Chapter 22 Diane #2
We play, the pieces sliding around the board, the dice rattling hollowly in the upturned lid of a tea tin.
The candlelight is uneven, tall and guttering on the table, low and golden at the periphery.
It makes the whole scene feel like something painted from memory, an image that will grow more beautiful and less precise with every telling.
It takes two turns for Sara to land on Nathan and bump him back to the start. “You first, Nathan,” she says, pointing an imperious finger.
Nathan considers. “When I was eight, I buried a time capsule in my backyard. It was supposed to be for the future, but I dug it up every week to check on it and add more stuff.” He shrugs. “I think it’s still there, full of dead bugs and baseball cards.”
Cassie raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a real secret.”
“Sure it is,” Nathan says. “You’re just not old enough to realize how embarrassing nostalgia can be.”
On the next round, Cassie is forced back to start by a ruthless move on my part. “Truth time,” I say, expecting a minor confession about failing a math test or stealing a cookie.
Instead, she leans in, the candlelight catching the shine in her hair. “Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I pretend I’m someone else. Not because I don’t like being me. I just want to know what it would feel like.” She glances sideways at Sara, then Nathan. “Just for one night.”
My heart lurches in my chest, but I keep my face neutral. Sara’s expression softens into something approaching reverence. “We all imagine other lives, Cassie. That’s how we survive our own.”
The game goes on. At every setback, another secret.
Sara admits to cheating at crossword puzzles by looking up the answers; Nathan confesses that he once lied about his age to get a summer job; Cassie reveals she’s never actually finished a single book assigned in English class, but always reads the ending first and then works backward.
My own confession, when it’s finally my turn, is that I used to write poetry but stopped when I realized I’d never be as good as my college roommate. The admission makes Sara cackle.
“Who cares about good?” she says. “Everything worth doing is better for being a little bad.”
As the storm ratchets down, the games shift to Checkers, then a round of Uno played by dubious rules.
Cassie nestles closer to Sara, their heads almost touching.
Nathan and I sit opposite, our knees brushing under the table every time we reach for snacks or cards.
With each accidental contact, a current passes up my leg, warm and a little illicit.
Sara bows, but it’s Nathan who puts on a show of mock outrage, challenging Cassie to a rematch.
As they argue, I find myself watching not just the way his hands move, quick and sure, but the way he pays attention.
He listens to Cassie’s questions, answers them without condescension, and when Sara looks tired, he’s the first to suggest a break.
He fits into the rhythm of us like he’s always been here.
At some point, the four of us fall silent, the only sound the hiss of rain and the rare, distant boom of thunder.
I study the faces around me. Sara, regal even when slumping in her chair; Cassie, eyes heavy, smiling at something only she can see; Nathan, head bowed, the curve of his neck lit gold by the dying flame.
My own heart is full, bursting with something new—not quite love, but the shape it will take if I let it.
I think about what Cassie said, about wanting to know what it feels like to belong somewhere else, even for just a night. Maybe that’s what we’re all doing here, testing out new configurations, hoping something fits.
For the next hour, we ride out the worst of the storm together, playing games by candlelight, eating too many cookies, listening to the wind try and fail to scare us.
Sometimes the thunder is close enough to rattle the glasses, and sometimes the rain softens, and we all pretend not to be waiting for it to start again.
Every so often, I catch Sara watching us, as if she’s seeing something that the rest of us can only feel. I wonder what she thinks, if she remembers what it was like to sit in the dark with someone you wanted to know better while the world around you tried its best to come undone.
Eventually, the candles start to burn out, dwindling down into tiny blue flames that battle against the encroaching darkness.
Sara notices the diminishing light first. “I keep emergency candles in the hallway closet,” she says, her voice softer now, tired in a way that makes my chest go hollow. “Diane, would you mind?”
“I’ll go,” I say, standing too quickly and setting the game pieces rattling.
Nathan unfolds from the chair beside me. “I’ll help.”
The hallway is a tunnel of shadow, narrow and lined with the old, heavy kind of wallpaper that absorbs noise and time. I lead with a tea light, its flame feeble but determined. Nathan walks just behind, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, which is animal, electric.
We reach the closet, and I balance the candle on a shoebox while I kneel to rummage through the bottom shelf. Nathan crouches beside me, and in the tiny pool of light our faces are inches apart. He smells like rain and the faint, honest sweat of someone who’s been physically afraid.
The shelves are cluttered with old batteries, more board games, a half-deflated beach ball. We’re both reaching for the back when our hands collide, and for a heartbeat neither of us moves. The air is thick, oxygen-poor, and my pulse is so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
He looks at me, not smiling but not backing away, and the light from the candle turns his irises a color I don’t have words for. His voice is a whisper, like the end of a secret. “Can I…?”
Before he finishes the sentence, the candle gutters and plunges us into darkness.
I gasp, a small sound absorbed by the encroaching shadows. My fingers tighten around his, my first instinct to hold onto something real in the suffocating blackness. I feel him stiffen, then relax, his warmer hand enveloping mine.
“Yes,” I whisper back, even though I am not sure what he was asking.
My heart hammers against my chest, each thump a question mark.
I hear him shift, then feel his fingers trace a path from my wrist up to the curve of my elbow.
A sudden flash of lightning illuminates the hallway for a split second, revealing his face inches from mine.
The sight sends my heart into overdrive, and I realize how close we are. Too close.
The walls of the house shrink around us, and all our pasts, all our futures, are crowded into this tiny closet space.
Time seems to still, stretching out and collapsing into the span of a heartbeat.
I am aware of everything—the whisper of his breath against my cheek, the faint scent of earth and sea on his shirt, the way our fingers interlace so perfectly.
Then suddenly, he's pulling me closer, his hand firm around my waist. My heart leaps into my throat as he leans in, his lips brushing against my ear. The words he whispers are lost in the rush of blood pulsing through my veins, but the tone sends a shiver cascading down my spine. It's not fear, but an awareness of the distance we’ve crossed, the line we’re about to blur even further.
His lips, warm and slightly damp against my skin, pull away, leaving a trail of heat that dissipates almost instantly. And then, he’s standing. He doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead, his grip tightens subtly as he helps me to my feet.
I find the candle box, thrust it between us like a peace offering. “Found it,” I say, and my voice is shaky, too bright.
He takes it, fingers lingering just a second too long, and then we’re walking, our shoulders bumping as we make our way back down the hall.
At the threshold of the living room, the light from the remaining candles casts our shadows huge and awkward on the wall. Cassie’s voice calls out, “Did you get lost?” and Sara, from the depths of her chair, just smiles.
We set the new candles in every dish and empty mug we can find, and when they flare to life, the room is just as before. Except, of course, it isn’t.
Nathan sits farther away from me this time, but every movement he makes feels charged with the memory of our moment in the dark.
I look at Sara, and for a second her eyes meet mine. There’s amusement there, but also a quiet understanding, as if she remembers what it’s like to live at the edge of possibility, half-wanting and half-terrified by what comes next.
We play another round of games, the four of us, but every time I reach for the dice or move a piece across the board, I feel the echo of Nathan’s hand against mine, the potential for contact humming just beneath the surface.
At some point, Cassie dozes off, her head on Sara’s lap. Sara strokes her hair absently, humming that same off-key tune from earlier. Nathan glances at me, and his smile is a promise, not of anything grand, just the next morning, the next game, the next time the wind picks up.
By the time the storm gives up, the house feels even quieter than before, a kind of hush that’s both earned and uneasy.
I check the clock on Sara’s mantelpiece.
It’s midnight, or thereabouts, though it’s hard to tell since the power’s still out, and the old pendulum sometimes loses the thread for minutes at a stretch.
Sara yawns, covering her mouth with her good hand, the other curled against her chest. “I’m calling it,” she says, her voice rough at the edges. “If I don’t get at least four hours, I’m no good to anyone.”
I help her stand, and this time she doesn’t protest. Nathan appears behind me, hovering just close enough to steady her elbow if she falters. We walk her down the hall, the shadows fatter and slower now that the storm has faded.
At her bedroom door, she leans in and whispers, “You two, don’t burn the house down, okay?”
Nathan chuckles, low and private, and I feel it somewhere in my ribs. “We’ll be good,” he promises, and Sara vanishes into her room, shutting the door with a soft click.
Cassie is already half-asleep, splayed across the couch in a tangle of limbs and blanket.
I tuck the throw under her chin and listen to her breathe, steady and rabbit-quick.
The candles are mostly gone now, puddled into a single trembling flame.
I sit beside her, close enough that I can feel her warmth, and wait for Nathan to reappear.
He does, silent as a thought. “I should go,” he says, voice hushed so as not to wake Cassie. “Looks like the road’s clear, and I need to check on the gallery… Make sure there’s no damage.”
I want to argue, tell him it’s safer here, but the words catch behind my teeth. He stands by the door, keys in hand, raincoat hanging limp and heavy over his arm.
At the threshold, he turns. “If you need anything, just call.”
I nod, because anything else would sound like begging. But the truth is, I am begging. Not for assistance or even company, but for something more elusive, the chance to lean into this new possibility, to let our paths veer closer without the fear of collision.
He hesitates, just long enough that it becomes a statement, not a pause, and then steps onto the porch. The air is shockingly sweet, the storm having scoured away all the dust and pollen, leaving only the cold smell of the ocean.
He’s halfway down the walk when I hear myself say, “Nathan.”
He stops, turns. The light from the last candle paints him in strokes of orange and shadow. I want to say I’m sorry for the weirdness, or for wanting him, or for being unable to do anything about it. But all I manage is, “Thank you. For…tonight.”
“Anytime,” he says, then he’s gone, swallowed by the dark and the faint hush of receding wind.
I close the door and lean my forehead against it. For a minute, I listen to the way the house settles, the waves beating a softer rhythm on the shore. Cassie mutters something in her sleep and rolls over, her hand searching for mine.
I take it and let myself imagine what might have happened in that hallway if no one else was around. I sit in the dark, heart hammering, the ghost of a kiss pressed to my mouth, waiting for the storm inside me to subside.
Maybe, by morning, it will.