55. The Fear of Fading Magic

Out of Order. 

The yellow sign on the elevator mocks me and my suitcases. 

Seriously? Again? Apparently swanky and shithole apartment buildings are both susceptible to broken elevators. 

I look around the entrance hall, willing someone to walk around the corner and take the sign down, declaring the elevator fixed and fit for use. 

Nope. It’s still just me and my suitcases. 

I’ve done it before, I steel myself, rolling my shoulders and cracking my knuckles. I can do it again. 

Fifteen miserable, sweaty minutes later, I shove my suitcases through the front door and stumble in after them, nearly falling flat on my face. 

“Jesus, Andy, I would’ve helped you.” 

I look up and see Doug coming toward me from the kitchen. 

“It’s okay,” I wheeze, leaning over with my hands on my knees. “I got it.”

He rolls his eyes. “Clearly.” He jerks his head in the direction of my room. “Go on,” he says. “The sooner you shower, the sooner we can eat.”

Grinning and still panting, I straighten up. 

“What? Are you saying that I smell?” I lift my armpit and stalk toward him. He backs up, hands lifted like trying to calm a wild animal. 

“Oooh no, you keep those stinky ‘pits to yourself.”

I snort, and surrender, honestly too tired to do much more than shuffle to my bathroom. 

“Ok, fine,” I say over my shoulder. “But I’ll warn you now, I’m gonna be a ravenous beast when I get out.”

“Two frozen pizzas, coming right up,” he calls back, heading for the kitchen. 

I freaking love Doug. 

The shower is amazing, the water so scalding, it feels like I’m burning the grime from my skin. One by one, my muscles relax. My thoughts slow down. My breaths even out. 

When my skin starts to prune, I know it’s time to leave the magic of the shower and go back to real life. Thankfully, real life is seeming pretty magical right now. Cozy in my favorite sweats, I flop on my back in the middle of my bed. My eyes blink tiredly, but my grin doesn’t dim a single Watt. 

There’s no way this weekend actually happened. But the small of my back still tingles with the phantom touch of Miranda’s hand, and I swear I can still feel my thumb stroking the unexpected softness of her hip, the quiet solitude of the moment unbroken by the thousands of people screaming around us. 

Magic. 

The smile she gave me as Taylor sang about a dangerous, inevitable love haunts me. My breaths start to come faster, my hand clenches on the bedsheets. 

What if tomorrow starts the freeze out all over again? 

Then it’ll be enough, I tell myself with forced determination. If that is the only moment where she and I are an ‘us,’ it will be enough. If we never acknowledge it ever again, I’ll hold onto that treasure in my dying grip. 

But I still can’t help dreaming for more. 

I swing my legs to the floor and get up. I can’t spend my time freaking out about what might or might not happen. I grab my laptop and bring it back to the bed. The document, not anywhere close to empty, stares back at me. 

I take a deep breath and position my fingers over the keys, ready to dive back into the story of Catra and Adora and their doomed, fated love, and the question of whether heroes are really the good guys. 

What started as a small spark of an idea a month and a half ago, has grown into a small community of enthusiasm over the course of thirteen chapters. It’s been a much needed release, and something I didn’t realize how much I missed until I got back to writing again. I don’t have a lot of time for it, but I make the time. On my phone while on the subway, trying not to get dizzy from the jostling of the train, and laying in bed, my eyes squinting at the too bright screen, the clock ticking away the few hours I have until my alarm demands I get back to work. 

No matter what the circumstances, I finish each chapter with a smile on my face, and a sense of rightness in my heart. Now, I’m desperate for that feeling and to set aside the anxiety elephant that threatens to sit on my chest. 

But for the first time in weeks, the words don’t come. My brow furrows, and I hunch over the keyboard, determined to put something on the page. 

Ten minutes pass in stiff, uninspired silence. 

I slam the laptop shut and make my way to the kitchen. There are only a few dishes in the sink, but I roll up my sleeves and get to work. 

If I can’t write my way out, I’ll just have to lose myself in chores. 

Doug’s head pops up from over the back of the couch. 

“Hey, if you’re not gonna crash, you have to tell me about the concert!” he says, pointing at me like it’s an accusation. “I’ve been dying for details, Andy!”

I huff out a laugh. 

“Okay, fine,” I give in. “But you have to put on some Taylor Swift music and come help me. Seriously, I leave for a few days and you let the place become a pigsty?” I gesture to the mostly empty sink with dramatic flair. 

“Oh, as if your old place was ever this clean,” he jokes, rolling his eyes. He gets up and turns on the Bluetooth speaker. 

Soon, any anxiety about whether the magic of the Eras Tour has been all used up is lost to stories, laughter, and an impromptu splashing war with sudsy dishwater.