until she and the love of her life made promises to be together forever. Ben had felt the same way. They told each other last Christmas, lying in each other’s arms on an old mattress in the attic of Ben’s house.
“But you’re the love of my life,” Ben had said, smoothing Sage’s hair back from her eyes.
“And you’re mine,” she had whispered.
Even now, feeling him push the hair back from her face as he kissed her forehead, cheeks, and nose, she knew those words were true. Last Christmas, knowing they were years too young to get married, they had decided to make love. Their love was real. It was building so fast, they couldn’t keep up with it.
The time came: during school vacation, during the week between Christmas and New Year’s. They were so excited, so positive of their love. Taking off their clothes in Ben’s attic, with his mother at work, they had all the time in the world. Sage had loved the way their skin felt, so hot under the thick quilt, as if their bodies had been born to be together.
Ben had bought condoms. Ripping open the foil package, unrolling the latex sheath, had made them laugh. What business did foil and latex have under the covers of their magic bed? Sage and Ben loved nature, and the coming together of their bodies seemed pure and right. Condoms got in the way.
They used them for a while. Ben bought them at the drugstore. He kept them in his wallet, along with his driver’s license and high school ID. Other boys in school carried them as badges, proof of having sex. Not Ben. He considered condoms private, personal, rude but necessary. And then, one day last spring, he and Sage had made love without putting one on. The sensation had been incredible, intense, so different from anything they had ever felt before: heat, skin, dark wetness, passion.
“Too many clothes,” Sage whispered now, jolting along in the train, wishing she and Ben could be under the covers of their magic bed, skin touching everywhere, their hearts beating together.
“I know,” Ben said.
“I want to feel you closer,” she said.
“Me, too,” he said. Unzipping her jacket slightly, he slid his arms inside. She still had on layers of shirts and sweaters, but it was better than nothing. Sage craved more contact, just as she needed to hear him say he loved her. More and more, she needed his reassurance, his closeness, his words, his body.
“Do you—” she started to ask.
“Do I what?”
Love me?
she wanted to whisper, but she stopped herself. She felt needy and pathetic. Hadn’t he just told her that morning? How many times did he have to say the words in order for her to be convinced?
It was so hard to believe that people’s love for each other could last. Just look at her parents—they had been so madly in love. She could tell by the pictures, the way her mother talked, the secrets her aunt had told her—and for the past thirteen years, they’d been apart for good.
Surreptitiously, she touched the spot between her collarbones. Slipping her fingers under her shirt, she felt for her two-faced necklace. There was love in the stones and bone; there was power in all the jewelry her mother made. Her mother said she didn’t know why, but she couldn’t deny it. She had taught Sage never to be falsely modest. If you had a gift, you had to bring it forth, not pretend it didn’t exist. And her mother had told her there was more power and love in Sage’s necklace than any other she’d ever made.
Sage wondered. With all her problems, she couldn’t deny that she had love. Ben was with her, wasn’t he? She had a wonderful aunt, a grandfather and step-grandmother in Wyoming, but what about her father? Cards and letters and boxes of arrowheads were one thing, but why wasn’t he sending her plane tickets, begging her to come out? And all Sage and her mother did these days was fight. The sudden thought of her mother was so strong, so vivid, Sage actually swooned.
She nearly passed out, but instead