Take What You Can Carry by Gian Sardar (superbooks4u .TXT) 📕

back on the path, she catches the garden’s reflection in the windows. Faint, like an echo.

“Olivia,” he says. “I lied.”

When she turns, he’s still kneeling on the ground, looking down at the books. But he must feel her there, a shift in the air with her return to him.

“About the code,” he adds and stands, brushing his hands on his pants legs. Studying the indents of rocks left on his palms, he continues. “My mother. When I called her to say we might come, I think she said not to.”

Her heart speeds up, even with the edge of meaning. “You think.”

Now he looks up at her. “I know. She was saying not to come.”

Their night in Baghdad. Would you blame her? If she let us come when it wasn’t safe? That look, how concerned he was—it wasn’t his mother he worried would be blamed. It was him. Everything’s falling into line. His doubt in Geneva. Wanting to send her home when they were in Baghdad. The surprise on his parents’ faces. His fight with Soran their first night here.

“That’s why they didn’t know we were coming,” she says. “It wasn’t because the phones were tapped and you couldn’t say. It was because they said not to come.”

He gazes past her, toward the roof. “The phones are tapped. That’s true. But what I believed was that it was okay. That they didn’t see the reason to spend money on a trip. Always she wants me to save, so that was why, I thought—nothing to do with safety. She was being a mother. Telling me over and over again not to spend the money.”

Olivia’s words are slow. “Could that have been her way of saying it wasn’t safe? To not come?”

At first he doesn’t answer, just continues to watch the roof. Then he nods. “I realized that later. I don’t know. Maybe part of me knew then.” The last part spoken almost to himself, an admission he hasn’t fully accepted or understood. When he finally faces her, he’s resigned. “But I see it now. It wasn’t just you I lied to. I told myself it was fine. Because if it wasn’t—how could I think that? How could I value myself more than them? Why should they be here and I be too good and stay away?”

She says nothing, and in the silence, he takes a step toward her. Beyond him, a palm tree’s lower fronds hang broken in the night. “But it wasn’t just you.”

At this, he stops. “I know. You’re my regret. That I took you here. When I was gone, all I could think of was what I’d done. Even now, I look at you and it’s there. That day. The restaurant. What you went through that you will never get over. Because of me.”

The picnic. The fight they’d had prior. She’d thought he was callous—but he was angry, with himself. Not just that she was still lost in what had happened but that there’d been an event in the first place. “That wasn’t your fault. And I wanted to come. It was my idea. I convinced you to go—and wouldn’t let you turn around.”

“But I should’ve known. I know better. Even if it is safe, you can’t predict. One day to the next—nothing is sure. But it felt like fate. You and me and the wedding, and I wanted it so much, I didn’t think.”

He swallows, hard, and looks up at the stars. At first she thinks it’s guilt that averts his eyes, but then she sees the wetness on his cheek.

“Do you know,” he asks but stops. His voice, meant for the stage, for convincing, for reaching last rows and even the unimaginative, has suddenly gone small. “It sounds horrible to say. Stupid. But you told me I didn’t want to feel and no, don’t apologize, because it’s true. But it’s because of this: I will love everything too much if I allow it. Everything.” He swipes at his face and turns to her. “A tree, Liv. A tree. A stream of water. I look at it and it’s perfect. How could it be more perfect? And people. How sad and scared they are. All of them. And I’ve seen how it ends. Even a tree.”

She places her hand on his arm, the spot where the fabric of his sleeve meets his skin. “None of that is stupid.”

“You were right, though. About not doing enough.”

“Delan, I did not mean you didn’t do enough. Only that you feel that way.”

“And I do. I do feel that way. I didn’t realize it, though. Not when you said it. So I hit back. What I said to you, though, that I didn’t believe—not even then. You were right to tell me what you did. And I will do more. I decided. I will put it in my art. The poems, Liv. The epic poems, I thought of them while I was away. I’m going to find a way to put them onstage.”

Now she touches the scar by his eye, bright with water. “I love that.”

“I knew you would. I kept seeing it in my mind while I was gone—not the show but my telling you.” A pause, and once again he studies her. “I just need you to know that never would I take you somewhere I knew was dangerous. Because what might happen, Liv. Even I don’t know. A raid, it could be soldiers looking at papers, searching a living room, a basement, looking for someone. But it could be more.”

More. They’re at a precipice. The edge of something. Something that could simply be one step down or might be miles. She realizes she’s sweating. In this night heat, with the constriction of meaning and possibility. Because now they’re preparing for something that at best won’t occur and at worst she can’t fathom. And yet, almost irrationally, all she feels is relief. Simply for having pushed through what kept them apart.

“You should talk to Lailan,” she says. “You two are