May 2085: five days

Natty and Charlie are 20. 

Soundtrack: "Leaving on a Jet Plane" by John Denver, as performed by Chantel Kreviazuk

Warnings: totally, totally NSFW! ;)

They had five days, and because they only had five days, they would spend them in bed. They would sleep more than they needed, refuse to get dressed, never stop kissing, never lose touch. They would cry when they felt like they wanted to, and neither would make the other feel like a wuss about it.

They undressed, and before they started, she said, "Let’s not talk about it tonight. We’ll talk about it more in the morning."

So they didn’t talk. They made love.

Then they slept.

Four days left.

They got in the shower.

Together.

They didn’t dress, just put on clean pajamas.

They cuddled and tried to forget.

Tried, anyway.

"Stop," she said. "You're making it worse."

"Sorry," he said.

So they distracted themselves instead.

They laughed. They spent more time together than they normally would.

Even he had exhausted himself on giving her attention.

"It’s okay, Charlie," she said. "Go build something for a little bit. I mean, it’s not like if you surgically graft yourself to me that I’ll change my mind."

But the truth was, he was starting to change her mind.

"Okay," he said.

"But I hope that doesn't mean you'll stop being sweet to me."

"Nah," he said. "I’ll be sweet to you again later."

He would kiss her whenever he felt like it, as much as he felt like it.

Panic. Because her heart told her to stop, turn back, change her mind. Her heart told her this would ruin everything, break everything. Her heart told her it could never be the same again.

Her gut told her to stick to the plan.

She didn’t know which to listen to.

So she called her mom.

Her mom said, "I’m worried about you. Just come visit, I want to see you. Then you can go back if you want."

"Okay," she said.

That sounded reasonable enough.

Reason over heart.

They showered again and put on clean pajamas.

They slept and they woke.

Three days.

In the morning she talked of summer jobs and friends and the beach and other things she wouldn't be here for.

“Eat your cereal,” she said.

“I don't feel like it,” he said.

“It’ll be okay,” she told him. “Isn’t there anything you ever wanted to do on your own?”

He thought about this. “I don’t know. Maybe fix up an old motorcycle.”

Her grin was both full of wonder and worry. “You’d look so hot on a motorcycle."

She would kiss him whenever she felt like it, as much as she felt like it.

"But promise me you’ll wear a helmet. You have to wear a helmet. Every time.”

“Okay,” he said. “I promise.”

They didn't finish breakfast. They went back to bed in the middle of the day.

First he couldn’t sleep.

Then she couldn’t sleep.

“What? Why are you sad, this was your idea! You don’t get to be sad.”

“I’m allowed to be sad,” she said.

“I don’t understand why you’re doing this if it makes you so sad.”

She wasn’t sure what good could come of telling him the truth, but she told him anyway because she always told him the truth. “Partly I want you to talk me out of it. But partly also, I know we’re going to be sorry later if you do.”

“What do you want me to say to that?”

She huffed. She scooted across the bed and they stopped fighting.

“I’m sorry,” he said, scooting back to her, pulling her in.

“You can be sad if you want. I’m sorry, come here.”

Two days left.

"Four months is a long time, he said. Can I have pictures of you?"

"You have plenty of pictures of me."

"I mean, a different kind of pictures."

It was scandalous, for a minute.

"Okay," she said.

"Now your turn," she said.

"Um, what do I do?"

"I don't know, do something sexy."

He didn’t know what to do, so after one attemptedly sexy pose, which he was sure didn’t work out, he started to dance and flop around and she laughed so hard she fell down.

So he fell down with her.

She climbed onto him, and they kissed and squeezed and pulled and cried out and wore themselves into each other on the floor.

Then they collapsed and fell asleep there, all sweat and sex and carpet burn.

The last day, her phone rang. Her friends wanted to say goodbye.

So they went out.

He came out with her, and he met her friends, this phantom of a boyfriend alive on her arm, and she could almost forget she'd ever wanted anything else.

Her friends said, "Charlie, you're like a goddamned celebrity! You’re all she ever talks about."

They had fun.

It was almost like the way things used to be.

Almost.

"Don’t be a stranger," Benny told him. "We're gonna meet up this summer. Lakeside Beach, baby!"

They made plans for the beach, for summer jobs, for movies, for parties, for all the things she wouldn’t be here for.

It made him want to cry.


"I had fun, did you have fun?"

"Yeah," he said.

"You’ll get to know them, then it won’t be so terrible."

"It wasn’t terrible," he said.

She laughed and smiled like she'd forgotten already that she was leaving him.

At home that night, she finished her packing slowly. She floated around the room putting things into her suitcase like she didn’t know why she was doing it.

"I won’t try to talk you out of it," he said.

"You won’t?"

"No."

She sat down on the bed and started to cry.

He touched her hand. "Not because I don’t want you to stay, but because I don’t want to be the reason you didn’t go, if it turns out this was really something you needed."

She buried her face in his chest. "Why do you have to be so damn smart all the time?"

"You go visit your parents, and hang out with Hilary, and do whatever you need to do. And when you’re ready to come home, I’ll be here."

"Home," she whispered. When she smiled at him, it was too sad to be considered a smile. "I love you, do you believe me?"

"Yes," he said. "I love you too."

They went back to bed. They kissed. They slept and they cried and they made love.

And when they woke, five days were gone.

He drove her to the airport like she'd asked him to.

Push me higher, she said. And he did.

He sent her off into the sky.

—