Page 20 of To Catch a Firefly

“Yes,” I say.

“And sometimes, we’ll email.”

I nod.

“But we’re not done,” he says vehemently, stepping into my space. “We’llneverbe done. Me and you, we don’t have an ending.”

And what do I possibly say to that?

When I open my arms, Lucky falls into them. At some point in the past couple years, he grew into a man, but right now, with him tucked against me, his head under my chin, it feels as if we’re boys again. Just two young boys with no responsibilities or duty, in a time where dreams ruled the waking world.

But we’re not boys anymore, are we? The world spins, and with it, we move forward.

“I’m going to miss you, El,” he finally says, voice cracking alongside my heart.

I wipe my cheek before pulling back. “Tell me,” I say.

So he does. The pair of us sit side by side on the overgrown grass as Lucky tells me about his new position stationed out of New York City. He tells me about the second interview he just arrived home from and how he checked out an apartment there before he flew back. He tells me about his first assignment in Norway and how he can’t wait to see the fjords. And the more he talks, the more animated he gets, and the wider his smile. It’s good, seeing that. It’s right.

He’ll move later this week, and he promises to visit lots. “You better visit me, too, Ellis,” he says, sounding stern.

I cross my heart, and Lucky snorts.

“Promise me something,” he says suddenly.

What’s that?

“I need you to be happy,” he says. “Promise me you’ll be happy here.”

“I will,” I tell him. I like it here. I always have.

He nods, swallowing and looking away. When he looks back, he says, “I have an idea. Feel like trespassing for old time’s sake?”

I huff a laugh, and Lucky’s smile widens.

Before we go, I stop inside to check on my mom. She’s already set up in bed, reading before sleep. Even though she insists she’s fine, I get her a small snack and a glass of water, leaving both on her nightstand. Once I meet Lucky back outside, we head toward my truck.

Lucky rolls down the window as I drive, and I can’t help but glance at him as we bump down the dirt roads. There’s an ache in my chest every time I catch the corner of his smile, but I do my best to ignore it.

I park a ways down from the house with the windmill, in a spot where my vehicle won’t be visible from inside any of the nearby homes. The sky is only just now darkening, so Lucky and I are extra careful to sneak our way across the property, and I feel more than a little ridiculous while we do so. It seems worth it, though, when we crawl up onto that platform at the top of the windmill. The sky is lit with pink and orange tonight, and through the small, open window, we watch the colors spread and dissipate like we did so many years ago.

“Do you remember when we were twelve,” Lucky says, “and you convinced me to race our bikes down the rows of corn behind Mrs. Brown’s house, and we almost didn’t make it out in time before the combine harvester came through?”

I stare at him, unimpressed.

“Yes,” he insists. “Youconvincedme.”

We seem to have very different recollections of that day. I remember racing after Lucky, who thought it would be fun to tempt fate. Any Nebraskan raised around these parts knows you stay out of the fields when the harvesters are running.

Lucky simply chuckles as he knocks his shoulder into mine. He nearly gave me a heart attack that day, but I admit it’s made me extra vigilant when working the land now.

“Remember…the mud slide?” I ask him.

Lucky barks a laugh, his eyes sparkling. “We were sixteen,” he says. “And they were doing construction down by the railroad.”

I nod. It had been raining really hard for days when we stumbled on the fenced-off construction site. We only meant to take a peek, but then we noticed a huge mound of dug-up dirt. And, well, when Lucky found a piece of perfectly bent sheet metal, we had to ride it down the hill. A few times.

Lucky’s whole body shakes as he laughs. “We got so dirty, we had to hose each other off outside your house,” he says, wiping his eye. “I had mud up my ass.”

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