29 Ginger
29
Ginger
I knew I should let go of him, but I didn’t want to. It was bitter cold, but his hand was warm, his skin soft. And big. And it fit perfectly in mine. I had never imagined something so simple could be so comforting. I could feel my nerves in my stomach, but at the same time, it was all familiarity and closeness.
A contrast. He was full of contrasts.
We barely talked as we walked through Camden, enjoying the sights, enjoying being together on our own. Rhys flipped through some albums in a huge shop full of records and old tapes. I peeked in the window of a tattoo studio as I chewed on one of the arepas we’d purchased.
“You like anything in there?” He leaned close beside me.
I looked at the designs and shook my head. “No. Anyway, what do yours mean?”
“How do you know I have tattoos?”
“I saw you. With your shirt off. In Paris.”
Rhys smiled. Slowly. “And you couldn’t forget about it…” he joked.
“Idiot. I’m not blind.”
We continued walking. I ignored my desire to take his hand again, instead sticking mine into the pocket of my chocolate-brown coat.
“Which one are you asking about?”
“I think… Didn’t you have one of a little bee?”
He smiled, stopped, and lifted his sweater, revealing a small bee just above his hipline.
“Why?” I asked again, looking up.
“That’s my first one. I was basically a kid, but I saw it as, like, an homage to life. Don’t you remember what Einstein supposedly said? ‘If the bee disappeared off the surface of the globe, then man would only have four years of life left.’ If there’s no pollination, there’s no seeds; if there’s no seeds, there’s no plants, and without plants, there’s no life. Plus, I like bees.”
“You never cease to amaze me…”
“I assume that’s a good thing.”
“So you won’t see your family for Christmas?”
“No. I haven’t been back home. What will you do?”
“You know, same as every year. We’ll have lunch, give each other presents and cards, put up the mistletoe. Dad will make the same old jokes…”
“Your parents seem like good people,” he said distractedly.
“They are, more or less. I don’t have any complaints. Don’t you miss your folks, Rhys? I mean, if you hadn’t had a fight with them, would you still be living this way…?”
“I don’t know. I always liked traveling.”
“Did you travel much before?”
“No, I was home more.”
I looked down at the sidewalk as we headed toward the Tube station. I remembered when we’d done something similar in Paris almost a year before. Sitting together. Our legs rubbing every time we took a sharp turn. Him pensive. Me nervous.
It was already getting dark when we were out again and walking across side streets on our way to see Big Ben. Rhys stood there looking around, leaning on the wall in front of the bridge across the Thames.
He glanced over at me. The wind shook his hair. “You never asked me about your gift…”
“I thought this was it,” I replied.
He turned and rested his hip against the wall. “This?” He looked confused.
“You. Being here with me.”
He smirked. “I know that’s every girl’s dream, but…”
“You’re about to make me scream.”
“Sorry. I won’t make you wait anymore.” He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out his cell phone and earbuds. He untangled the cable, slightly frustrated. Nervous. I could tell then that this moment was important to him. He looked up. “It’s a song.”
“For real?” I came closer to him, excited.
“Yeah. ‘Ginger’ is the title.”
“You wrote a song for me?”
Rhys nodded and pushed my hair out of my face, putting one earbud in my right ear while I slipped the other into my left. I got lost in his eyes as the first notes sounded. It was bass. Just bass. A rhythmic thumping, constant and clean, and then more sounds, more notes joined it. It sounded sad and happy at the same time. Like a vine climbing some solitary forgotten place, covered in flowers, but also in thorns.
No one had ever given me such a beautiful gift.
When it was over, I asked him softly to play it again. He laughed and pulled out the earbuds.
“It’s yours. Forever.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was in LA, someone offered to buy it, but I decided not to sell. You can listen to it till you get tired of it. I’ll send it to you. Promise.”
“You really turned down an offer for it?”
He shrugged. “There are famous DJs out there who buy other people’s compositions. They’ve got the reputation; other people have good material. Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll put it out on my own.”
“Why this song?” I asked.
“It’s based on your heartbeat. Your pulse.”
I remembered it then, his fingers on my wrist on that long-ago night, searching for my pulse, memorizing it in the darkness.
We stared at each other in silence.
He was so close…and, at the same time, impossible to reach.
Mist was blowing from his lips, mingling with the mist from my own. He stepped toward me and gave me his hand. I accepted it, not quite knowing what I was doing. He walked on, across the bridge, toward the Ferris wheel further off. I memorized him, his long steps, the oval shape of his nails, which I ran my fingertips over, his height, his square shoulders…
Then I realized something.
“Are we going where I think we’re going?”
“Didn’t you want to go up in that damned Ferris wheel?”
“Didn’t you say it gave you vertigo?”
“Yeah, but no one calls me a coward.”
He had a curious look on his face. I laughed. The trees around us were decorated with white and blue Christmas lights. Rhys seemed nervous as we waited in line. The cold was intense that night, and there were fewer people than usual. I looked up in the sky as the first snowflakes fell, small and ephemeral, vanishing once they’d touched the ground.
He didn’t let me go as we got into one of the compartments along with two other couples, all four of them tourists. Rhys kept one hand on the railing and his eyes focused on the glass until we reached the top. Then he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.
“You’re missing everything, Rhys!”
“I fucking hate heights,” he grunted.
“Come on, do it for me. Just for a second.”
He took a deep breath and blinked. He saw the river twinkling beneath us, the glimmering lights, the starless sky.
“Shit.” He looked down.
“Why’d you come up here?”
“For real, Ginger?” His eyes were daggers, and I giggled, which did nothing to improve the situation. Fortunately the tourists were on the other side of the capsule. “I just can’t take the way it keeps turning. Distract me. Tell me something.”
He turned to me, still gripping the railing, his chest rising and falling as he panted, his eyes staring into me and trying to ignore everything around him.
“When I was little, I used to have silkworms…”
“That’s not working. I need out.”
“Rhys, relax.” I grabbed his hand.
“Fuck. Do you not get vertigo?”
“I do,” I whispered.
“Really?” He took a deep breath.
“There are many different types of vertigo.”
That got his attention. “What kind are you talking about?”
“There’s kind that makes you shiver right before you do something crazy.”
“Ginger…”
I didn’t let him say anything else.
I stood on my tiptoes. And I kissed him.
I felt his lips against mine.
His hands creeping down my waist.
His rapid breathing…the taste of him.
I felt all of it in that instant.