Why the Star Stands Still (Gives Light #4)

Why the Star Stands Still

  Rose Christo

  1

  Sun and Moon

  I stared at the computer monitor, the dull glow burning imprints into the backs of my eyes.

  Oh, did I hate that computer.

  Focus, I told myself. Stop slacking.

  No, the real problem is that I hate writing about as much as I hate reading--by which I mean I really, really, really hate reading. Nothing bores me more than stationary text on stationary paper. Except numbers. Numbers and reading and writing.

  I probably shouldn't have picked a career that's about 40% reading, 60% writing.

  The Seven Major Crimes Act, I started to write. But immediately I paused, the cursor blinking back at me. The Seven Major Crimes Act was a real pain in the neck--which was exactly why I was trying to get rid of it. I don't know whether you're familiar with the law I'm talking about--if not, that's okay; like I said, it's pretty boring--but way back in the 1800s, Congress came up with this crazy law that says Native Americans aren't allowed to do anything if a "major" crime happens on their reservation. Like murder, or arson...or burglary, or rape, or pretty much anything else that would compromise a human being's safety. Instead, we're supposed to sit tight and wait for the FBI to show up.

  The problem with that, unfortunately, is that the FBI usually can't be bothered. More than half the time, they'll get a report about a serious crime out on an Indian reservation, and as long as it doesn't involve any money they can scoop up, they'll ignore it. Why not? Reservations tend to be pretty low-tech; it's not going to make the news if a mass murder happens out here, and it's definitely not going to make the news if the federal government tramples all over us. So if you're living on a reservation, and you're the victim of a really bad crime, you've got a long, long road ahead of you before you get any justice.

  It's an outdated law. Getting anybody in Congress to care that it's outdated...I guess that's another story.

  The computer screen was starting to give me a headache. I slouched in my seat. I pulled on my eyelids.

  Forget law, I thought. I should've been a ranch hand.

  "Some damn kid swallowed a pencil today. How do you swallow a pencil?"

  I hadn't even heard the front door open. I shut off the computer monitor and stood up.

  Rafael was his usual unkempt self today, square wire glasses askew, hair lank and black, a single, thin braid hanging next to his temple, knotted with a soft gray dove's feather. He'd confided in me, once, that the dove was what he considered his spirit guide. You're not supposed to talk to anyone about your spirit guide--that's a pretty big taboo in Plains Shoshone society--but rules were made to be broken, I guess.

  Rafael tugged his sea-green hospital shirt over his head. He tossed it on the floor, slob that he was. Not that I really minded. It gave me a good excuse to look at his chest. His very tattooed chest. Seriously--anything he can get his hands on, he'll draw on it, whether it's paper and charcoal or his own skin. He's got a gray wolf on his chest and a chain on his arm. Don't get me started on his neck.

  "And then the mother wanted to keep the pencil--like a souvenir or something--"

  Rafael wandered into the sitting room at the back of the house. When we'd first built the place, I'd wanted the sitting room in the front. "That's ridiculous," Rafael had rallied. "If we put the sitting room in the front of the house, then where do we put the front room?"

  I followed Rafael into the sitting room. Square and spacious, two airy windows intermittent with drawings and sketches. A God's Eye above the hearth. A photo of my grandmother sitting on the mantel.

  "--and then the kid wouldn't sit still when I was spraying benzocaine down his throat, got it in his eyes and everything--"

  Rafael tossed himself onto the low sofa with a cathartic grunt of relief. I tried not to let him see my laugh.

  No good. "What are you laughing at?" he said, disgruntled.

  "The giant pilot whale that just beached itself in my living room."

  I sat next to Rafael on the sofa. He looked at me, his face contorting into about a thousand different expressions. I love that about him. I love everything about him, but his facial expressions are the best. Smoldering is his default. Bewildered is his backup.

  He broke into a grin--radiant, boyish, beautiful. A grin that scattered light into his dark blue eyes.

  "You're an ass," he said.

  "I try," I remarked. "Did you have a rough day?"

  "Nah," he said. "It wasn't so bad."

  Rafael's a speech therapist. If you can't talk, or swallow, he's the guy you want to go to. Funny thing about that. Most of my life, I couldn't talk.

  He changed that.

  Rafael grimaced. "I've gotta get out of here," he said.

  Another thing about Rafael: He hates being indoors for too long. I can only imagine how stir crazy he gets when he's cooped up in the reservation hospital for hours on end.

  I stood from the sofa. "Want to go for a walk?"

  Rafael stood, too. "Okay."

  I smiled lightly. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  He glanced down at his bare chest. He scowled.

  "Fine," he said, and trudged up the staircase.

  One change of clothes later, and we headed out the door.

  The cicadas on the treetops were winding down for the evening, the brook behind the house gurgling and bright. The sky flushed pink and sparked gold over the tops of the beech trees and the alders. Years and years ago, a pine beetle infestation had killed the ponderosa trees standing on this site. Leaving a huge gap in the middle of the forest had seemed kind of like a waste--so Rafael and I had built on top of it instead. It's pretty nice out here, so long as you don't cross the brook. Head too far north and you run into a gang of ornery black bears.

  We walked the eastern path to the lake, my hand swinging at my side. Rafael took my hand in his. I love it when he does little things like that. It's like second nature; it's like he doesn't even think about it.

  "You nervous about tomorrow?" Rafael asked.

  Tomorrow was the day my father came home from prison.

  Fifteen years ago, my father went to prison for what was supposed to be a life sentence. I'm not going to lie: Dad did commit the crime he was convicted for. It's just that the conviction, to begin with, was unlawful. You know that Major Crimes Act I was talking about earlier? It's supposed to grant the federal government authority over crimes on Indian reservations, right? Well, the kooky way it was worded has the government locked in a Constitutional loophole. The only way they can make an arrest on a reservation is if the crime happened on the reservation, too. Dad's crime happened out in Wyoming. The arrest was illegal.

  It took seven years to do it--and about a billion migraines--but eventually, I'd convinced a judge to agree.

  Nervous? I wasn't nervous. I was ready to throw up. Barring attorney-client visits, I hadn't really seen my dad in years. Not the way he used to be.

  Rafael looked at me sideways. He squeezed my shoulder in a broad hand. Rafael always knew what was going through my mind, sometimes with startling accuracy. We'd never needed words to communicate in the past.

  But I've got to admit--they're a pretty nice perk.

  "You hear anything from Zeke?" I asked.

  The lake drew into view--ten whole acres, glittering under the slow-setting sun. A couple of school kids plashed lazily in the shallow waters. It was the start of summer vacation. I guess they were celebrating.

  "No," Rafael grumbled, and we sat together on the soft and silty lakeshore. Rafael looped his arms across his knees, dark eyes on t
he radio tower opposite.

  Gently, I gripped his knee.

  "How long do we have to wait to get a kid?" Rafael said bitterly. "Thousands of kids in foster care need a home. And we've got a home. So what's the wait?"

  I regarded him softly. "It's not a conspiracy," I said, trying to soothe him. "We're like a product Zeke's got to sell to CPS."

  "Huh..."

  "He's got to sell them on the idea of us as parents. You know--two guys. On an Indian reservation. With very little electricity."

  "We've got electricity," Rafael said defensively. "We just don't need it for much."

  "You're very fond of your cellar," I said lightly.

  "Sitting down there with the ice? Best remedy for the heat wave," he said matter-of-factly.

  "You know...Rafael...I think you might be a visionary."

  "I've been saying that for years. Why do you have to be so slow about these things?"

  "I'm very sorry."

  "Yeah, well," he said gruffly, "I'll forgive you, I guess."

  I laid my head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around my back.

  Seventeen years. That's how long I've known him. That's how long I've loved him. Seventeen years later and he still makes my heart feel giddy and weightless. Seventeen years later and my favorite place in the world is still the safety of his arms.

  Seventeen years later and I'm still a sappy idiot. Go figure.

  "Sky?" Rafael said.

  I smiled. "Hm?"

  "You're pulling on my earring."

  I lifted my head from his shoulder. A laugh bubbled out of me before I could catch it. He must have heard it, because he smiled, a shy smile that pulled at the corners of his lips, a smile that revealed his dimples and the light hidden far in the back of his eyes.

  "I like your voice," he said.

  I'll never forget what it was like, six years ago; recovering from surgery in a scratchy hospital bed, uttering my first raspy word in twenty-two years. "Ow." My first word was, "Ow." A friend of ours, Zeke Owns Forty, happened to be sitting on my knees at the time. He's pretty scatter-brained like that.

  I tucked Rafael's braid behind his ear. "Have I thanked you lately?" I asked.

  I could see the gears shifting behind his eyes. I could see the half-formed smile fighting its way onto his face, his face fighting back. "No," he finally said.

  I'm sure I would have found a witty proposition to retort with. But as it happened, a wet, slimy bundle fell across our laps.

  "What the hell?" Rafael said, a stormy scowl overtaking his face.

  "Hi, Leon," I said mildly.

  "I went in the lake," Leon said. He was six years old and big-eyed, the baby fat of yesteryear still prominent on his chubby little legs. He kicked his legs and sprayed Rafael and me with lake water. "Mom said I couldn't but then I did and Aunt Lila said I couldn't but then I did and then Nick said I couldn't but I did and he got mad so he went home."

  Rafael and I exchanged a look.

  "Does your mom know you're out here?" I asked, palming the crown of Leon's very wet head.

  Leon pretended not to have heard me.

  "Okay," I said. I picked him up by his ankles and stood.

  "Help!" he yelped, dangling upside-down.

  "Don't ask me for help," Rafael said harshly. "I'm not siding with you. Your mom scares me."

  "Is your mom home, Leon?" I asked.

  "Yes. Help! Help!"

  I righted him and set him down. I grabbed the back of his drenched shirt before he could run very far. Leon's a little wild child. I don't know how Annie and Aubrey keep up with him.

  Rafael and I marched Leon down the dirt path and out to the reservation proper. Log cabins stood clustered amid bull and pinyon pines, a communal stone firepit jutting out of the dried and briny dirt. Butter churns and clotheslines lingered abandoned outside the houses' hardy wood doors. Nobody wanted to work during the twilight hours.

  "Leggo," Leon said, struggling against us.

  "Nope," Rafael said, and gripped his hand tighter.

  We walked the country lane between ranches and rolling farmland. By now Leon had forfeited the battle; he skipped along between us, unfazed. Rural gates creaked in the weak summer wind. Pearl-white crabapple blossoms hung sweetly from their trees' branches, the scent of their fruit intoxicating and thick.

  Iron balusters preceded the giant, darkly wooded farm manor where my best friend, Annie Little Hawk, lived with her husband, Aubrey. Aubrey's brothers and their spouses all lived in the manor, too. And their children. You know, there's this superstition in Shoshone society--if somebody dies in your house, you're supposed to abandon it immediately. You're not even allowed to tear it down. The elderly tend to move out of their houses and into wickiups when they hit their late seventies. That way their children can inherit their homes. This house had belonged to Aubrey's parents once. I still miss them. I'm sure he does, too.

  Rafael and I lifted Leon under his arms. I guess he got a kick out of that, because he whooped and swung his legs. We carried him across the lawn, past the teeming crops at the front gate.

  The dark-paneled door already stood open. That's how it is in Nettlebush. Everybody knows everybody else, so we tend to walk in on each other without knocking.

  "Annie!" I called out. Leon followed us dutifully into the foyer, his qualms forgotten.

  We found Annie in the kitchen by the wood-coal stove with a woman and a young girl. The wide bay window stood open, dragonflies skimming the surface of the pond outside.

  Annie spun around.

  Jeez, her belly was huge.

  "Are you ever not pregnant?" I joked, and pushed Leon toward her.

  "Ha, ha," Annie said humorlessly. It was kind of a riot to see her with that stomach. Annie's short--ridiculously short--and her pregnancy made her look as wide as she was tall. Her long brown hair was pulled up in a loop at the nape of her neck. "What's all this about?"

  "He jumped in the lake," Rafael said sourly.

  Serafine Takes Flight whirled around at the stove. So did Daisy At Dawn. Poor Leon, I thought. I wouldn't want those three looking at me the way they did him.

  "You know you're not supposed to!" Serafine said. "You're too little." Which was kind of weird, coming from her mouth, because I could still remember when she was three years old, dandled in her father's arms.

  "You want the lake monster to eat you?" Daisy said, and barely managed to hide a wicked, bubbly smile.

  "Yes," Leon said.

  "Go change your clothes," Annie said. "Then you can get a towel and dry up all the water you brought into the house."

  "No!" Leon wailed.

  "Yes," Annie said placidly. "Oh, Skylar, since you're here..."

  I pulled a face. I love Annie--I do--but she has a way of sinking her hooks into you and getting you to run her errands.

  "He can't," Rafael said. "Bye."

  He grabbed my hand and dragged me from the house before Annie could retaliate.

  The sun was sluggish today in its daily descent. Light still clung to the walls of the drifting clouds, cream-colored and ethereal. I could hear the coywolves yipping in the pinyon trees, no doubt settling down after a long day of hunting.

  Rafael's hand rested against the small of my back. Together we walked the beaten path back to the neighborhood.

  "Hey," Rafael murmured.

  I looked up with a quizzical smile.

  He nodded toward a log cabin on our right, a sundial outside.

  My heart twisted in my chest. My grandmother's house. My grandmother had raised me.

  I really missed her.

  "Do you wanna go inside?" Rafael asked.

  "No," I said. I cleared my throat. "Thank you."

  "You sure?"

  I nodded.

  In Nettlebush, dinner is a group occasion. Everyone gathers around the firepit and shares Plains food and Plains music and the Plains stories their parents taught them
. It's kind of like a block party, only it happens every night.

  Come nighttime, there were hundreds of us seated around the blazing bonfire--on the ground, on folding chairs, on picnic benches. Morgan Stout played his plains flute, Heather and Henry Siomme danced the grass dance, and my sister, Jessica, joined me at the picnic table.

  When I say "sister," it's really more like "step-sister." Jessica and I aren't related. Her mom married my dad some years ago. Actually, I think that's pretty remarkable. Back then, nobody knew for certain that my dad was coming home. Racine married him anyway. I can't think of a more profound way to show someone you support them.

  Jessica giggled. "You know your husband stomps around like a grumpy elephant when he's on call?"

  Jessica was a nurse.

  "I wasn't aware," I said with a wry smile. "Where's DeShawn?" I asked.

  "I don't know. I think he stayed late at the council building. He won't be satisfied until he alphabetizes and color codes all the tribal files..."

  Jessica grabbed my arm and shook it. "Skylar! Are you excited about tomorrow?"

  "You mean Dad coming home?"

  "I can't wait," Jessica said. "I really missed Uncle Paul."

  I let my smile speak for itself. I missed him too. More than anything. More than the sun misses the moon. They were married, you know, the sun and the moon. Ask any Shoshone. The only reason they come out at opposite times of day is because the divorce was so ugly, they can't stand to look at each other.

  "How's Stuart?" I asked.

  Jessica wrinkled her face. "He spends all his time out at Bear River these days."

  "You know that's a little creepy, right?" I said. "I went to school with the guy, Jess."

  "I know, I know..."

  "And he's dating my little sister--"

  "Who's dating our little sister?"

  DeShawn came scurrying over to us, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Smooth guy, that DeShawn.

  "No one, DeShawn," Jessica said, and rolled her eyes.

  "Skylar," DeShawn said. "Are you picking up Uncle Paul tomorrow?"

  "Yep. We're taking Gabriel's car. Do you want to come?"

  DeShawn squirmed. "I don't know. All those people at once, I wonder if it's too much for him..."

  My dad's not a solitary creature. The more people he's around, the more he thrives. I can't imagine what it was like for him in prison all those years, separated from his family and friends.

  "You know what?" I said. "I think he'd be happy to see the both of you. You should come along. We'll go out to lunch afterward."

  DeShawn smiled. "I bet he'd enjoy that..."

  "Oh, I'm coming," Jessica said. "I'm supposed to be at the hospital tomorrow morning. I'll ask Prairie Rose to cover for me."

  Nettlebush doesn't operate off of the same economy the rest of America uses. In fact, except for when we need to leave the reservation, money doesn't even change hands. Shoshone have always relied on a "gift economy"--kind of a "You scratch my back, I scratch yours" sort of deal. The idea is that if everybody helps everybody else, then everybody lives well. It works, too. The only downside is that a little old man can show up on your doorstep at two in the morning and ask you to fix his pit toilet, and you've got to go do it.

  Jessica hopped up from the table, her braids bouncing, and walked off.

  "Then I'll tell Autumn Rose," DeShawn said. His face took on a faraway expression. "That woman sure is something..."

  "You're blushing."

  "Whoops," DeShawn said. And he darted off.

  By this point in the evening, I was starting to miss Rafael. That's really sad, I know. So I got up from the picnic table; and I went looking for him.

  I found him, sure enough, underneath a ponderosa tree with his sister, Mary.

  "Hey, loser!" Mary said. I kind of miss her crazy teased hair and her black corsets, but she's nearing forty; maybe she figures it's time to calm down. Or not. Her nose is still pierced. "Want a beer?"

  "Shut up, Mary," Rafael said. "Zeke's looking for us," he said to me.

  "Really?" I sat down with the two of them. "Where is he now?"

  I didn't have to wait long before Zeke came lumbering over to us in all his lean and frantic glory; his suit seriously rumpled, half of his head shaven, the rest of his hair long and combed to the side, exactly the way his ancestors would have worn it.

  Zeke Owns Forty is the kind of guy you wouldn't want to bring to a library. Or a museum. Or an airport. Or a supermarket. I don't ever recall a time when he's stood still or kept his mouth sealed--and I went to high school with him. Can you imagine what a headache he must have been for our teacher?

  "I have good news for you fairies!"

  You see what I mean?

  "Want me to punch you?" said a surly Rafael.

  "Are we taking votes?" Mary asked.

  "No punching, please," I said. "What's the news, Zeke?"

  Zeke invited himself to sit down with the three of us. He smelled oddly like cinnamon.

  "I've got a foster kid waiting for you," he said. “She--"

  It was all Rafael needed to hear. He might have jumped out of his seat if I hadn't held his arm, placating him. "How soon can she be here?"

  "Well, uh," Zeke said. "Depends. She's had a lot of problems with her last homes, so..."

  "We don't mind," I said. I knew how much Rafael wanted this. I wanted what he wanted. "We'd be happy to have her, Zeke."

  "Okay. I'll give you her file tomorrow, and...hey! Holly, stop that!" Zeke leapt up from the ground and dashed away.

  Colorful guy, that Zeke. Shame about his attention span.

  Mary whistled suddenly, reminding me she was still with us. "Wow," she said. "My baby brother with a baby of his own. Poor kid's a goner..."

  "Mary!" Rafael said.

  I grinned.

  It was well after midnight by the time Rafael and I headed home. The forest path was painted silver with moonlight, the tops of the beech trees rustling in shadow.

  I think Rafael was in too much of a stupor to say anything just yet. But as we went inside the house, and I lit the oil lamps, and he tripped over his scrubs, his messy clothes still discarded in the middle of the front room floor, he suddenly erupted into a frenzy of conversation.

  "Do you think she'll like the books I got her? I mean, what if she's not old enough to read them? Wait, what if she's too old to read them? Did Zeke say how old she is? What kind of music does she listen to? You think she has any allergies?"

  I laid a hand on his arm, biting back a laugh. "I think we'll find out when we find out."

  "How old do you think she is? What about her name?"

  I suppressed a smile. "Should I consult my crystal ball?"

  "Your what?"

  "Never mind."

  "What if she doesn't like us?"

  "Rafael?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Calm down?"

  "Okay."

  He stalked off to the staircase at the back of the house. I didn't bother picking up his scrubs. I'm just as much of a slob as he is. Probably the biggest downside about two guys living together.

  I lit the hearth in the sitting room. Nettlebush is hot during the day and cold during the night, no doubt influenced by the nearby desert. I checked and made sure the doors were locked; and I climbed the staircase to the second floor.

  Poor Rafael. He hadn't gone to bed at all, but to the guest room--or the kid's room, I should say. The walls were painted a mint green, a tall bookcase stacked next to the window. Rafael plucked the books off the shelves, one by one, and dropped them to the floor.

  "What are you doing?" I asked, leaning in the doorway.

  "Getting rid of the scary ones."

  When you first meet Rafael--hulking, scowling, and tattooed, his jaw square, his eyes mean--the last thing you expect him to be is neurotic. I shook my head slightly. I crossed the room--the carpet in b
right pendleton shocks of red and blue--and pressed my hand against his back. I felt his muscles relaxing beneath my palm.

  "Come to bed," I said. "Before your hair turns gray."

  He actually ran his hand through his hair.

  "Rafael," I said, trying to sound stern. Not that I actually sounded stern. I don't know how. "We have to pick up my father tomorrow morning. Remember?"

  "Yeah," he mumbled, conceding defeat. He turned and slinked out of the room. He skulked across the hall.

  I followed him into the bedroom. He hooked his glasses on the bedpost for safe-keeping. He wrestled with his shirt--tossing it violently aside--and shucked off his jeans. He lay on the bed beneath glass ornaments and a beadwork eagle.

  I tugged off my vest and pulled on his t-shirt. His clothes are more comfortable to sleep in.

  I lay down beside Rafael and observed him in the moonlight gleaming through the window. His eyes were open, roaming across the ceiling.

  I touched his hand.

  "Is your dad gonna live with Racine?" he asked.

  I nodded before I realized he wasn't looking my way. Sometimes I still forget I can talk now. "They're married," I said. "That's what married people do."

  The corner of his mouth tilted shyly. I love his shy smile. He flipped his hand beneath mine; our fingers tangled.

  "Rafael?" I asked.

  "I like it when you say my name," he muttered.

  I smiled to myself. "Thank you."

  "Stop thanking me."

  "Okay."

  I shifted on my side. He turned to face me. He squinted. He can't see very well without his glasses. He ruined his vision years ago when he used to read novels in the dead of the night, ignoring his uncle's orders to rest his eyes and go to sleep.

  "Is it weird for you?" I asked.

  Rafael's brows knitted together. "Is what weird for me?"

  "Picking up my father tomorrow."

  It's not like Dad had gone to prison for a parking violation. Dad's crime was blood law. Sanctified in the eyes of Plains People; illegal in the eyes of the USA.

  Dad had gone to prison for murder. Years and years ago, my father had killed Rafael's.

  "I told you," Rafael said. "I was never mad at him. He did the right thing. If somebody hurts your family, they're yours to deal with." He paused. "My dad...he hurt a lot of people."

  I touched my throat. I wasn't aware of it until I felt the scars beneath my fingertips, rigid and raised.

  Rafael must have been aware of it before I was. He took my hand in his and held it between us. He leaned over and kissed my neck. He's always doing that. I think he thinks he can kiss the scars away.

  "I'd better start wearing turtlenecks again," I murmured absently.

  "What? Why?"

  I caught Rafael's gaze and smiled. Even in the darkness, he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

  "I don't want to scare our foster daughter," I said.

  He looked like he was ready to protest. It's a true testament to how much he wanted a kid that he relented.

  I felt another smile rising to my lips, a roguish smile. "And you'll have to stop listening to power metal."

  He reacted as quick as a whip. "What?"

  "Come on. That music's kind of scary for a kid."

  "No it's not," he insisted.

  " 'I am going to take your firstborn child and drown him'--you think that's appropriate for a kid to listen to?"

  "That's Nightwish, dumbass. They haven't been power metal since 2002."

  "Whatever you call it, it's got to go. Same for Tristania. And Moonsorrow. And that band with the scary growly vocals."

  "Which one?" he said brashly.

  "All of them. And the one with the pigs--whatsit--Pig Crusher--"

  Rafael sat up in bed, his head hovering above mine; his long hair falling around my face, mingling with my curls, tickling my cheeks. "You just hate my music."

  I raised my eyebrows. I smiled.

  "Fine," he said irritably. "Then no more Cem Adrian."

  "What's wrong with Cem Adrian?" I retaliated, and tried to sound hurt.

  "I don't like him. You've been carrying out some secret emotional affair with the guy--"

  "That was a joke, Rafael, a joke I made fifteen years ago--"

  "Anyway, if I can't listen to metal, you can't listen to jazz--"

  "If you're trying to tell me jazz is anywhere near as offensive as metal--"

  Rafael straddled me. He tried to pin me by my shoulders. I was faster. I swiped the pillow out from under my head and smacked him with it.

  "You son of a bitch," he said, a beautiful grin enveloping his face.

  I tossed the pillow aside. I dragged my fingers up and down his waist. He burst into laughter and buried his face against the crook of my neck.

  I love him. I love the warmth of him. I love the feel of his breath gliding across my skin; I love the way his body fits against mine when he wants it to. I love the way he stretches when he wakes up and his arm invariably smacks me in the face. I sound like a sappy teenage girl and I couldn't care less. There's not a single thing about that man that I would change. Not even his crappy taste in music.

  He stilled against me. I trailed my hand across the contours of his back. I felt his bare skin shivering beneath my fingers.

  He's got a tattoo on his back--the sun and the moon, simultaneous in a dual sky. I don't know how he put it there--long ago he used to complain that he couldn't reach--but I'd recognize his craftsmanship anywhere. It's auspicious, too. A marriage of the sun and moon means harmony. Long ago, when the sun and moon ruled together in the sky, there wasn't such a thing as death. Everyone lived together at once; and the planet didn't know what war looked like.

  "Wasn't I going to thank you earlier?" I asked.

  He lifted his head and looked at me. I traced his tattoos with my eyes. "Family" on the side of his neck. "Sky" across his collarbone.

  "I told you to stop thanking me," he said. But I could see, in the pensive expression on his face, he was debating his options all the same.

  "Are you sure?" I said. "Because once our kid gets here, we probably won't get to thank each other as often as we're used to."

  That did the trick. "Damn," he said. He made no attempts to cover an opportunistic grin. "Yeah, you can thank me tonight."