Night of Cake & Puppets by Laini Taylor Page B

headlong when the endlessness of space asserts itself and there is no more down, only an eternity of up, and you realize you can fall forever and never run out of stars.
    Her face, my hands. Zuzana’s face is in my hands. My numb fingertips trace down her jawline and back into her hair – just far enough to curve around the column of her neck and – lightly, gently…
    …seize her.
    And kiss her.
    …
    …
    …
    And there’s no better way to thaw a face, as it turns out, than with another face.

12
    Like Chocolate
    Two AM text to Karou: *yawn stretch* Long day. Think I’ll turn in now.
    Four seconds later: THAT’S NOT EVEN FUNNY
    —Not even a little?
    —TELL ME SOMETHING GOOD RIGHT NOW
    —Let’s see. Something good. *taps pencil against lip* Okay: ghost peacock
    —???
    —Used my 2nd-to-last scuppy to make peacock tracks appear in the snow.
    —…of course. Um. Who wouldn’t…?
    —And when Mik saw them, fireworks exploded in his brain. And then he kissed me.
    —!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!kissing!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
    I start to type a response, but I haven’t gotten more than a couple of words in before the phone rings – as well it should, because this totally merits a phone call. I answer before the first ring is even finished. ‘So I’m totally going to make heart-shaped rock collections cool,’ I say. ‘Don’t doubt that I can do it.’
    There’s a pause, and then this voice that is not Karou’s says, ‘That’s uncanny, because I was just thinking of starting a blog that’s all photos of my hands making heart shapes around different stuff. Like dog noses and funny graffiti.’ And the voice that is not Karou’s is Mik’s, and for a second I’m paralyzed, my brain kicking into damage-assessment mode, but I pretty much immediately realize that I’m lucky. Very lucky. There were a million more embarrassing things I might have said, and anyway: Mik called me. ‘And balloons stuck in trees,’ he says. ‘And ducklings in bathtubs.’
    ‘And clouds shaped like handguns,’ I contribute.
    ‘ Yes . And lewd root vegetables.’
    ‘And kids on leashes. And really bad clown makeup.’
    And it’s like we talk on the phone in the middle of every night, it’s that easy, and by the end of the call we’re half-serious about the heart-hands blog, and, in spite of my efforts to hijack it in a misanthropic direction, it’s a sweet idea, and Mik presses on undaunted with things like ‘baby feet’ and ‘surprised ostriches,’ and I’m so glad .
    ‘I should let you sleep,’ he says. ‘I just wanted to say good night.’
    ‘Good night,’ I say, sleepy, and happy with this layer-cake happiness that goes from bone-deep contentment – luxurious and almost lazy, like a hot bath – to fizzing, sparkler-in-the-heart-hole happiness that’s waking up new parts of my brain and teaching them dance steps.
    Mik says, ‘And I wanted to make sure you didn’t think, um, that I…hesitated…before because I didn’t want to kiss you.’
    ‘No,’ I say, though I did think that – or fear it – for a few minutes in the rowboat. I get it now, though, and there’s not a molecule in me that thinks that kiss was forced or reluctant or lukewarm. The kiss. The kiss spoke for itself. It erased all doubt. ‘It’s okay. It couldn’t be orchestrated. It had to just happen.’
    ‘I’m glad it did,’ he says.
    ‘Me, too.’
    ‘Do you think…maybe it can happen again tomorrow? With dinner? No, I can’t wait that long. Lunch? No. Breakfast?’
    Oh, I guess so. I’m radiating lighthouse beams in my bedroom. ‘Yes please.’
    And we make plans and say good-bye, and I hang up. A few call-interrupts came while we were talking, and I didn’t check them then but I see now that they were Karou, a voice mail and a string of texts, the last of which reads:
    —Whyyyyyyyy are you torturing meeeeeeeee?
    —Sorry! Sorry! Mik called.
    And it hits me again. Mik