mouth. And then she felt her heart speed up and her cheeks tingle as her father bent down in front of her and pulled on her chin strap until her helmet was just the right amount of tight. It was the closest her father’s face had ever been to hers as Willow could remember it.
Willow loved how her father looked when she was up close. His skin was tan and smooth and his eyebrows were unruly and excited. Willow had noticed the creases between his eyebrows before, but the creases in his cheeks were new to her. Because while the eyebrow creases were undoubtedly a sign of how hard he was always thinking, the cheek creases must have been a sign that he used to smile. Perhaps even a lot. When Willow gazed down, she loved seeing how her father’s big hands tugged at her helmet strap, ensuring her safety. Caring about her.
Then, right before Rex pulled away, Willow and her father made eye contact. It lasted for only half a second, but it happened. And it made her heart speed up and her cheeks tingle even more.
Willow floated on top of her bicycle seat and felt ready to learn. And ready to be taught.
Her dad told her how to swing her left leg over just as the bike started moving. And then Rex did what dads are supposed to do. He told her to pedal, pedal, pedal. He told her to try again. And again. And again. He told her not to give up. Not to worry about falling. He told her he wouldn’t let go of the handlebars until she said she was ready. He was energized and encouraging. Willow’s heart was in her throat over the thought of crashing down onto the concrete, but she was having a version of fun. Because right there on the road outside of Dad’s house, something was happening. Something unlikely. Something unusual. Something meaningful. Something important. Something between Rex and Willow. Between father and daughter.
“Go over there and try pushing off the curb,” Rex suggested to Willow when she was so close to balancing herself.
And so she did. Willow gripped her handlebars, pushed off the curb and was suddenly in full motion. She felt the wind passing through her helmet. She felt the uneven surface of the street beneath her wheels. She felt fast and competent. And although she looked neither fast nor competent as she wobbled around on her seat with her arms rigid with fear, Willow also felt graceful and in control. And graceful and in control were brand-new feelings for Willow Thorpe. And she felt happy, so grateful that her father had drawn these feelings out of her.
“Dad! Dad! I’m doing it!” she shouted as loudly as she could with the air whipping by her. Willow picked her head up, looking forward to seeing her dad as excited as she was. Looking forward to him jumping up and down on the grass. She imagined him running over to give her a high five. Picking her up and swinging her around in circles. Kissing her on the face and telling her how proud he was.
But when her eyes found her father, he was staring down distractedly at his notepad and chomping down on a new piece of Bubblicious gum. Rex looked up to give his daughter a brief closed-mouth smile and a silent thumbs-up, and then he scribbled something on his notepad as he stormed back inside.
Willow rode her bike all around until she was alone in the dark and the trees were starting to creak in the wind. Then, when she was ready to go inside, she made sure to remove her wrist guards before attempting to take off her helmet by herself.
Eleven Years Ago
Rex was accustomed to elevators and doormen, and so he tensed up the first few times the stairs creaked as he climbed the flights to Rosie’s apartment. But it wasn’t long before he found the smell of musk by Rosie’s doorway profoundly alluring. The palpable dampness. The dusty crannies. The hum of the flickering light. The sticky crackle of the floor. Rex enjoyed his ability to access this kind of rawness when he was with Rosie. He was saving clean modern lines and well-dusted corners for another life.
After a year of dating, Rex already knew that the heart of all things beat more deeply when Rosie was around. Even her apartment vibrated. The walls were covered with annotated Polaroids and handwritten notes from friends. The refrigerator door was collaged with old ads featuring Cheryl Tiegs and Faye Dunaway. The walls were covered with posters of Elton John and Prince and Blondie. The corners of the couches had stuffing coming out the seams ineffectively covered by discolored pillows. There were markers and paintbrushes sprawled across the table. It was so clear to Rex that this was a place where art was made and drinks were spilled. It was a place where friends put their feet on the table, and no one bothered to replace old light bulbs. It was a place where people breathed and moved and talked and created. It was a place where people lived. And were happy. And he could see it in Rosie’s face that this was where she lived and was happy.
Rex took off his scarf, kissed Rosie gently, and then the two of them sank into her worn-in couch. They oriented themselves on the cushions as if they had been doing it just this way for years; Rex seated upright, shoes on, while Rosie placed her head in his lap and stretched her ankles over the arm of the sofa to let her clogs fall to the ground. This had already become Rex’s favorite part of the day, inhaling all of the scents of Rosie’s life—the flowery scent of the beautiful world around her lingering on the surface of her skin. It was no surprise to Rex that beautiful things clung onto Rosie and didn’t let go. It felt good being close to her. So good and so warm and so comfortable.
Rex wondered how he would eventually let go of all of the beautiful sweet things Rosie Collins was, but the thought quickly burrowed itself in the back of his mind when Rosie reached back and, without looking, wrapped her fingers one by one around Rex’s bicep and squeezed it enticingly.
Rex swept Rosie’s bangs away and traced his pointer around her temple, across her forehead and along the bridge of her nose. Rosie tried to follow his finger and giggled when she found herself cross-eyed as a result. Rex was a serious man and always assumed his girlfriend would be equally so, but Rosie’s quirky style of intimacy fulfilled him in a way he’d never thought possible.
* * *
And just as Rex was about to bend over and kiss Rosie, Rosie’s roommate Chloe burst out of her room, spewing on and on about the attractive man she’d locked eyes with at the café down the block, and ignoring Rex’s presence entirely. Rex did everything he could to keep from staring at Chloe’s nipples plainly visible through her sheer white shirt as she spoke. Rosie just half chuckled and shook her head as Chloe’s small breasts bounced up and down while she gesticulated her way through another mundane story.
And when Chloe finally exhaled, she lifted Rosie’s legs, wedged herself under her knees and pulled out a marijuana joint. Rex’s belly tensed at the sight of it.
Rex was uncomfortable with drugs, even the mere sight of them. He wanted to get up, rip the joint away from Chloe and throw it out the window. But Rosie lifted her eyes to meet Rex’s eyes and stroked his thigh gently. It was an indication that, yes, this was something she found to be acceptable in her home. And although Rex had never heard Rosie mention drugs before, the effortlessness with which she handled the joint between her fingers indicated that this was an activity she partook in regularly. Rex’s muscles tensed and his jaw clenched as he watched Rosie exhale a cloud of smoke, but in the newness of the scene, he didn’t protest.
And then Rosie brought the joint to her lips a second time.
Rex watched suspiciously as Rosie inhaled and the tip of the joint flared orange. He watched as Rosie gave in to the feeling of smoke in her lungs right away.
Rosie let her arm hang off the side of the sofa and slowly allowed her eyelids to close. As her breath deepened and her high began, Chloe’s voice, the clamor of the city streets, her lingering uncertainty about Rex and anything else grating
