And the Bridegroom (Lucian Freud)
January 789 U.C., Heinessen
Yang had missed most of the summer while he was away on Econia, but not much more than that. When he returned home in the dead of night, the early autumn rains soaked him as he struggled to find his spare key where he had hidden it (under the windowsill of the kitchen window). He stumbled inside his house as the door swung in, and he tripped on the lip of the doorway as he tried to pull his suitcase up behind him.
When he took a look around, he was startled by the ghostly shapes of his furniture looming in the darkness, only the faintest gleams on the white plastic sheets revealing their edges. It took him a moment to remember and process what he was seeing. Yang had expected to be gone for at least a year, and because of that, he had taken Cazerne’s advice to cover all his furniture with plastic, to keep dust from settling deep into his couch cushions and mattress. But Yang had been gone for less than three months. He flipped on the light and found the bright daylight-bulb illumination made the scene less inviting.
Home again, for whatever that was worth.
Yang kicked off his shoes in the doorway and went to lay down on the couch without taking the plastic cover off. It crinkled beneath him coldly, like the paper on the examining table at the doctor’s office. He tossed his arm over his face and closed his eyes.
The dry and musty, unfamiliar smell of his home invaded his nose. He missed what he never thought he could actually miss: the antiseptic, filtered-air smell of spaceships. The absence of smell, except for the slight tang of metal on the edges. The cheap detergent that the fleet bought in unimaginable bulk provided the real background scent there, but it was close enough to a distant childhood memory on his father’s merchant ship that it always felt familiar, even if everyone else hated it. The human smell of a thousand people sharing close quarters— skin and sweat.
He would rather be back in space than here on Heinessen, though he almost felt guilty for feeling this way, since it would be true soon enough, and most soldiers guarded their leaves jealously. His trip to Econia had been so short it was almost laughable. He would be off to the front as soon as they could find a place for him.
If he had kept his head down for a year or two, he would have been rewarded with a desk position on Heinessen. Safe, easy, the kind of thing that would keep him out of trouble and let higher ups put him in front of a camera whenever they needed a friendly face. But instead, Yang had found himself dragged into a corruption investigation that had led to a court martial ofa higher ranking officer, and deaths of several prisoners and staff at the camp. That was not keeping his head down.
If this ended up in the papers, it would be bad for the fleet. The Hero of El Facil was not supposed to get his name in the papers except for the one thing he had already done. Heroes of the past were safe. People who kept doing things were an inconvenience, one that couldn’t be predicted or controlled.
That was his problem, wasn’t it? When anything landed in his lap, he couldn’t pay attention to his own career and look away. He would always end up involved . Annoyed at himself, he rolled over on the couch, the plastic cover crinkling beneath him.
Cazerne had gotten him back to Heinessen to see his wedding. That was in a few weeks, and Yang could use that time to try to get his life in order, or at least he could use that as an excuse to not travel down to Thernussen right away.
Yang wasn’t looking forward to keeping his promise to Jessica. He had written to her from Econia, but he hadn’t yet called her to tell her he was back on Heinessen. Ship travel was slow, but it was late January now. She knew he was back, and if he didn’t say anything to her, she would think he was ignoring him.
It was late, but it wasn’t so late that Jessica wouldn’t be awake. She was an hour behind him, in terms of timezones, anyway. If he didn’t muster his resolve now, it would be harder in the morning. If he let it go long enough, he would be ignoring her— and he didn’t know if he could live with himself if he did that.
He pulled his phone from his pocket and hovered his thumb over the call button for far too long, then pressed it. He let it ring, on speakerphone, with the phone resting on the arm of the couch and his eyes closed as he continued to lay there. The sound echoed and bounced on the bare walls of his house. It took her so long to pick up that he wondered if she was asleep and wouldn’t answer, but on the fifteenth long ring, he heard the click of connection, and there she was.
“Yang!” she said, obviously delighted.
“Hi, Jessica,” he said. “How’s it going?”
“Better now that you’ve called me,” she said. “I was wondering when you would.”
“I just got back to Heinessen,” Yang said. “I landed this afternoon.”
“What? Really? You said you were leaving Econia a while ago.”
“Did you think I was avoiding you?”
“No, I— I’m just surprised.”
“It’s a long story,” Yang said. “You remember Captain Keffenheller— I told you about him in my letters.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I was escorting him to Heinessen like I said I would. But he died on the way, so I had to arrange a funeral, and— it took a while.”
“Oh my God— I’m so sorry. It sounded like you liked him a lot.”
“I did,” Yang said. “I don’t think he actually wanted to live on Heinessen, so it’s what he wanted. He was— I don’t know.” He thought of Keffenheller’s complete lack of desire to return home to the Empire and see his own family again, and felt a little chagrined. “I liked him because we were a little too similar, I think.”
“Oh,” Jessica said, unable to interpret that comment. “Well, I’m glad you made it back. How long will you be here?”
“I don’t know,” Yang said. “I think Cazerne is pulling strings to make it so I won’t get sent anywhere before his wedding, but after that, I’m off to the front, I’m sure.”
“I hope not.”
“They’ll try to put me somewhere that I can’t cause trouble. But I don’t know— I don’t expect to stay on Heinessen.”
“That’s too bad.” She paused. “But you’re here for a while— will you come see me?”
“I did promise to,” Yang said.
She laughed. “That’s true.”
“After Cazerne’s wedding,” Yang said. “That way I can travel down with Attenborough.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Are you coming to the wedding?”
“No,” Jessica said. “I don’t know the groom— only Jean does. And he’s not going to be around.” She sounded very wistful, but she snapped herself out of it. “So I’ll be glad to get a chance to see you. This place is pretty lonely without either of you.”
“Ah,” Yang said.
“You sound tired.”
“It’s weird being back,” Yang said. “And I had dinner with Cazerne and his future wife. It’s a bit overwhelming.”
“I understand. Give me a call later?” she said.
“Yeah, sure.”
“It’s nice to hear your voice.”
“Ah— yeah.” He fumbled. “You too.”
She laughed. “Goodnight, Wenli.”
“Goodnight, Jessica.”
And then she hung up, leaving him in the silence of his empty house. He rolled over on the couch, intending to think, but fell asleep there instead.
February 789 U.C., Heinessen
Although the autumn was in full swing for the date of Cazerne’s wedding, it was still a beautiful day. The sky was a brilliant, clear blue, with only light and puffy clouds the same white as the dress of the bride, and the uniform of the groom and most of his guests.
The ceremony had been inside, in a rented hall of a beautiful old library outside the capital that held an unknown significance for the bride. The party afterwards was out on the back lawn, with the stone building looming behind them. True to Cazerne’s upright style, it was not the kind of wedding party that would stretch long into the night— the ceremony was before noon, the party began with a lunch, and everyone would depart by dinnertime.
It was the first time in a while that Yang had been forced to wear his dress uniform, and he was remembering how heavy and uncomfortable it was as he and the rest of the guests trooped outside to have photos taken on the steps of the building. Yang was squished in next to Attenborough and a few other officers that Yang vaguely recognized as being other members of Cazerne’s graduating class, whose names he had completely forgotten.
The wedding was a very small one; Cazerne was a gregarious and well liked man, but his family lived far from Heinessen, and his wife Hortense’s family was not large, so it was a ceremony primarily for friends. And of Cazerne’s friends, most were on active duty in the fleet, and couldn’t escape to attend a wedding. So it was only those with postings on Heinessen who could make it.
As the group of guests arranged themselves into rows on the stone steps, all squeezing in tightly, Yang noticed an odd commotion happening in the circular driveway in front of the library, where the vans for the catering were parked and the photographer was going through the trunk of his car for equipment to switch from indoor to outdoor photography. Outside the library gates, shut because it was Sunday and the library was closed save for Cazerne’s party, another car that had been parked on the street was trying to get in. When the automatic gate didn’t open, two people got out of the car and pushed open the unlocked pedestrian gate.
Cazerne was over with the photographer, discussing where the group should stand for smaller party photographs.When his best man broke away from directing the guests on the staircase to deal with the intruders, Cazerne heard the sound of loud voices and turned to investigate. Yang, even from where he was standing in the crowd on the staircase, recognized exactly who was crashing the wedding: Patrica McCall, of Pretty Woman , and her photographer.
“Fuck,” Yang muttered under his breath, which caused one of Hortense’s friends on the staircase in front of him to giggle.
“What?” Attenborough asked. He was busy investigating the wrought iron railing of the staircase, to see if he might be more comfortable perched on it, rather than squeezed next to it, and was paying absolutely no attention to the commotion at the gate.
Yang tried to point out the wedding crashers in such a way that they wouldn’t notice him in the crowd. “The tabloids are here for me,” he said.
He looked behind himself, to see if he could squeeze back into the library and escape, but there would be no way to plow through the other wedding guests without causing a commotion that would tell Patricia exactly where he was.
And it was too late, she had already noticed him, and was pointing as she exaggeratedly talked to Cazerne, who had shooed his best man back away to wrangle his real guests. Her tone cut across the dry and cool fall air, carrying her voice directly to Yang’s ears.
“Of course, Commander Cazerne, I don’t want to take up too much of your time on your special day. I would love to get a couple photos for Pretty Woman , and steal Lieutenant Commander Yang for a minute to get a quote.”
Cazerne’s response was inaudible.
“Well, of course I understand that this is a private event, but you understand how these things go. My husband surely has mentioned to you—” And she actually lowered her voice, speaking to Cazerne directly rather than projecting to the entire party, whose attention she had now thoroughly gathered.
Cazerne glanced behind himself at Yang, still standing on the steps. Yang wanted to sink into the ground. It was clear that Cazerne’s glance back at Yang was one of decision— perhaps asking permission— but Yang couldn’t make his displeasure known without knocking everyone else off the stairs by trying to escape, so he was frozen in place. And Cazerne, of all the people in the world who considered themselves to be Yang’s friends, was the one most likely to care about keeping Yang’s positive image in the tabloids. When Yang made no signal other than his frozen stare, Cazerne turned back to Patricia, nodded, and held up one finger. She gave him an enthusiastic smile and an audible thanks, then waved at Yang.
“Do you know her?” Attenborough asked.
“She’s the one at Pretty Woman who writes my column. I had hoped she had forgotten me.”
“And Cazerne’s letting her get your picture?” Attenborough watched with no small amount of suspicion as the magazine photographer also set up in front of the steps.
Yang shrugged. There wasn’t much he could do in protest, because now the real photographer was coming over, and the best man was doing his best to finish marshaling the guests into a suitably pleasing arrangement. Cazerne and his bride took their positions in front, and Yang tried to remember how to force his face into a smile that wouldn’t ruin Cazerne’s wedding photobook. He stared down the official photographer’s glinting camera lens and tried to ignore Patricia’s wide smile from the sidelines.
When the large group photos were done, leaving only the smaller groups of those who had been involved in the wedding party itself (the bridesmaids and groomsmen, Hortense’s family and such), the rest of the guests scattered towards the tables set up on the lawn for lunch. Attenborough tried to pull Yang towards them, but they were stopped in their tracks by Patricia.
“Mr. Yang, mind if I have a word?” Patricia asked.
“Didn’t Commander Cazerne tell you you could only have your one photo?” Attenborough asked.
She spread her hands. “Do you see a camera? Besides, I’m fully aware that Mr. Yang is not going to have an interview with me. I just want to chat.”
“Off the record?” Attenborough asked.
“Off the record.” She smiled her predatory smile.
“It’s fine, Attenborough,” Yang said. “Go find our table.”
Attenborough gave a cheeky little salute and left, though he didn’t actually leave range, and instead lingered uncomfortably on the edge of Yang’s vision, leaning against one of the nearby autumnal trees.
“Your friend is very protective of you,” Patricia said.
“He’s also a journalist,” Yang said.
“That’s a cadet uniform he’s wearing?”
“Yes.”
“He writes for a student paper, then?”
“He’s the editor of the Liberty Bell .”
She laughed, a tinkling sound. “Then I hope that your friend and I have the opportunity to work closely together in the future. I’m told that people who make their mark in the cadet school’s paper tend to end up in the Fleet media relations office.”
Yang didn’t want to talk about Attenborough’s dislike of tabloids, or how much he would actually hate running PR for the Fleet. “What do you want?”
“I’ve been very eager to see you again, Mr. Yang.”
“Clearly, since you’re willing to crash Cazerne’s wedding.”
“Crash? We would have taken photos through the bars of the gate if we hadn’t been let in. And my photographer has a drone in the car.”
“I’m glad you didn’t need to resort to that.”
“Your friend Commander Cazerne knows that it’s best for all of us if I’m allowed to get my man,” she said.
“I’m not sure that’s the case.”
“No?” she laughed. “You have to understand, Mr. Yang, it’s very difficult for me to spin your return to Heinessen to fix you.”
“Nobody’s asking you to.”
“Now, that, I’m afraid, is completely untrue.”
Yang looked away from her. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Are you going to tell me what you’re being told to write?”
“Deliver a fluff piece about your time on Heinessen in anticipation of your deployment to the front,” she said. “A good little national hero being a well respected member of society, before he goes off to do his duty. Nevermind that you were gone for only a few months. The public, luckily, has a short attention span. If we say nothing about Econia, they won’t remember it.”
“I’m the last one to know that I’m going to the front, I see.”
“I’ve told you early, Mr. Yang. So not the last to know. The public will have that honor.” She smiled. “In return, I’d appreciate if you could satisfy my curiosity.”
“About?”
“Now, we aren’t going to report on Econia, and you may think that I’m a tabloid journalist with nothing much going on in my head—”
“No, I don’t,” Yang said.
She laughed. “Then tell me what happened on Econia. I’m hearing a lot about court martials and records sealed for the next century. That raises eyebrows.”
“The records would have only been of interest to the tabloid journalists of thirty years ago,” Yang said. “As for the court martial— it’s embarrassing to the Fleet. Criminal theft that everybody would have preferred to be able to ignore. I think you could get those details, if you dug.”
“But you couldn’t ignore it?”
“It fell in my lap,” Yang said.
“Like El Facil?”
“Yeah,” Yang said. “I guess.”
“You’re an unlucky man.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“I’d live a simpler life if things didn’t fall into my lap.”
She laughed. “No, what I meant is that you’re the worst kind of hero.”
“Yeah. I don’t want to be one.”
She touched his arm. “You’re the worst because you actually care to fix the problems you’re given. Most people don’t. And fixing problems that no one else wants to fix— that’s going to earn you bad blood.”
Yang frowned. “I’m already trying to be as lazy as possible.”
“You’re lucky I do adhere to the promise that I won’t print things that are said off the record. That would make an excellent pull quote.”
“On a hit piece.”
“Or an advertorial. The Hero of El Facil wants to be as lazy as possible when cleaning his house— Miracle Vacuum can help.”
“That could use work as a line.”
“I’ll workshop it. And when you want to start doing advertisements, let me know. I’ll get you in touch with an agent who can really negotiate.”
“Why would you do that?”
She batted her eyes at him. “I believe I’ve fallen for my own propaganda,” she said. “I’ve started to actually like you.”
“Oh.” Yang glanced at Attenborough with a pleading expression, and he immediately stopped slouching against the tree and began to stride over.
“Well, I’ll say goodbye, then, Mr. Yang,” she said. “I’ll make sure that our little puff piece is suitably patriotic. It’ll keep you out of trouble with your superiors.”
“Er, thanks,” he said. But she was flouncing away before Yang could properly say goodbye. Not that he wanted to.
“I hope you didn’t say anything that she’s going to use against you,” Attenborough said, coming over. “What did she want?”
“Nothing,” Yang said. “Let’s go sit down.”
“I can’t believe Cazerne let her in here.”
“He didn’t have much of a choice,” Yang said. “Her husband is a higher-up in his department.”
“It’s his wedding.”
“She would have taken photos through the fence. Come on, let’s go sit down.”
Attenborough gave another few annoyed glances behind him. “At least if I wrote you up, it would be honest.”
“But not flattering,” Yang said. “And the Fleet can’t have that.”
They sat down at the picnic tables arrayed on the lawn, and things were copacetic through the end of the speeches. During the lunch, however, Yang knew he was completely dragging down the mood. Cazerne had seated him and Attenborough next to several of Hortense’s friends, and while they kept trying to engage him in conversation, Yang could barely bring himself to answer in anything other than monosyllables. They only cared about him because of his fame, and Cazerne only sat them there to try to fix his life. After they finished eating, the woman got bored of trying to speak with Yang, and wandered away to go dance or socialize with other, friendlier guests.
This left only Yang and Attenborough at the table— Yang poking at food that he should be eating but wasn’t, and Attenborough tipping his plastic chair so far back that he was going to topple over if he wasn’t careful.
“I told you, you shouldn’t have talked to the paparazzi if it was going to upset you,” Attenborough said, reaching over to steal the bread roll from Yang’s plate. He stuffed it into his mouth.
“I’m not upset about that,” Yang said.
“Then what’s the matter? The food is great, and Cazerne’s not half bad at throwing a party.”
“I don’t see you getting up to dance,” Yang said.
“Not much of a dancer.”
“So you’d rather sit here and complain about me not having a good enough time?”
“Yes, obviously,” Attenborough said.
Although it hadn’t ever gone particularly far from his mind, Yang remembered what Attenborough had said to him before he left for Econia. They hadn’t discussed it in the time since then, but it remained in the air between them. He felt guilty, mostly, which he knew was not what Attenborough would want from him, even in the absence of anything else. But it was the predominating emotion.
“Sorry,” Yang muttered. “I can’t believe you find me that entertaining.”
“It’s fine,” Attenborough said. “I came up here to hang out with you, mostly. So I’m making the most of my time.”
“I’m going back to Thernussen with you. You should already be sick of me.”
“Nah, I figure as soon as we get there, you’ll vanish. I’m counting on not needing to fish you out of Jessica’s house this time,” he said.
“Is that optimism?”
Attenborough shrugged. “You should know what you’re walking into.”
“Do I?”
“Come on Yang,” he said.
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not. And if I am, so what?”
“What do you mean, ‘so what’?”
“So you go to her house, and everything is completely normal, and you’re still her friend, and neither of you make it weird. Isn’t that what you want?”
“I—”
“I got your hopes up before, didn’t I?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, lucky for you, she’s into you. So go with it, if you want that. That is what you want, right?”
“It would be nice if I knew,” Yang said, which made Attenborough laugh.
“Well, if you decide it’s not what you want, I will rescue you again. But I don’t expect to.”
“Maybe you’re right.” But this hadn’t lifted Yang’s spirits much at all, and he poked at the remains of his steak with the side of his fork.
“Come on, what’s the issue?”
It took a moment for Yang to figure out what to say. “I’m being sent back to the front. That’s what the journalist said.”
“She could be lying.”
“She’s not. I figured it would happen. I guess it’s just happening soon.”
“That sucks,” Attenborough said. He turned and looked at Yang directly. “But you’d hate having a desk job because you’re famous. That’d drive you crazy.”
“Yeah.” He was right, of course. “I don’t want to leave the planet. It’s like I’m never settled anywhere.”
“Cazerne would be overjoyed to hear you say that. He’d love it if you got yourself settled.”
“Yeah, it’d look good in the papers,” Yang grumbled.
“You like being in space,” Attenborough said. “That was what you said when you graduated.”
“It’s true.”
“Then you’ll be fine,” Attenborough said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Sure.”
Attenborough’s mouth twitched in a funny, thin smile. “You don’t want to leave, because you think you’re going to figure things out with Jessica, and then immediately lose whatever you’ve figured out, because you’re going away.”
“I’m not writing in to your advice column.”
“Hah. You’re right that I would recycle the advice I give to every graduating senior with a girlfriend who’s going to leave them when they get deployed.”
“I don’t need to hear it.”
“Hey— it’s not like she’s left Lapp. That counts for something.”
Yang turned his most derisive look on Attenborough (which wasn’t particularly effective— Attenborough laughed).
“I’m gonna go get dessert,” Attenborough said. “Do you want any, or are you going to continue your monk-like living?” He pointed to Yang’s mostly uneaten meal.
“Can you get me a glass of wine?” Yang asked.
“Most certainly.” He stood, and walked off towards the dessert buffet and bar, over at the far end of the picnic tent. Yang leaned his head on his hands and watched the other guests at the wedding, dresses swirling and glinting in the bright sunlight. There was music, but he let it fade away from his awareness, letting his eyes unfocus, so the scene felt like it was moving in slow motion, like he was watching it from very far away, from underwater.
He didn’t notice Cazerne sliding into the seat beside him until it was too late.
“I’m told you’re not having a good time at my wedding,” Cazerne said. “I’ve failed to be an entertaining groom.”
Yang jumped, startled. “Hunh? Oh, did Attenborough say that?”
“After yelling about letting people with low journalistic integrity in here.”
“If he’s done that yelling then I guess I shouldn’t repeat it.”
“Would you have preferred I didn’t let them in?
Yang shrugged. “I knew you would as soon as I saw her at the gate.”
“I feel like I should be offended that you think so.”
“You’re trying to help me,” Yang said. “I get it. I don’t hold it against you. And she’d climb over the fence to get her photo.”
“I’m glad you understand that,” Cazerne said, looking at Yang steadily. “I do want to help you.”
“I appreciate it,” Yang said. “Did I thank you for getting me away from Econia?”
“You’d have been reassigned from there anyway.”
“But I would have gone directly to the front, rather than getting a nice little vacation on Heinessen, and getting to see your wedding.”
Cazerne smiled, though it was a little grim. “So, you heard you’re going to the front?”
“You knew?”
“I know many things,” Cazerne said. “You’ll get the letter soon enough.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“I didn’t want to spoil my wedding with bad news, personally. It’s made me a bad host, and you a bad guest.”
If Cazerne thought that was what Yang was moping about, he would take it. The last thing he needed was Cazerne’s relationship advice pertaining to Jessica. “Sorry,” Yang said.
“Don’t worry about it.” He slapped Yang on the back. “I wish you could enjoy the day. Why don’t you do some dancing and put it out of your mind for now.”
“I’m not a dancer,” Yang said. “And I’d prefer not to talk to anyone who wants to talk to me because I’m famous. I’ve told you that.”
“You need to find a wife to settle down with. I have to say, there’s nothing better, when you’re out in space, than knowing that you have someone to come home to.”
“Yeah,” Yang said.
“I know you come from a broken home, so you’re skeptical of the concept, but a family would be good for you.”
“You can tell me that again in nine months,” Yang said. “When you have real experience I’ll start to believe you.”
“I think it’ll take a little more than nine months.”
“Twelve, then,” Yang said.
Cazerne laughed. “Hortense had the idea that before we commit to having kids of our own, we should foster for a little while, to make sure we’re up to the task.”
Yang raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that more difficult?”
“Well, I don’t know. But there’s this fleet effort to make sure war orphans are taken care of— officers can become their guardians, either permanently or on a temporary basis. It seems to me that even if it’s for a few weeks while something more stable is found, a kid might enjoy not being in an orphanage.”
“Good luck with that,” Yang said. “Sounds— complicated.”
“I think it’ll be nice. And, more importantly, Hortense suggested it.”
Yang laughed. “I’m glad I don’t have a wife to drag me into schemes.”
Cazerne looked at him, then shook his head. “I’ll fix you someday,” he said. “But if you won’t let it be today, then I’ll pencil in a different time.”
“It’ll have to be after I get back from the front.”
“Something for me to look forward to, then.”
It was night, but not particularly late, when Yang arrived at Jessica’s house in Thernussen. She knew he was coming, but she hadn’t come to the airport to pick him up, so he was lingering on the front steps of her brick house, hand hovering over the doorbell as he waited for Attenborough to drive away, which he didn’t seem to be doing. Yang refused to turn and look at him, car idling on the street.
When Attenborough continued to linger, Yang rang the doorbell. With that motion, Attenborough’s car engine purred back to life, and he drove off slowly. He must have been making sure Yang didn’t lose his nerve, though Yang didn’t need him to wait.
He looked up at the sky as he waited for Jessica to come down. There was a luminance on the horizon, but it was the air pollution trapping in the city lights. When he heard the pounding of feet on the stairs, and then the creak of the door, he looked down, and there was Jessica.
She was beautiful, as usual, her blonde hair falling softly around her ears. She was barefoot, despite the chilly autumn weather, and she wore a long skirt that fell to her calves, and a white blouse with the top few buttons undone, letting him see the pale flush of skin on her chest.
“Ah— Jessica,” he said, and his hand instinctively reached for the back of his head, rubbing his hair awkwardly.
“I’m so glad you came,” she said, and held the door open so he could step inside. He took one last glance at the dark sky behind him, and the door swung shut, leaving them in the dimness of the entry stairway. One of Jessica’s downstairs neighbors was playing music: it warbled through the air between them. It took Jessica a long time to turn towards the stairs and lead him up to her apartment. They stood there for a moment, in the near total darkness. Then her footsteps were on the stairs, and Yang followed her blindly upwards, like Eurydice. If Jessica looked down behind herself at Yang, he felt like he might shatter into a thousand pieces.
Her door was ajar at the top of the stairs, and they entered into her apartment, the gentle yellow light of the floor lamps making it feel warmer than it was, and smaller than it was.
“Have you eaten? Let me take your coat.”
Her almost-frantic tone relaxed him. She was as nervous as he was— why? But wasn’t it better that they were feeling the same thing?
He took off his coat. It was warm in her house.
“Yes, I had dinner with Attenborough,” Yang said. “After we got out of the airport.”
“Good,” she said as she took his coat and draped it over her arm, holding the soft brown leather close to her chest. “That’s good.”
“Did you eat?”
She nodded, but she could have been lying. She turned for the kitchen, and Yang took off his shoes before following her. He sat down at the kitchen table. She hung his jacket on the hook near the back door.
“Tea?” she asked.
“Ah, sure,” he said. He might have preferred alcohol, but she didn’t offer any, and he didn’t ask.
She filled her electric kettle and set it to boil, and she puttered around the kitchen finding mugs and teabags and spoons and napkins and a plate of cookies wrapped in plastic, and she set all these things down in front of Yang one at a time, carefully not looking directly at him.
“It’s so funny to have someone else here,” she said. “It’s been strange living alone.”
“Lapp’s been at the front since January?” Yang asked.
“That’s right,” she said. “He had December for leave.”
“I guess it doesn’t take long to get used to living by yourself.”
“No, it does,” Jessica said. “I keep coming home and thinking someone will be there, but it’s always just me.” She smiled, though she looked past him. He noticed that the photos on the fridge, the ones clipped from Pretty Woman , had been taken down, and replaced with a single photograph of the three of them at Yang and Lapp’s graduation. “At least you’re here for a little while.”
“Only a week. You shouldn’t get too used to me.”
“I wish I could.”
Yang looked down at his hands, and the mug, with its teabag flopping around, into which Jessica had not yet poured hot water. The water in the kettle was beginning to roll. She took it off the heat with a click, and gestured for Yang to pass his mug. He did. She filled his cup, and hers, then sat across from him at the table.
“Has Jean written to you?” she asked.
Yang watched the water of his tea grow slowly darker. “Not since I got back from Econia.”
She nodded, like the answer didn’t surprise her. “I told him you were coming to visit. He’s glad.”
“Is he?”
“He said he wishes he could have been here for Cazerne’s wedding and gotten to see you.”
“Maybe we’ll run into each other when I’m deployed.”
“Maybe,” she said. “How was your flight?”
“It was fine,” Yang said. “I mostly slept.”
“That’s good.”
“How have things been with you?”
“Good,” she said. “I like my students this semester, and I’m feeling good about my concert…” She stirred her tea and reached for the plate of cookies.
“When is that?” he asked. She was referring to a series of graduate student performances that were put on by the music department at her school.
“Next month,” she said. “But I’m excited for the pieces I chose.”
“I’m glad.”
“I should play them for you,” she said. “I’m in a good place with them. Jean only got to hear the beginning of my practicing, and I think it drove him a little crazy.” She laughed. “You’re lucky.”
“I’d like that,” Yang said. It was good that she was suggesting an activity for them to do— otherwise, what was there? He could sit on the couch and listen to her play. That was safe. She pushed the plate of cookies towards him, and he ate one. She was watching him, now, and he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands or face. He took another cookie.
“What pieces did you pick?”
“Modern compositions,” she said, and she, too, was happy for a subject to talk about, and she launched into a discussion of music that Yang couldn’t follow, but that made her eyes light up. It was easy to listen to her, to pretend to be a student in one of her classes. He found himself smiling in between sips of his tea. She smiled, too, and met his eyes when she spoke.
He finished his tea. She finished her description of the composer’s utopian vision— the music she had picked was apparently a paean for peace— and looked at Yang silently for a moment.
“You took down the pictures from Pretty Woman ,” Yang said. He didn’t know what else to say, and that was what first came to his lips. It was the wrong thing to remind her of. The smile fell from Jessica’s face, and she looked away, out the kitchen window.
“They made you uncomfortable,” she said. “I didn’t— I don’t want to do that to you, Wenli.”
“The graduation photo is a good one,” he said. “And it has Lapp in it.”
She stirred her tea; she had only finished half of it, but it was almost lukewarm by now. “I wish— well, it’s nice to have time with you. I don’t want Jean to make you unhappy.”
“He doesn’t make me unhappy.”
“Well,” she said. “Okay.” She didn’t believe him; he couldn’t make her believe him.
“Can I hear you play your pieces?” Yang asked. “I want to hear them.”
“Yes, of course.” She stood, and when she walked past Yang, she gently touched his shoulder. He put his empty mug down and followed her.
The couch in the living room was velvety and a strange yellow color. He sat down and watched her lift up the piano’s cover and shuffle her sheet music around, getting it into order. “I’m lucky I live in a building with pretty thick floors,” she said as she did. “I’ve asked my neighbors downstairs if my practicing bothers them, but they said they never noticed.”
“That’s good.” Yang pulled the blanket on the couch, a colorful crocheted thing, around himself, sitting with his knees up to his chest.
Jessica played her pieces. They were beautiful, and they filled the space of the room completely. She alternated between looking at her sheet music in the most complex portions, and closing her eyes in moments when she was completely confident in her playing, lost in what she was doing. Occasionally, for no reason that Yang could figure out, she would glance over at him, an odd expression on her face.
Yang watched her hands— they seemed impossibly delicate and skilled. Though Yang had never considered himself a brute— something many soldiers prided themselves on being, though they wouldn’t admit it— he felt oafish watching her. It was the same sensation as being on the edge of a party, not being able to access whatever joy and skill everyone else seemed to find so easily. He could never, never quite—
But Jessica played so beautifully. It was easy to listen to her. Even if understanding was beyond his ken, and the skill to do the same was beyond his clumsy fingers, he was allowed to be an audience.
She finished playing, and turned towards him.
“That was beautiful,” he said when he found his voice. “Thank you.”
“I enjoyed playing it for you,” she said. “It’s nice to have an audience.”
He smiled, but now that there wasn’t something in between them, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Jessica came to sit down next to him on the couch. He pulled the blanket tighter around his knees.
“Wenli,” she said, and put her hand on his, on his knee. “Do you want to leave again?”
He shook his head, but that was a lie. “You should tell me to go.”
“No. I’m glad you’re here.”
She picked up his hand and pressed it to her cheek. Her hair tickled his knuckles as it fell across their hands. “I can’t do this, Jessica,” Yang said. He tried to pull away. “Jean—”
“He knows,” she said. “It’s alright. He doesn’t mind.”
She wouldn’t lie to him— that, he knew. And if she wasn’t lying, then he had no more excuses, no more reasons to pull away. His heart was beating so quickly that he felt nauseous, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Jessica…”
His oafish, indelicate hand moved, feeling disconnected from his brain. He pushed her hair back from her cheek. He touched her jaw, her ear. Her skin was unimaginably soft. She smiled and leaned towards him. His hand was in her hair.
She put her hand on his chest and he dropped his legs down, and she came closer and closer, and then their lips were pressed together— electric and warm.
It was, in that moment, everything that Yang had ever wanted, and it pushed every other thought out of his mind. Jessica’s body weight pressed against him, grounding them both in something real.
Now that it was happening, it was easy to let it keep happening. She didn’t mind that his hands were clumsy, and he didn’t mind at all that hers were cold. She snuck her hands beneath his shirt as she kissed him, and he shivered as her fingers played along his ribs and spine. He was hesitant to touch her, but he knew that she wanted him to.
He wondered if she noticed that every move she made, he copied her, like they were strange mirror images. It was a vain attempt to borrow her grace.
She was breathing heavily, and she made little noises of happiness when he touched her, when they raked hands through each others’ hair, when she tugged his shirt off over his head and drew her hand across his chest, when he unbuttoned her blouse and it fell away. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever met. She kissed his neck one moment; the next, he pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat, her head thrown back.
“Wenli,” she said, and he felt the word as she spoke it. She took his hand again, the one that was resting on her thigh, and she tugged him to his feet. He was half in a daze as he followed her across the room, past the sliding door that separated her bedroom from the rest of the house.
He could remember the way it had looked, with her and Lapp sitting together in the yellow glow of the fairy lights that strung across her windows. This memory almost made him hesitate anew. But she stood in front of him, and unfastened the bra that he hadn’t quite managed to get off her before, and this cleared the distant memory from his mind. He kissed her again, and now she shivered at his touch. She undid his belt, and pushed his pants down. He got her skirt off, and she pulled him onto her bed.
Her bed was right next to the heater, and so it was warm, far warmer than the couch had been, and they intertwined their limbs, on top of and in between each other intermittently. One moment Jessica leaned over him, her hair falling in his face and tickling his cheeks, and in the next moment, he found himself resting his head between her breasts as she carded her fingers through his hair. If this moment had lasted forever, he would have been happy.
“I need you, Wenli,” she said. If it was trite to say, it was direct, and couldn’t be misinterpreted. He slipped his hand into the band of her underwear, and she made a breathy little sound and lifted her hips so that he could pull it all the way off, which he did. With one hand, she tugged his hair gently to bring him back to kiss her, and with the other, she tried to pull down his boxers. He helped her, and kicked them off behind himself.
He was kneeling between her legs now. How had he gotten there? He wondered, in the future, if he would be able to reconstruct this scene, this memory. He was so lost in the moment that he wasn’t sure if he would be able to, no matter how much he tried.
He touched her again, one final moment of hesitation, his hand traveling from her collarbone down the length of her chest. She twitched beneath him— his touch was so light it must have been almost painful.
“Please,” she said.
It was easy to give her what she wanted, because he wanted it, too. She moved with him, like it was natural for both of them, like it was right, like this was the way it should have always been. Yang let himself imagine that it could always be this way, or he pushed every thought of the past and the future out of his head— he couldn’t quite tell the difference.
He wondered if she was doing the same. She had her eyes closed, and she held Yang tightly, arms and legs, and kissed whatever parts of him she could reach.
When they finished, they lay beside each other. The warmth of the roaring radiator dried the sweat on Yang’s skin, and even though it was hot in the room, he felt chilled, and shivered. Jessica curled up next to him, her leg lazily hooked over his.
“You’ll stay the rest of the week, won’t you?” she asked.
It took a moment for him to figure out how to form words again. “Yes,” he said. “I will.”
