Page 56 of The Way I Am Now
I gather a spoonful and then can’t decide if I should hand it to him or feed it to him. He laughs at my awkwardness and ducks his head to meet the spoon, holding my hand in his as he brings it to his mouth. He watches me while he tastes it. And there’s something almost unbearably intimate about this moment, standing on the sidewalk on an empty street, the wind picking up all around us, my hand still in his while we pause, taste, savor.
Slowly, he begins to nod. “Hmm.”
“Hmm . . . good?”
“Different,” he says, licking his lips. “It’s different than I thought it would be, but I kinda like it. Actually, I really like it.”
“See?”
He takes my empty cup and spoon and tosses them into the garbage can a few steps away, and when he comes back, he stands in front of me and touches my cheek again, the way he had in the shop. He presses his lips to mine so softly, not rushed like before, and as I kiss him back, I can taste all the flavors.
“I wanted to make up for that weird little spur-of-the-moment kiss back there and couldn’t wait until the end of the night.” He holds his hand out for me to take again and adds, “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I liked them both.” I squeeze his hand again, and he squeezes back as we keep walking in the direction of campus.
We enter a parklike setting right off the street. I read the sign out loud. “Tucker Hill Memorial Garden. Is this part of the school?”
“It is, yeah. I used to live over here my first year,” he says, pointing farther down the street. “And this is how I would get on campus every day.”
“It’s really pretty here,” I tell him. We continue down this little pathway through the garden. There are different types of plants and flowers, with benches parked under trees every so often, small lights that shine along the way, plaques engraved with people’s names adorning everything in sight.
“Confession,” Josh says, giving my hand a squeeze. “I actually used to think about you all the time when I came through here.”
“You did?” I ask, feeling my heart racing at the thought of him here, thinking of me.
He nods.
“Why?”
He shrugs. “It’s always quiet here and beautiful—every season has different things in bloom. It’s also a little sad, but peaceful. I guess I kind of thought this might be your sort of thing.”
I let his words sink in as I catch a long sweeping branch of a young willow tree and let it fall through my hand as we walk. When I turn my head to look back at him, he’s already watching me. I let go of his hand and loop my arm with his instead, wanting him closer.
“What are you thinking?” he asks. “Am I talking too much?”
“No, I love when you talk to me.” He pulls me in closer, and our feet kind of stumble into each other. “It just catches me off guard every time you do that.”
“Do what?”
“Just . . . get me. So right, so often.”
“Well, I can’t take all the credit,” he says, seeming to sidestep my compliment this time. “There’s one more part up here that deserves most of it.”
I can’t imagine what he means by that, but as we continue down the foliage-lined pathway, I see there’s a light ahead, a clearing that opens up into a larger space. As we get closer, I can hear water running, splashing.
“Wow,” I say, letting go of Josh’s arm to get a better look. It’s a fountain in the shape of an apple, made of stone and metal and sitting on a giant circle of granite, no barrier to prevent anyone from walking right up to it. And so I do. But when I get too close, water spouts begin spraying all around it, like a challenge to try to walk through and remain dry. The exterior of the apple is shiny red like a fire engine, and the water sprays out of the top where the stem curves up and over the side of the apple, a metal leaf dangling in the wind, held there by a wire or chain of some sort.
But as I walk around to get the full view, I see the other side of the apple is carved out, meant to look like there have been giant bites taken out of the fruit, leaving the hourglass shape of the core behind, and the seeds, made of a dark metal, all overflowing with water. Inside the round part of the apple, there’s a bench with two sculpted seats in the shape of leaves, just like the metal leaf from the stem, shielded from the waterfalls. It reminds me of the pumpkin carriage fromCinderella, except grittier, less elegant . . . more dangerous and even sensual, somehow.
Josh stands in place, waiting for me to come back around—I guess he’s seen it enough times. “This is really . . . ,” I begin as I make my way back to him. “I’ve never seen anything like this. It’s strangely . . . beautiful.”
He’s smiling as he watches me, and then he points to something on the ground in front of him. I come to stand next to him and look down. There’s a plaque there that reads:
FONTANA DELL’EDEN / FOUNTAIN OF EDEN.
“Oh my God,” I say.
“See, I can’t take all the credit,” he repeats.
