
Perhaps it’ll lead me off a cliff, but I choose to stand with my toes against the edge anyway. “I wish for love.” I don’t elaborate because the admission already feels pathetic on some level, but that wish isn’t necessarily for something romantic. It’s about someone, somewhere, filling the void of a lifetime of feeling unwanted.
I watch him, too invested in his reaction. His left eye twitches, and then both narrow in concentration. His eyebrows inch closer together,though not all the way. Just a millimeter or two. His face hasn’t significantly changed. But I see a world of surrender in it.
“I hope you never have to make that wish again,” he says. He says it like he says everything—so matter-of-factly but with a deep entanglement of vulnerability—so much so that I have to believe him.
Now would be a good time to address our past, beyond surface-level apologies. But if I’m honest, I don’t want to risk ruining what we’ve built back over these last few weeks.
In need of a distraction, I stand and take the step to his dresser. I lift a squat black bottle and evaluate it. “Trail.” I read the name from the label, then tap a spray of the cologne into the air between us. He looks on, amused. The smell of him envelops us, and it sends an immediate, undeniable pang of want through my core.
“Why do you choose to smell like a horse saddle?” I ask, not wanting to let on how fond I am of the scent.
“It smells like horse camp.”
I cock my head. “You never went to horse camp.”
“I did. Once.”
He stands and takes a half step toward me, unmistakably broody, his eyes fixed on mine. Looking into those infinite eyes, I’m smacked with understanding that nearly buckles my knees.
Sagawa. The summer before sixth grade. I rode Echo, a resplendent American quarter, the entire summer. She was moodier than the others, rearing at anyone who brushed her without a purposeful technique or chomping harder than necessary at a held carrot. At eleven, I thought I was special. That she held a sweet spot for me. That we had this indescribable bond that made me some sort of majestic animal whisperer. Looking back, she likely chose me because I was the least threatening—nervous and gentle, more attentive and less boisterous than the other kids.
