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Jane says, “Screw it,” and pulls off her shoes.
Barefoot pink toenails in green grass, walking like broken glass and shrapnel’s not a thing, and yeah, maybe it’s not today. Jane in her black and white sundress, letting him lean on her arm maybe more than he needs to, even with the walking cast.
Central Park, on a perfect Tuesday in July.
There was a letter in a beat-up manila envelope in Jane’s mail three days ago. Chicken scratch writing. I’m in Makassar can not attend please buy a toaster or something high-caliber. Congrats on not being too dumb to lock it down. A. There was a hundred thousand in bearer bonds crammed into the envelope too. One of them had a bloody thumbprint over Lincoln’s face. It’s shaped like a little heart.
Jensen thinks it's adorable. Jensen may have problems.
Down in the grass by the edge of the lake, under the green canopy of the oak trees. Pooch with an old-school Polaroid camera, Jolene grinning, holding Lin Baby Junior Pooch in one arm. iPhone in her other hand, playing the Super Mario theme because Jensen has the worst taste in friends. He also suddenly wants to stomp some goombas.
Right, the present. Focus.
Polaroid shot, Clay under the tree, flanked by Emma, up to his waist, who’s wearing her black and pink tutu, Jensen’s aviators and a dead serious expression. Clay’s got a smile pulling at the corner of his eyes, wearing his last decent suit, one that hasn’t been shot up or lit on fire or dunked in the ocean, and yeah, they live violent, violent lives. In his next life, Jensen’s going to breed pigeons.
And then everything else is gone, all narrowed down to Cougar. Cougar with his beat-up face, hat tugged low. Rolled-up sleeves over his big brown forearms, grey vest nice enough that one of the girls must have picked it out. He’s smiling that lined up my shot smile, perfect little half-bitten grin, and, yeah, Jensen’s fucked for this guy.
Polaroid shot, Jensen grinning like a god damn moon cow.
“I, Jane Corina Jensen Corwin,” says Jane, abruptly, standing on her tiptoes, leaning in to press her lips against his jaw, “Do hereby give away my dork baby brother to this slightly chewed-up cowboy, on the condition he keeps him more or less in easily re-attachable pieces.” She’s crying, a little. Jensen grins at her, and she punches him in the arm.
“Dick,” she says. “Go marry your true love.”
Polaroid shot, girls playing Frisbee in their bikini tops and hockey tees and cutoffs. Curiosity’s been pulling them closer, until there’s seven or eight of them, cooing over Baby Pooch and leaning in to listen.
Cougar’s fingers close around his, blocked from everyone else by the angle of his hip. Clay clears his throat, and suddenly they’re both eyes forward, watching Clay’s mouth move, like somewhere in a hundred war zones where no one could hear jack shit. Have to watch Clay’s mouth form each careful word, like this is an order.
And yeah, it kind of is. Jensen grins.
“This is a good day,” says Clay. “And I learned that a long time ago, that sometimes there’s not enough of them, not even close, so you take them when they come. And this is a good day.”
There’s starlings in the tree, chittering. Clay’s looking past Jensen, past everyone. “And sometimes people will line up to make it worse, people will come at you. The world will have no reason to bring you down in ruins but it’ll do it anyway.”
“And that’s it,” says Clay. “That’s why we’re here, because when shit goes down, all we have is the people we love. That’s it. So you don’t let them walk away. That’s all.”
It’s not Mawwidge is what bwings us together today, but it’s something. And that is pollen in Jensen’s eye, thank you.
And then Clay snorts. “And by the power vested in me by nobody, basically, because why the hell did you think I was allowed to perform marriages, Jensen? I pronounce you married pains in my ass and Cougar, you should take point here.”
Cougar kisses him. Jensen kisses him back. Emma yells. The Frisbee girls cheer.
Polaroid shot. It’s awesome.
And later, it’s getting dark. Music from someone’s tiny iPhone speakers, and this has got to be the weirdest playlist anyone ever assembled. Neneh Cherry and Skrillex meets Springsteen and the Muppet Show. There’s Lebanese takeout and enough paper bags of bourbon to light up a platoon, an armoured carrier, all the zombies, if they had to start making moltovs. Jolene and Jane are dancing together with their shoes off. One of the Frisbee girls is sitting on Clay’s lap. “Love is the backbone of America,” she says. She’s petting the grey in his hair like maybe she could rub it off.
Jensen’s got Emma curled asleep on his chest, all bony elbows and perfect warmth, and he’s leaning back against Cougar’s chest. Cougar’s got his knees drawn up so Jensen can lean back, stretch out his busted leg. Six weeks and he’ll run again. He’s still got all his fingers.
Cougar hooks his chin over Jensen’s shoulder. Breathes out warm against his bare skin, and then tips forward to rest his temple against the bone of Jensen’s shoulder. One warm hand curving around Jensen’s belly, under his shirt where the scars are.
“Good?” says Cougar, very softly.
“Yeah,” says Jensen, and that’s all there is to say.