“Gross,” he screeched, using his shirt to dry himself. “You’re crying and snotting all over me.”

My tears turned to uncontrollable laughter and hiccups. I wiped my eyes and nose with my sleeve, and grabbed the baggie of pills from the coffee table. “Well, I guess since we’re staying in.” I popped two more, chasing it with what was left of my whiskey, before continuing to mash my wet face into Jack’s shirt.

“You’re sick,” he teased as he ducked away, a dark spot of moisture imprinted on the centre of his shirt. He swallowed a couple more pills and hoisted himself back up onto the couch.

I picked up my Polaroid camera and turned it toward Jack. His mossy velvet dress shirt was covered in sparkly planets. His hair was mussed from running his fingers through it repeatedly. Sitting on that oxblood sofa, he was bright and blurry among an endless sea of dullness.

Click. Whoosh.

Jack was watching me in silence, his mouth slightly agape as I floated aimlessly around the living room, grinding my teeth. I was moving in a stop-motion of sporadic jerks.

I approached him and climbed into his lap. He looked completely enamoured. I leaned in to kiss him and our teeth collided. Two rogue satellites barrelling toward one another, crashing and fragmenting. His tongue was dry and rough; all the moisture had been sucked from his mouth. He stood, and I wrapped my legs around him. He stumbled and we fell against the wall, knocking the mirror. It fell hard and fast, shattering as it made impact with the hardwood. He knew I was superstitious. Stopping, he stared at the cracked mirror.

I picked it up carefully, examining the damage. My face reflected in tiny shards. I threw my head back, bearing all my teeth. “Fuck!” I shouted.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck!” I turned to him.

“Fuck!” he shouted back.

We screamed “fuck” over and over at the top of our lungs until I dropped to the floor, grabbing the sparkly sticker paper. Ferociously, I cut the letter F and stuck it on the bottom of the smashed mirror.

“What are you doing?” Jack asked.

“Shut up.” I waved the scissors around. “You’re not the only artist around here, you know.”

“Be careful, lunatic,” he warned.

I howled, cutting the letter U swiftly. Then C. Then K. I returned the mirror to its hook on the wall.

I stood back to study my work. “Now, that’s going to be worth a fortune.”

Chapter 26

I had known James for as long as I could remember. He’d lived around the corner from me in a two-storey canary-yellow house with wooden shingles on the bluff by the ocean. His mother’s garden was notorious throughout all the neighbouring communities, earning her the nickname “the flower lady.” On days when the torrid sun hit just right, I’d stand in front of her garden for hours, admiring the multitiered flowerbeds, counting and grouping the varies species and colours as the water shimmered and shook just beyond.