Twenty-Five

Dedicated to the woman who will forever hold a grip on my heart — Beep! Beep! Isabel wakes up to the sound of the alarm, welcomed by warm sun rays that caress her skin. Her hands brush through the soft white bedsheets and inadvertently hit her mobile phone. She picks it up and silences it. “8:25 AM December 18, 2021” reads the screen. Another birthday. She hears the fizz and clank of the kitchen coming alive, the sweet smell of cinnamon, eggs, and vanilla drifting under the door. French toast — one of her favorites. But instead of joining her family she sets the phone on the dark-brown night table and rolls to her side, eyes closed. It’s her day after all. Flashes of a dream surface in her mind. A strange warmth. Someone familiar — black hair, a smile she recognized, laughter she hadn’t thought about in years. She remembers he said he wanted to caress her hairy legs and smiles into the pillow. Then another image: a vast sky full of the most beautiful lights she has ever seen. Her chest expands in fear and awe as the ever-expanding skyline fills her head, rendering her small in its vastness. Rainbow colors drip from her memory, painting the sky in the most surreal of ways. Thump! The bed rumbles. “Happy birthday mami!” says her younger daughter with a heartwarming smile. “We nade you breikfas.” “Made me breakfast? Aww, thank you, baby. You make mommy happy.” Isabel pulls her into a warm hug. Her little voice and the warmth of her tiny body are enough to pull Isabel out of bed. “Come le me chow you.” She clings her fragile hand to Isabel’s, nudging her toward the kitchen. Isabel sits at the table where her french toast with maple syrup waits on a white porcelain plate. “Happy birthday mami,” says her son, eyes fixed on his phone. “Thank you. And please take a break from the game while you—” Ding! Dong! “That must be Amazon,” her son says without looking up. “Honey, can you get the door?” Isabel calls toward the hallway. “I’m in the bathroom,” her husband shouts back. “I’ll get it mami,” says the youngest. “No, stay and finish your food.” Isabel sets her half-eaten toast on the plate and heads to the door. The morning sunlight blinds her as she slides it open. A man stands on the step — black button-up shirt, jeans, a face she hasn’t seen in over twenty years. Her memory rewinds to college before she’s even sure of the name. Aaron. “Happy birthday, Isabel.” Her heart kicks. “Wait — Aaron? What are you doing here?” His lips curve into a mischievous smile. “I’m here to show you the three things you need.” She glances back. Her family is still in the kitchen, no one paying attention. Her face flushes and she lowers her voice. “You’re here to get me into trouble. And you don’t know what I need. You don’t know me.” “Of course I do. I know you can feel it. I’ve known you in this life and in others.” He extends his light-brown hand toward her, palm facing up. “Let me take you on a brief adventure. My hand works like magic — as long as you hold it, I can show you the things you yearn for. What do you say?” She looks back at her family, then at his outstretched hand, then at his dark-coffee eyes. “Are you crazy?” He chuckles. “Crazy for you.” She fights the urge to laugh. “No. More like crazy crazy.” “Come with me. Twenty-five minutes. For everyone else, you’ll only be gone twenty-five seconds.” She squints. “You’re not making sense. Leave, please. Bye.” Slam. The room falls back into gray as the sunlight disappears. His muffled voice fades through the door. “My hand will always be here for you.” She sits back at the table. Her appetite is gone. Her husband returns from the hallway and joins them. A strange sinking settles in her stomach. Nobody asks who was at the door. Her lips curl into an involuntary smile. My hand works like magic. She shakes her head. What kind of nonsense is that? And how is he even here — she hasn’t seen him in more than twenty years. She smiles again. “Honey, are you okay?” Her husband squints at her. “Oh — sorry, yes. I was thinking about a meme I saw this morning.” She can’t stop thinking about the fact that there was no car parked outside. “I’ll be right back,” she says. “Going to grab my phone.” She goes to the bedroom, picks up the phone, and then — instead of sitting back down — walks quietly to the front door. Her heart jumps when she opens it. Aaron is still there, hand still extended. “Ready?” “I need you to leave. You’ll get me into serious trouble.” “I don’t think that’s possible.” He sighs. “But okay. Have a wonderful birthday, Isabel.” She steps forward. “Wait. How did you know it was my birthday?” “You told me once. I have never forgotten. Your birthdate is tattooed on my brain. Just like every single word you have ever spoken.” She stands in silence. Those words catch her somewhere she didn’t expect. “Ready for the adventure?” he asks, breaking the quiet. “What adventure?” He extends his palm again. “Hold my hand and you’ll see.” She laughs. “This is stupid.” He smirks. “Is it? Try it.” She looks back — husband at the newspaper, son on his phone, daughter taking small careful bites of scrambled eggs. She exhales slowly. “Okay. I’ll hold your hand. And when nothing happens, you leave. Deal?” “If,” he emphasizes, “nothing happens. Deal.” She carefully extends her hand. The moment they connect, an unexpected rush moves through her chest. “Our first stop is that forest.” He points across the street. A forest. There has never been a forest across from her house. Her head spins. “But how—” “As long as we hold hands, it’s there.” “How is that even possible?” “I’ll explain everything. Come with me.” She shakes her head. “I can’t just leave my family.” “Time slows when you hold my hand — at least it does for me. You’ll be back in twenty-five seconds for the rest of the world.” “I...” She slowly lets go of his hand. A tear runs down his cheek. “I have to go back. I’m sorry.” She twists her ring and hurries inside. Her family is in the same position she left them. She waves at him before closing the door. Across the street: neighbor houses, just as they’ve always been. No forest. She sits back at the table. “Everything okay?” her husband asks. “Yes.” Her daughter’s scrambled egg plate is half empty now. “Look at you eating so well, baby. Mommy is proud.” “So where should I take you for your birthday?” her husband asks. She hates that question. He should know by now she likes to be surprised, to be led somewhere. “To the forest across the street,” she says, mostly to herself. “Sorry, the what?” “Nothing.” A quiet laugh escapes her. “Burger King is fine.” He shrugs. “If that’s what you want.” It isn’t. She pushes her plate forward. “I’m not feeling great. I’m going to lie down for a bit.” “Headache?” “Yes...” She gets up, and instead of turning toward the bedroom her feet carry her to the front door. She decided, somewhere between the table and the hallway, that just this once she would be vulnerable. Go with the flow. “Do you want a Tylenol?” her husband calls from the kitchen. She opens the door. Her hands are trembling. Aaron is still there. “You said twenty-five seconds, didn’t you?” He takes her hand. “Yes.” The forest is across the street again. “I don’t know how you do it.” He shrugs and laughs. “I don’t know how I do it either.” She laughs too, nerves spilling out of her. They walk toward the trees. The forest is dense, the trunks packed so tightly together there seems to be no way through. “There’s no way in,” she says. “For you there always is. Close your eyes and take three steps forward with me.” She raises her eyebrows. “Trust me,” he says quietly. She closes her eyes and, still holding his hand, takes three steps. When she opens them, the space inside is small and impossible — fireflies drifting between flowers that have no business glowing that color, a moon sitting so low it feels personal. It smells like wet grass and roses and something she can’t name but immediately recognizes. “Why is it always night in here?” He looks up before answering, like the question deserves thought. “The sun left about twenty years ago. The moon stays though.” He says it plainly, like a fact about weather. She doesn’t ask anything else. She doesn’t need to. Near the tree line grow the strangest flowers she has ever seen — each one a different color, each one glowing, painting the dark in quiet light. She walks toward them without thinking. She starts counting without meaning to. When she reaches twenty-five, she stops and looks at him. He holds her gaze. Says nothing. She kneels close to the pink one, feels its delicate petals, and smells it. Cotton candy. Perfume. Something older and softer underneath, something she couldn’t name but that made her close her eyes. She stands and looks around. One flower in particular holds her attention. “A black one. That’s my favorite color.” “I know.” She leans in and smells it. Licorice and coal and something underneath that was neither. Her eyes stung before she understood why. She stood and wiped her face with the back of her hand, embarrassed. He didn’t say anything. He just held her hand a little tighter. “Okay.” She took a breath. “I don’t want to leave yet.” “As long as you hold my hand, this place belongs to you too.” “So what’s next?” A grin spreads across his face. “Three gifts, if you’ll accept them.” She tries to hide how eager she is. “Okay.” “For the first, we need to lie down. I hope you don’t mind getting a little dirty.” He chuckles. She smirks. “It’s okay. I only get dirty on Saturdays.” He kneels on the soft soil and — the hand they hold connecting them — helps her lie down beside him. Both of them look up. “See those seventeen stars shining brighter than the rest?” “I was just about to say — I’ve never seen stars shine like that.” “That’s the Sagittarius constellation. They shine for my favorite Sagittarius.” “Awww.” Their eyes meet for a moment, then from the corner of her vision she catches something — brighter, moving. She turns back to the sky. Swirling rivers of greenish-blue light fill it, dancing like a couple in love: barely perceptible one moment, then vivid and sweeping the next. The sky feels larger than the world. She feels very small. “Is this an Aurora Borealis?” “Yes. Your first gift.” Her jaw goes slack. He hasn’t looked at the sky once — he has been watching her. The way the light moves in her eyes. The shape of her lips. The curve of her expression. His own Aurora Borealis. She turns and finds him already looking at her. “Have you seen any of this?” He smiles but doesn’t answer. “I once told you I’d kiss you the night we first saw the Aurora Borealis together,” he says. “But that was in another life.” Without missing a beat she says, “Then I’m starting to envy myself in that other life.” He looks away. His voice drops. “I don’t envy that version of me. He was an idiot.” She squeezes his hand. “Don’t say that.” Then something warm and enormous drags across her forehead. She recoils. “What — help!” Aaron grips her hand before she can let go, laughing. “Wait, wait. Let me help you up.” Moooo. She knows that sound. She can’t believe it. “Is that a cow?” Standing just behind them, enormous and calm, is a cow with dark-pink markings. “Don’t tell me that’s—” “Bernardita,” he says. “Berr-narr-dita,” she corrects, smiling as she reaches out to rub the animal’s smooth, warm side. “Who is the prettiest cow in the whole wide world.” Moooo. “Wait,” she says. “You said animals. Are there more?” “Right behind you.” Heigh! She spins. The most beautiful horse she has ever seen stands at the tree line. “What’s his name?” “Ismael.” She makes a face. “That’s a strange name for a horse.” “I’m joking. His name is Josco.” Her eyes go wide. “Of course it is. But how do you know that?” He reaches into the air — she doesn’t quite see from where — and produces two fresh carrots. “He likes these.” She stares at the carrots. “Where did those come from?” He shrugs. “Same place as Josco. Try it.” She feeds him, and the horse’s expression, somehow, looks like gratitude. Then the sky shifts. A dark mass of swirling particles rolls in from the edge of the trees. The animals bolt. Isabel’s hands go cold. “Should I let go?” He looks at her steadily. “It’s up to you. But this too shall pass.” She wraps her free hand around his arm. “Okay.” They stand in the eye of it together as the black particles churn around them. She can feel his pulse through their joined hands. When she finally speaks it’s quiet. “I wish you had said something. When we were younger. In high school.” He exhales slowly. “I know. I wish that too.” “Maybe it wasn’t our moment.” She pauses. “Maybe our time will still come.” “I pray to God it does.” She leans in and puts her arms around him. When she looks up over his shoulder the storm is already fading, dissolving like smoke, and in the clearing it leaves behind stands a small table for two — green cloth, two candles, warm light. He pulls out her chair. “Dinner is served.” On her plate: a Cuban sandwich. A can of Coca-Cola. In the center of the table, a bowl of pecan butter ice cream with two spoons tucked into it. Then rain. “Seriously — rain now?” She raises both palms. “Sorry. It happens here sometimes.” She notices she can’t feel it. The rain lands on him, soaks through his shirt, runs down his face — but not a single drop touches her. She watches the water trace lines down his jaw, his neck, into his collar. He doesn’t explain it. He just reaches across the table and refills her Coca-Cola. “There’s something you’re not saying.” He nods slowly. “I come from a version of things where we aren’t speaking.” She waits. “I got frustrated. Said things I shouldn’t have. Made promises I meant but couldn’t keep.” The rain thickens. “You taught me that only actions matter. I’m sorry for that version of me.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Be patient with me,” she says simply. “That’s all I ask.” She looks at him across the candlelight. “I don’t regret coming here.” “It means everything to me that you did.” She glances at her watch. “You promised me three things.” “And here is the third.” “The sandwich? The ice cream?” He laughs softly. “Look at me and guess again.” She does. A long moment passes. “It’s you,” she says. He holds her gaze and says nothing for a beat. Then, quietly: “For as long as you’ll let me.” She holds his gaze. “I’d like that.” She checks her watch. Twenty-four minutes. “I have to let go soon.” “I know. My heart is always open to you. You know where to find me.” He squeezes her hand. “Happy birthday, Isabel.” Her eyes go wet. “Thank you, Aaron. For all of this.” “No — thank you.” They stand together. Her hand is warm in his, or maybe his is warm in hers. She gets close enough to smell his skin, which reminds her of a summer night that never quite ended. “You know something?” he says. “What?” “This is the first time since college that I’ve done something for your birthday. I always wanted to. I was always too afraid.” He looks at her the way the moon had been looking at the forest. “Doing this — for your forty-third — is another dream come true.” “If I hated you,” she says, “I wouldn’t do this.” She tilts her head and softly closes the distance. Their lips meet gently, their breath becoming one. Behind them, without either of them seeing, the black flower opens — slow and quiet, its petals flushing with color. Their fingers slowly untangle. A new tear slides down his face. A cold drop lands on her forehead. She didn’t wipe it away. Beep! Beep! Isabel wakes to the alarm and warm sun rays. Her hands brush across the white sheets and find her phone. She silences it. “8:25 AM, December 18, 2021.” Another birthday. Then — blip. A new message. “Hey, happy 43rd birthday. I have high hopes for twenty-six.” She smiles and types back: “Hey you! Twenty-six?”