into the back of the van to position my suitcase behind the passenger’s seat. “They” were three children. A boy, a girl, and an infant of unknown gender. All in car seats, all asleep. I pulled my hand back and watched the door close in front of me. As I slid into the passenger seat and pulled my seat belt across my lap I had the sinking feeling that maybe my time at Aunt Sara’s was not going to be quite as advertised. Words like relax , regroup , reprioritize seemed like they were about to morph into rediaper , re-dress , redirect , and regurgitate . Suddenly six months in Florida seemed like a really long time.
“Bend down and look at the statue,” Mark says. I bend slightly, peering at the figure of Cinderella. “Lower. Think six-year-old child.” I bend farther, nearly kneeling in front of the bronze statue, this one featuring Cinderella in her peasant dress. The soft splashing of the fountain to her left invites anyone with a penny to make a wish. “Do you see it?” he asks. I squint at the statue, looking into the folds of her dress and the curls of her hair for an answer.
“Mark, I’m sorry. I don’t—”
“Ella,” he says, kneeling just behind me. “Not at her. At the castle.” He places his hands on either side of my head, letting his fingers rest against the curve of my jawline, and tilts my head upward slightly. I look past her kerchiefed head to the mural painted on the castle wall. Then I see it. A crown, hovering there, just over the statue’s head.
“I see it,” I say, feeling his fingers on my neck, hot against my skin.
“See?” he says, letting his fingers trail through the back of my hair. He takes my arm and pulls me to standing. “She was a princess even before anyone knew it.” I turn to face him, feeling the mist from the fountain blowing over us in the breeze. He leans toward me, and I close my eyes. I feel the brush of his lips on mine, so soft that for a moment I’m not even sure if he’s actually kissed me or if I’ve just imagined it. The flags snap in the air overhead as the wind picks them up. Then the press again, a little harder, more solid, more sure. He places his fingertips on my jawline again, this time letting them trace the side of my neck and brush my collarbone.
I concentrate on kissing him back, moving my lips against his. And I realize that I do have to think about it, concentrate on it, because I find my mind wandering . . . back to the look on Luke’s face when he saw Mark walking toward us in the dark. And from there I start to think about Luke in general, that I told him to follow his heart. What a crock that is. Like I’m some sort of expert.
“That was nice,” Mark says, leaning his forehead against mine. He’s right. It was nice, not nice in the way that I want a kiss to be, but nice in the “having lunch with you was nice” or “she seems nice” or “a glass of lemonade on a hot day is nice” way. And I realize I should say something, too.
“It was,” I say.
“Ella,” Mark says, leaning back so that he can look at me, “I like you.” I tilt my head at him and wonder how that can be. How can you like something you don’t know anything about? But the way he says it with that earnest look on his face, which he seems to have about just about everything, makes me nod at him.
“Me too,” I say, and it’s true. I do like him. I like him, and kissing him is nice. And maybe for now that’s enough, because maybe letting someone know me past the costume, past this summer, past this very moment, is just too much. He leans toward me again, but I turn slightly so that I’m looking back at the castle. His lips brush at my cheek.
“You know, yesterday when I was walking down the aisle, I thought I saw someone.” Mark follows my gaze, looking up at one of the narrow windows in the towers. “Do you think it’s haunted?” I’ve been thinking about this all day, how sometimes things aren’t what they seem.
“Maybe by Roy
“Bend down and look at the statue,” Mark says. I bend slightly, peering at the figure of Cinderella. “Lower. Think six-year-old child.” I bend farther, nearly kneeling in front of the bronze statue, this one featuring Cinderella in her peasant dress. The soft splashing of the fountain to her left invites anyone with a penny to make a wish. “Do you see it?” he asks. I squint at the statue, looking into the folds of her dress and the curls of her hair for an answer.
“Mark, I’m sorry. I don’t—”
“Ella,” he says, kneeling just behind me. “Not at her. At the castle.” He places his hands on either side of my head, letting his fingers rest against the curve of my jawline, and tilts my head upward slightly. I look past her kerchiefed head to the mural painted on the castle wall. Then I see it. A crown, hovering there, just over the statue’s head.
“I see it,” I say, feeling his fingers on my neck, hot against my skin.
“See?” he says, letting his fingers trail through the back of my hair. He takes my arm and pulls me to standing. “She was a princess even before anyone knew it.” I turn to face him, feeling the mist from the fountain blowing over us in the breeze. He leans toward me, and I close my eyes. I feel the brush of his lips on mine, so soft that for a moment I’m not even sure if he’s actually kissed me or if I’ve just imagined it. The flags snap in the air overhead as the wind picks them up. Then the press again, a little harder, more solid, more sure. He places his fingertips on my jawline again, this time letting them trace the side of my neck and brush my collarbone.
I concentrate on kissing him back, moving my lips against his. And I realize that I do have to think about it, concentrate on it, because I find my mind wandering . . . back to the look on Luke’s face when he saw Mark walking toward us in the dark. And from there I start to think about Luke in general, that I told him to follow his heart. What a crock that is. Like I’m some sort of expert.
“That was nice,” Mark says, leaning his forehead against mine. He’s right. It was nice, not nice in the way that I want a kiss to be, but nice in the “having lunch with you was nice” or “she seems nice” or “a glass of lemonade on a hot day is nice” way. And I realize I should say something, too.
“It was,” I say.
“Ella,” Mark says, leaning back so that he can look at me, “I like you.” I tilt my head at him and wonder how that can be. How can you like something you don’t know anything about? But the way he says it with that earnest look on his face, which he seems to have about just about everything, makes me nod at him.
“Me too,” I say, and it’s true. I do like him. I like him, and kissing him is nice. And maybe for now that’s enough, because maybe letting someone know me past the costume, past this summer, past this very moment, is just too much. He leans toward me again, but I turn slightly so that I’m looking back at the castle. His lips brush at my cheek.
“You know, yesterday when I was walking down the aisle, I thought I saw someone.” Mark follows my gaze, looking up at one of the narrow windows in the towers. “Do you think it’s haunted?” I’ve been thinking about this all day, how sometimes things aren’t what they seem.
“Maybe by Roy
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