“I guess, the worst part . . .” It wasn’t good to talk about the bad parts. (And not because the crows were listening as well as watching.) (Not just because of that.) “You shouldn’t focus on the bad things,” he said. “Because you draw them toward you. Happiness is about focusing on good things and drawing those things toward you.”
She closed her eyes tight. She wrinkled her nose. Bits of dust fell on her cheeks.
“What—” he started.
“Shhhh!” she shushed.
His voice dropped to a whisper: “What are you doing?”
So did hers: “I’m focusing on good things.”
“Like what?”
“Rain.”
“Rain?”
“Good things,” she whispered. “Rain. Mud. You.”
His heart jumped. (He had a heart.) “Me?”
She closed her eyes even tighter. “You . . . coming back tomorrow, with Starbucks.”
“Behold the power of positive thinking!” she shouted before he was even over the hedge. He’d worn a gap in the shrub there and beaten a path down to the riverbed.
“Hello, you,” he said, sitting down with a drink carrier.
“Hello, Adam.”
“I brought two Frappuccinos, and before you ask which one I’d pick for myself, they’re both caramel. Because I would pick caramel.”
“Hmm.” She stuck out her lower lip. (It wasn’t a surprise; he knew she had lips.) (It was still good, though.) “I like having a choice.”
He handed her a caramel Frappuccino. “But you always pick the one I like best.”
“That’s part of what makes it delicious! The microaggression.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah!”
“Well, I brought you something else.” He took a venti cup of water from the drink carrier and dumped it on her.
She gasped.
It ran nearly-not-dirty streaks in her possibly black (possibly dark green?) (or a kind of brown?) hair.
And then she laughed more than he’d ever seen her laugh before. “You made me spill my Frappuccino!” she said, still laughing, tears burning tracks through the dried mud on her cheeks.
“You can have mine,” he said.
She took it. She drank it all. She licked the whipped cream out of the domed lid. Then she dropped the cup into the riverbed.
“Hey, give me that,” he said. “I’ll recycle it.”
“Oh, Adam.” She laughed until her cheeks were sticky.
He was lying on his back with his head in the dirt. He couldn’t even see her like this. There were crows circling overhead. It didn’t matter, there were always crows.
“Adam?”
He felt something tugging at his foot.
When he sat up, he saw that his shoelace was undone. She’d never touched him before. Or his shoelaces.
He raised himself up on his elbows to look at her. She’d pulled herself to the edge of the riverbed. He’d never seen her so far out of the mud. It cracked and puckered around her.
“Hey,” he said, “don’t do that.”
“What’s wrong?” Her face looked strained. All this effort seemed painful.
“Don’t do that,” he said. “Get back.”
She huddled back into the most fetid part of the riverbed. Away from him, away from her rock. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t bring coffee,” he said.
“It’s okay, I don’t need coffee. Tell me.”
Maybe he should just tell her. Maybe he could . . . “There was a Tragedy on the road today.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s okay,” he said. And it was okay. It would be okay. He was okay. “Tragedies just happen sometimes,” he said. (It was what people said after a Tragedy.)
“Yes,” she agreed. “Some things are unavoidable.”
“Yes,” he said. But that wasn’t true. “I mean, no. It’s not like that. Tragedies on the road happen even when they don’t have to.”
She was still looking at him. She was still confused.
“They could be avoided,” he explained. “But we don’t avoid them.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t explain it!” he shouted at her. (He’d never really shouted at her.) “It’s part of living on the road! It’s a small price to pay!”
“Okay, Adam.”
“You live under a bridge!”
“I know.”
“You wouldn’t understand!”
“Fine, I don’t understand!”
He stood up; he scrambled up the side of the dry riverbed. “I’m going to get coffee.”
“Is Starbucks even open? The Tragedy—”
“Starbucks is always open!”
“I’m sorry I shouted at you,” Adam said.
She was lying in the darkest part of the mud. If she thought he couldn’t see her, she was wrong. He’d gotten really good at seeing her.
“I brought Frappuccinos . . .”
He walked to the edge of the riverbed and set down a drink carrier and an armful of snacks. There were chocolate-dipped graham crackers. And bagel balls with cream cheese in the middle. And special coffee-fighting breath mints.
Then he sat back from the pile. In case she didn’t want to come anywhere near him. “I got Java Chip and Midnight Mint Mocha. I’d pick the mint.”
She was lying on her back. He could see the mud rising and cracking with her breath.
“The worst part of living on the road,” he said, as evenly as he could, “isn’t the crows. Or the Collapses—you’ve probably heard about the Collapses. It isn’t even the Tragedies . . .”
Her eyes were closed.
“The worst part of living on the road,” he said, not very evenly, “is that you can’t fall down. If you fall down, you fall off.” No, that wasn’t true. He’d never lied to her. “If you fall down, they push you off. If someone falls, we push—”
Adam leaned forward. His elbows were on his knees, his head was hanging. He was—he couldn’t stop—
He heard her dragging herself through what was left of the sludge. A heavy slither.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t want her to see him like this.
She pulled herself between his ankles.
She rested her head on the ground beneath his tears.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“Coffee first,” she said, “then talk.”
He was hurrying down the path, skidding on the gravel. He was late. He’d been getting something ready.
She was in the middle of the riverbed, where there was still a little mud. Her arms were reaching out to him. “Remember yesterday when I said I don’t need coffee? That was wrong—I do need coffee. You can never stop bringing me coffee, Adam. I’ve just cursed you, sorry.”
He held out two iced drinks. “I didn’t think bridge trolls could curse people.”
She took the macchiato. “Hmm. I guess you’re right—that’s fairies, isn’t it? Why do fairies get all the fun?”