Chapters (30)
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Acknowledgements
- The Astronaut’s Son by Tom Seigel
I slid quietly into the chair and took a mental photograph of October’s expression so I would be able to notice if anything changed once she realized I had returned.
My hands were cold from standing outside, and I rubbed them together to warm them up before I touched her. Then I did what I’d done the day before. I slid my palms underneath her palms and closed my fingers around her fingers. And something did change. I saw it. The flash of a smirk, so scarcely perceptible, so minuscule a stranger would have never noticed it. But I wasn’t a stranger. I knew the subtle nuances of her face, and in that half an instant I saw it sneak up on her, and I saw her immediately pull it down.
She opened her eyes right away, and while the imperturbable facade was still visible, there was something underneath it, something I strove to name, but the only word that came close to what I observed was “amusement,” and that might as well have been an emoji. I had no idea how to interpret it.
I’d come with a pipedream plan: I was going to tell October about my art project, and she was going to think it was brilliant and want to work on it with me. But once I was in the chair, that topic didn’t seem right.
“You wanna know something?” I said, adlibbing. “I still keep a list of words on my phone.” I readjusted my hands so that I had a better hold. “Whenever I stumble across a good one, I add it to my file. There’s over a hundred now. And every time I add one, I think, I wish I could share this with October.” It happened again. A subtle shift. This time in the grip she had on my fingers. Her skin was alive. It felt everything. “It’s true. Whenever I’m trying to decide how I feel about something, I think of you. I try to see it through your eyes. I do it with songs, with art, with coffee shops and cheeseburgers and current events. You’re my filter and compass for everything. Anyway, I added a word this morning when I was talking to Eli, and it seems relevant. “Heliotropism.” It’s the tendency of plants to turn or lean toward the light in order to grow. I’m convinced the concept applies to humans too.”