We walk for a short distance on the top of the mountain. There’s a ridge that extends for a while. We find a massive formation of boulders not too far from its edge. They lie in a giant cluster, as if one wave carried them here and dropped them like so many pickup sticks. We walk around until we find a stony lean-to and slide between two of the rocks. It’s a natural cave.
Paul rests while I go out in search of any dry wood, but there’s nothing up here, plus the snow is wet. We have landed on the moon, I think, except it might be colder.
I find my way back in and Paul has laid out our bags. He has our water bottles out and we have enough melted snow for a few big gulps. My body sucks them in. I can feel the cold water wash down and into my chest and disappear. It’s as lovely a taste as anything I’ve ever had, even if it’s cold.
I slide into the bags, but this time Paul faces me. We look into each other’s eyes and there’s nothing said for what seems like an eternity. What is there to say, really? We have no food. We are alone and lying together at the precipice of what will almost surely be our death. But there is still a possibility for rescue and salvation. It could be a moment away, but then again, so could death.
His left hand is flat against the small of my back and he pulls me in tightly and kisses me on the lips. Both our lips are hard and chapped, but somehow, the kiss is softer than anything I’ve ever felt before. I kiss him back, first on the lips, then his cheek and neck.
His hand is cold and I can feel it on my body, moving and caressing along the lines, often touching and pushing beyond what I expect, but toward what I want.
I touch him too, and we explore each other as fully as we can with the cold and his damages. We softly whisper our hesitation and our approval, perfectly attuned to each other. He turns me to my back and presses his full body against mine. He kisses me, and I forget the world. The past. The future. Our pain and suffering. Everything disappears for what seems like forever in a kind of indescribable bliss.
We wake together to the sound of wind howling and flakes drifting into our lean-to: evidence of a storm rolling in.
“Hey,” he says, kissing my lips.
“Hey,” I say.
“Solis?”
“Yes,” I say.
“When the storm blows over, you have to leave me.”
I prop myself on one elbow in surprise.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You have to. I’m dying. If you don’t go, I’ll definitely die here and I’d rather not die here.”
The world giveth and the world taketh away. This is why I hate the world. I close my eyes and see my father putting tinsel on our Christmas tree. My stocking is hung beside his and Mom’s. There are candy canes everywhere. He’s doing a manic dance around the tree, singing, “Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus.” He hands me a gift. “A little something early, darling.” And then he disappears into the kitchen and eventually into the bedroom, where later that night, he will blow his head off. I still have the gift. It was a portrait he did of me in a little white dress with yellow and pink hearts sewn on. My mother made that dress. I’ve kept the portrait, contrary to what I’ve told Old Doctor. And sometimes I pull it out and cry, like I am right now just thinking about it. But I’d be lying if I said the thought of it hasn’t brought me some joy, too.
He takes hold of my hand and moves it down to where his ribs are broken and I feel the swelling and the heat rising off his chest.
“I’m bleeding inside,” he says. “I feel it. My heart feels weak.”
A gasping sob comes from nowhere and I put my head on his chest. And I cry harder and harder, and he holds me, stroking my hair.
I kiss him on the neck a few times, then look into his eyes. Nobody has ever said those words to me before. I don’t know how to speak for a moment, and then a huge lump lodges in my throat.
“What can I do?” I cry.
“Nothing right now. But when the storm stops, leave me.”
There’s a long pause, and I’m trying to process all the emotions I’m feeling. It’s overwhelming, but I decide on a simple idea.
“I’ll find help.”
He nods, but it doesn’t mean yes, find me help. It means say whatever you have to say in order to go away and feel okay about it. Lie if we must, but you can carry on for the two of us.
“Read to me,” he says, after a long silence. “The letter.” I can see the dark rings circling his eyes now. I look at his skin more closely and even in the darkness his pale skin glows yellow.
I pull the letter from my pocket and begin to read.
I feel a soft sob pulse through Paul’s body and I stop reading and listen.
“Are you okay? Is it too much?”
“No, it’s good. I miss him.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He died a day or two before I was sixteen. It is sweet, somehow, to hear your voice layering over his.”
“Should I keep going? “
“Yes.”
I put my hand through his hair and kiss his cheek. I return to the beginning, and I read to him. And then I read it again, and tears stream down his face.
When I finish, Paul reaches up and pulls me into him and kisses me.
“Can you tear me a piece of paper from the diary and get me the pen from my backpack?”
I reach over and grab his backpack and find a pen. I tear a sheet and hand him the book. He scribbles down something quickly and folds it up.
“Give this to my father when you get down,” he tells me.
“You’ll give it to him, okay?” My voice is choked with tears.
He puts his hand on my face as tears roll down. Cold air swirls around us.
We kiss again and again. Then I open the paper and look at the note. It is so simple it breaks my heart into two:
Dad,
I love you. I’m sorry.
Paul