This Is How I'd Love You by Hazel Woods Page A

the toe and the leather gives way easily. There are no toes in the way; no manly foot resides in these manly boots.
    Berto pulls his foot away from her reach. “I could ask what you are doing under the table, or why you are groping my boot, but I’m just going to ignore you.”
    Hensley crawls out from under the table. “Wait, Berto.” The smell of the cheese wafts up from the box and makes her stomach lurch. She bends over, grasping the table for support. Pushing the box away from her face, Hensley stands up straight.
    With her face ashen and her bare feet clutching the wood floor, she says, “Listen, Berto. I’m not like these people. I’m from New York. Manhattan. There are people of all kinds there. Just tell me. I won’t be shocked. And I can keep a secret. But I can’t pretend I don’t know.”
    Berto stands there, his cap nearly hiding his eyes, and smiles. “When you feel inclined to share your own secrets, then I will take your open-mindedness more seriously.” His eyes hold hers, even as she swallows hard, the nausea climbing into her throat.
    Hensley runs to the open window and throws up the oatmeal she managed to eat just an hour ago. She spits the leftover sour taste out of her mouth and watches as an eager fly lands on the small puddle in the dirt. Wiping at her eyes with her sleeve, she wishes Berto would just go. She cannot bear to turn and face him.
    Hensley closes the window and dries her sweaty palms on her skirt. The back of her throat is tight and she yearns for a sip of water. “Berto,” she begins, but the sound of her own voice is punctuated by the bang of the screen door.
    He is gone. She stands there, and her bare toes on the dusty wood seem at once bold and timid. She sighs and pours herself a cup of water.
    Dear Mr. Reid,
    The words form all on their own as she watches more and more flies gather and fuss over her pile of vomit.
    Things you should know to better imagine me:
    1. I am pregnant.
    The words, imagined in black ink on her own stationery, are suddenly all she can see. As if alive, they twist and curl, stretching into every corner of the room, under the table, across the floor, around the candlesticks. Like hungry predators chasing the scent of their prey, the words surround her, threatening to obliterate her entirely.
    Hensley closes her eyes.
    2. Also, I am losing my mind.
    Her stomach seizes again, threatening. She gathers her skirts in her hand and pulls the cloth to her mouth. Biting hard on the cotton and pushing her tongue into the bundle, she wills away the nausea. Finally, she opens her eyes and the words are gone, vanished. There is no longer any confessional wrapping the kitchen in black. She sighs again. Letting her skirt fall from her mouth, she busies herself with readying her father’s lunch.
    At first she blamed it on her changed diet. The small clutch of blackberries she’d picked from beside the arroyo. A bad tin of fish or an old egg. But the fear has been like a small black spot hovering in her peripheral vision all along. Now, nearly three months have passed since opening night and as noon approaches and the sun blazes, Hensley cannot deny it. Today marks the day it becomes true. The day her past transgression can no longer be ignored.
    She tries to distract herself by adding to her reply to Mr. Reid’s letter, but she can think of nothing more to tell him about herself that matters—everything significant is also unspeakable. It is as though her secret is burning her, charring her from the inside out, until she will soon be just ash. The black wispy remains of a fire that convey only its previous heat.
    She toys with the idea of simply creating a second, better self: one who is picnicking in Central Park, taking boat rides in the reservoir, seeing theater, musical reviews, and art exhibitions; whose clothes are a reflection of the highest style, whose hair is coiffed each evening as the noise of Broadway throws its joys and sorrows up to her; who does