Linger by Maggie Stiefvater Page A

remember the first time we came up here?” she asked as I sat there, half-alone in the darkness of my closed eyes.
    It wasn’t a question meant to be answered, so I just smiled.
    â€œDo you remember how you made me close my eyes, and you read me that poem from Rilke?” Grace’s voice was closer; I felt her knee touch mine. “I loved you so much right then, Sam Roth.”
    My skin tightened in a shiver, and I swallowed. I knew she loved me, but she almost never said it. That alone could’ve been her birthday gift for me. My hands lay open in my lap; I felt her press something into them. She closed one of my hands over the top of the other. Paper.
    â€œI didn’t think I could ever be as romantic as you,” she said. “You know I’m not good at that. But — well.” And she did a funny little laugh at herself, so endearing that I nearly forgot myself and opened my eyes to see her face when she did it. “Well, I can’t wait anymore. Open your eyes.”
    I opened them. There was a folded piece of computer paper in my hands. I could see the ghost of the printing that was on the inside, but not what it was.
    Grace could barely sit still. Her expectation was hard to bear, because I didn’t know if I could live up to it. “Open it.”
    I tried to remember the happy face. The upward tilt of my eyebrows, the open grin, the squinty eyes.
    I opened the paper.
    And I completely forgot about what my face was supposed to look like. I just sat there, staring at the words on the paper, not really believing them. It wasn’t the hugest of presents, though for Grace, it must’ve been difficult to manage. What was amazing was that it was me, a resolution I hadn’t been brave enough to write down. It was something that said she knew me. Something that made the I love you s real.
    It was an invoice. For five hours of studio time.
    I looked up at Grace and saw that her anticipation had melted away into something entirely different. Smugness. Complete and total smugness, so whatever my face had done on its own accord must’ve given me away.
    â€œGrace,” I said, and my voice was lower than I’d planned.
    Her smug little smile threatened to break into a bigger one. She asked, unnecessarily, “You like it?”
    â€œI …”
    She saved me from having to compose the rest of a sentence. “It’s in Duluth. I scheduled it for one of our mutual days off. I figured you could play some of your songs and … I don’t know. Do whatever you hope you’ll do with them.”
    â€œA demo,” I said softly. The gift was more than she knew — or maybe she realized everything that it meant. It was more than just a nod to me doing more with my music. It was an acknowledgment that I could move forward. That there was going to be a next week and a next month and a next year for me. Studio time was about making plans for a brand-new future. Studio time said that if I gave someone my demo and they said, “I’ll get back to you in a month,” I’d still be human by the time they did.
    â€œGod, I love you, Grace,” I said. Still holding the invoice, I hugged her, tight, around her neck. I pressed my lips against the side of her head and hugged her hard again. I put down the paper beside the Subway crane.
    â€œAre you going to make it into a crane, too?” she asked, then closed her eyes so I could kiss her again.
    But I didn’t. I just stroked the hair away from her face so I could look at her with her eyes closed. She made me think of those angels that were on top of graves, eyes closed, faces lifted up, hands folded.
    â€œYou’re hot again,” I said. “Do you feel all right?”
    Grace didn’t open her eyes, just let me continue tracing around the edge of her face as if I were still pushing her hair away from her skin. My fingers felt cold against her warm skin. She said, “Mmm