She assured him that she did. She took the ginger ale for herself and, when he reached for the Jolt Cola, guided him toward the tomato juice instead, saying, “I think you’re jacked up enough already.”
Next came the ceremonial opening of the Styrofoam boxes. X watched as Zoe gazed inside them. He looked so nervous that it would have moved her to tears if she hadn’t been starving. In the first box, there were two thick, buttered slices of French toast, each with a whorl of cinnamon in the center, and a side of wavy, gleaming bacon. In the second, there was a golden mound of onion rings and a small container of blue cheese dressing. In the third, there was a slice of molten chocolate cake so enormous that an elastic band had been stretched around the box to keep it safely inside.
X stared at Zoe, desperate for a verdict.
“I do not pretend to know what constitutes a meal,” he said.
She leaned over the boxes, put a hand behind his neck, and pulled him close for a kiss.
“These are the best foods on earth,” she said. “How did you know?”
X beamed.
“Should we begin with this?” he said, pointing to the chocolate cake.
“Obviously,” said Zoe.
The waitress had forgotten to give them silverware—or paper plates or napkins—so they ate with their hands.
They ate until there was nothing left but crumbs. They ate until their hands, their shirts, their faces—somehow, even their necks—were sticky with grease and frosting. They ate until the tide had receded, until the sun sat overhead, until X was so high on syrup and cake that he was hopping jubilantly around the tiny hut and doing impressions of Ripper, Dervish, and the Russian guard. Zoe laughed, remembering Banger and all his candy bars. Come to me, ye Men of the Lowlands, she thought, and I shall give you sugar! And maybe even caffeine!
Seeing X so happy calmed everything inside her. She wouldn’t have thought it was possible. She had gotten so used to pain and to loss and to impossible questions—and yet right here in front of her was love, was hope, was an answer.
After the inevitable sugar crash, X slept for hours, his long legs sticking out of the hut. Zoe watched him every moment, just as he had watched over her all night. Her father had abandoned her, but X never would. Not willingly. She smoothed his hair as best she could with her hands. She traced the tattoos on his arms with her fingers: the giraffe, the monkey, a knife, a tree, a band of stars. She worried that it was wrong to touch him while he slept, but she couldn’t help herself. And, anyway, she could have sworn that his breathing deepened whenever her skin touched his. She pressed her lips to the insides of his wrists and the soft hollow at the base of his throat. She kissed his fingers one by one, and took them into her mouth. She did it all softly so he wouldn’t wake. Her face flushed with heat. Everything tasted of maple syrup.
They were so close to Zoe’s father that the Trembling returned as X slept. Being with Zoe always quieted his body, but never cured it altogether. X’s skin became damp and feverish. Zoe opened his shirt wide to let the air cool him, allowing herself the brief pleasure of placing her palm against his chest and feeling his heart pump beneath her hand. As the hours passed, the sickness grew stronger. X shook and thrashed his head in his sleep.
Zoe’s phone trilled in her coat.
The screen said ME!!! was calling. Jonah had programmed himself in.
She stepped down the rickety ladder so X wouldn’t wake, and balanced on one of the narrow rungs. Birds that had drifted in from the water were tracing circles around her. The waves roiled just below her feet.
Jonah began talking before she’d even said hello.
“Why aren’t you here?” he said. “Where are you? What are you doing?”
Zoe answered the least complicated of the questions.
“I’m looking at the ocean,” she said.
“Where is there an ocean?” said Jonah suspiciously. “We don’t have an ocean.”
“I’ll tell you everything when I see you, bug,” she said. “I can’t talk right now.”
“Don’t hang up!” he said. “If you hang up, I will call back sixteen times! You have to come home, Zoe. Right now! Mom said you’ll come home when you’re ready, but I’m ready right now!”
“I can’t come yet,” she said. “Soon.”
“I’m all by myself!” he said.
“Wait,” she said. “Why?”
Jonah gave an exasperated grunt, then poured out the following without pausing to breathe: “Rufus is late ’cause he got in an accident—the bear fell off his van, I guess?—and Mom couldn’t wait ’cause she had to go to work, and now I’m alone and I hate it and it’s scary, and why do you have to look at the ocean when we have stuff right here you can look at?”
It took five minutes to get him off the phone.
Zoe pocketed her cell and climbed the ladder. The birds sensed food now. Zoe eyed them anxiously. Their bodies, their bills, their moist little eyes—everything was jet-black, except for their wings (which had streaks of white) and their legs and feet (which were bright red and reminded her, strangely, of the bottoms of expensive shoes). She ducked into the hut and began bundling up the bags.
She wasn’t fast enough: one of the birds dove through the door.
The instant it was in the hut, it freaked out. It banged against the ceiling and walls, trying to escape. Zoe saw X register the noise in his sleep. She was desperate for him to rest and wanted to protect him like he had protected her, but she just couldn’t drive the bird out. She felt sure it’d been sent to remind them that there could be no sleeping—no touching, no forgetting, no relief—while the Lowlands were watching.