Either the Beginning or the End of the World by Terry Farish Read Free Book Online Page B

swam back to her seal family in the ocean.
    Luke leans in toward me, his head on his fists. His green, bleary eyes are staring at me like I’ve got something mysterious he could use. I can’t turn my eyes from his. He says, “I’d like to try on a sealskin. Get out of this skin.”
    Then I pull back. We both do. He calls for another beer. I hug my coat around myself, chilled beside the black windowpane. I say, “Since this threat of seeing my mother, I keep having these flashbacks about her.”
    His eyes narrow, like I’ve become dangerous. “Did something happen you can’t let go of?”
    â€œJust moments. Just smells. What about you?” I say. “I want some secrets, too.”
    He downs half the new glass of beer. He says, “Zurmat. Paktia Province.”
    I know these names. Afghanistan.
    â€œSo you’re back, you’re not going.”
    He nods. “I think about going back, all the time.”
    â€œWhat did you do?” I say.
    A tiny squinting of his eyes. He had shaved. But I can see a shadow in the valley over his lips. “Medic,” he says. “Cordon and search missions.”
    I don’t know what that is. “I’ve seen photos of Afghanistan,” I say. I place myself in a classroom with Mr. Murray showing photos on the screen. “Mountains and valleys,” I say. “They need to irrigate the little farms.”
    His eyes shift to mine. “You’re so pure.”
    I don’t know what to say. I just nod. Then, “I need to go.”
    â€œI know,” he says.
    â€œWhere do you live?” I say.
    â€œNear Rye Harbor. A winter rental. One of those cabins. That’s why I got this habit now of coming down here and walking the strip. Not much life, but enough.”
    â€œMy father lived in one of those winter rentals. It had everything. Near Rye Harbor? The ones in a horseshoe by the stone ledge?”
    â€œYeah,” he says. “It’s fine.”
    It’s not.
    I can tell from his face. He doesn’t want to go back to it. I’m not pure. I feel like I’m old, like the way I felt when he took off his sunglasses and dared me to look at him on the beach.
    â€œWanted to say thanks.” He is standing.
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œBad night, that night. Thanks for stopping. You could have run for your life.”
    I stand to go, too, even while I’m pretending we are going back to his cottage, in the center of the horseshoe of cottages. From there it’s a short walk to a stone breakwater reaching out to the Isles of Shoals.
    His phone beeps.
    He zips his coat over his sweater and answers.
    â€œYup,” he says. “No problem.” Puts the phone in his pocket.
    â€œDon’t tell my father,” I say.
    â€œTell him what?” Luke says. He’s distracted. He doesn’t look at me.
    â€œThat we’re doing this. He thinks I’m perfect, that if he warned me, I would never do this.”
    At the door, he looks at me. Straight on. We are so close I imagine the hardness of his jaw under the shadow of beard.
    â€œWe’re not doing anything,” he says. He shoves his hands in his pockets when we step into the wind.
    â€œWhy do you say it that way?” I ask.
    â€œI don’t want to get used to you,” he says. His jaw has hardened, and he moves ahead of me. He had not hesitated. But I know why he’s trying to put dark and space between us. I can name a dozen reasons why we should not get used to each other.
    I catch up but let it be. We walk across the boulevard, our chests and hair quickly layered in snow. I am aware of his body and my body. He is barely two inches taller. Something happens to my walk. I feel it in my toes and my heels as my boots make silent prints beside his. I feel every part of them, making an arc as I am simply walking.
    I’m already used to him.

FLYING
    I get home at midnight from Dunkin’ Donuts and