It's Saturday, eleven thirty-four in the morning, and I'm counting the times Bree has barged in my room to ask me how much longer until I'm done. So far, five. Next time I'll have a pillow ready to kick her out and teach her some patience.

I've always needed to keep track of certain things. My mind finds solace in knowing how many minutes I've spent without talking to Dad. It finds comfort in learning to create space for his voice to come and fill my aching chest to the brim. I've never gone longer than twenty hours—that'd be one thousand and two hundred seconds waiting for relief to course through my body.

I've counted the steps I take to reach the school gates so I can grab my yellow bike and pedal the crap out of there if I'm feeling paper thin.

I've drawn tiny hearts on the upper left side of a calendar I keep stashed inside my fairy tale book every time River texts me—we've swapped phone numbers and talk daily.

Sometimes I'm talking to Dad and my cell buzzes, so he fades away. I hope he's not mad at me for spending time with my... Damn it. I still don't know how to call him.

I think of how he called me his girlfriend a week ago, and my heart rate speeds to inhuman velocity. We haven't kissed yet, which brings a duality of sorts. I want him to kiss me, but I have no clue if I will know what to do when the moment comes. I have to confess the web hasn't been as educational as I'd hoped it would. Googling 'how to first kiss tutorials' was the epitome of vicarious embarrassment—for the ones in the video and for me being pathetic enough to click on them.

My cell buzzes, and I know it's him. Even my stomach knows it's him, as it somersaults in anticipation. He's been texting me around midday lately. That's the seventh time in a row he's done it.

His brief missive makes my fingers cramp and my heart leap. I misspell my stupid reply, erase and retype it three times before sending it with a defeated sigh. What are you doing to me, watery boy?

It's true, I'm helping my sister on an assignment for school. She has to bring images of small birds and look for information about their habitats and diet. Bree had a meltdown over dinner yesterday about the whole venture. Our printer was older than dirt and after years of faithful service it kicked the bucket. Having no money for a new one, I suggested she could draw them.

I said, "It's not that complicated," and she said, "Really? Bet you can't draw one." "Bet I can," I said. 

So here I am. 

It looks like a fat fairy.

Clover bumps me on the leg, and I rub her head as I send him a snap from my phone. 

There's this recent smiling habit I've developed around all-River's-things-related that won't cave. Not even now with the sun breaking through the peavy clouds warming my neck through the window of my bedroom making me uncomfortable—it still creeps up my face and perseveres.

I'm staring at the screen, and I'm grinning so much my face could split in half. Clover snorts, wanting attention. That makes two of us, girl, get in line. I pat her on the head, and she rests her body against my left side, which only contributes to more sweating on my end. I take one look at her and remember all the reasons she's so important to me. I let her be, she can smother me all she wants.

A buzz brings me the answer to my last text and another dorky beam.

I gasp at my comment, staring at the screen five seconds too late.

I can't believe I typed that!

Blood rushes to my cheeks. My bed complains from all the jumping, and my failed attempts at a hummingbird that lay strewn across it join the chorus. They whisper, "Well, are you bonkers? Have you lost all your chlorophyll, ferny girl?"

Sorry guys, anxiety must have its way out.

He's still typing. I can see the three dots, but I have to come up with something else, to cover up for my blunt message. I need to see it disappear from the screen. Can't have it there, imprinted on my damn chat. If I type anything else, it will vanish from sight. As if it never happened. A new buzz, and my room ticks over. I think I'm going to be sick.

Ah. There goes nothing. My fingers type as silent squeals nest in my cowardly throat.

How could I forget? The memory of that ghastly event replays and I grimace. The one silver lining was my knight in a black T-shirt, saving the fat damsel in distress.

Yet another buzz and I'm adoring this new sound.

It's as if it meant, "Oh, my! Fuzzy, creepy new emotion."

"What to do with it?"

"Swoon, shiver, breathe."

Survive a date with you and your voice and a whole constellation of possibilities I can't even list even if I wanted to? Speak for yourself!

The engine roaring outside gives him away. I peep through the staircase window that overlooks the main entrance and watch him get off his matt black motorbike. The way he looks in his ripped jeans and combat boots has me gaping, and no, I didn't look at his bum—okay, maybe a little.

With a swift move, he takes off his helmet to reveal his tousled curls. The wind picks up and off they float in all directions and I know the clouds are whispering his name, hence the sudden breeze.

River saunters to the door. Damn it, even his casual stroll is sexy. He's wearing a black leather jacket, too. I can hear a dozen of my neurons imploding after a glance of him in that thing—brain cells don't reproduce, so thank you watery boy for making me dumber.

Mom opens the door and lets him in. I've already explained 'a friend from school' is coming to pick me up. The most awkward compendium of words I've ever said to her.

She didn't put up a fight, which was surprising at first. Then I realized why: the boy standing in front of her is living proof her fern child can still make friends. See, Mom? Humans dig flora after all.

The relief in her face is so obvious I find it insulting. I dig my nails deep into my palms until the pain makes it impossible to focus on anything else.

Her gaze is all over River. He looks calm and collected while I want to dissolve into the uneven wooden planks of my living room and change my name to Floor Gray Brooks.

"So, where exactly are you two going?" There it is, her Mom senses tingling. She scanned him with x-ray vision and found him unworthy of a courteous greeting. He doesn't seem affected at all, and I couldn't worship him more for it.

"The lake, Mom." I almost bark my reply, my eyes turned to slits while hers are stolid. I thank the heavens Tommy and Bree are asleep or they'd be asking many uncomfortable questions too.

"Can't you walk there?" Mom ignores my snort and stares at River pointing over his shoulder. "Is that motorbike parked outside yours? Is it safe?"

"It's safe, Mrs. Brooks. I have my license and brought a helmet for Dawn." Listening to my name on his lips brings a fresh wave of alien hiss-hiss-crackles that burn in places I didn't know I had.

Normally, when someone calls Mom 'Mrs.' she says, "Oh no, call me Lidia," but this time she doesn't. There's more ice in her gaze than the iceberg that sank the Titanic.

She never used to ask where I was going, or how. She's being hard on herself, I can tell. I close the distance between us and wrap my right arm around hers. She yelps as I squeeze her tight to say, 'Mom, don't. It's okay.'

She sighs. "Okay, but you ride that thing like a saint, River!"

He nods, tossing his curls, and my heart thud faster with each bounce. "I'll ride it like JC himself, Mrs. Brooks."

Mom's eyebrows fly up, her mouth twitches, and my flutters drown. He shouldn't mess around anymore. I want more chapters in our story, for crying out loud!

"Glad we are on the same page," Mom says. I wish I could tell her how accurate that comeback was.

We drive along the street—my arms gripping his waist; the moon rising over us. She whispers to me, "Only lovers left alive tonight. Ride safe. Soar high. Be like me, sugar cane."

River's bike thrums under me. I'm aware of his back pressed against my chest. I'm holding on so tight my fingers go numb. Not my heart, though. Here it is, thumping wildly to the beat of his steady breathing.

The oak trees move past us. If I concentrate hard enough I can hear them whispering too, "Isn't that the ferny girl from the lake?" "Isn't he the watery boy who took a chance on her?"

I want to tell them they are right, but River would freak out. He wouldn't understand my reasons or my voices. I hug him instead.

We ride past a house with a tiny barking poodle, and people inside, and I can't help play Dad's game. I imagine their conversations, invent their stories. I wait for him to come and do the voices as we always do, but he remains silent. My eyes water in anxious fear and the wind dries them so fast they don't roll down my cheeks. We pass a blue car before it turns onto the next street. There is a song playing inside the vehicle. The driver is heading to the movies or to his warm home where the wife and kids await. Chuckles and dinner. Hugs and memories to save in a little drawer inside his chest.

Before I know it, he's in my head and breathing eases.

"Here is the turn. Lean into it, Dawn. Feel the wind over your wings, baby bee."

Yes, Daddy.

He fades away too fast. Maybe he's not mad. Maybe he wants me here. At this moment. Here. In this story unfolding.

We cross the roundabout and head to the lake. River parks the bike by the sleeping tree that holds the rickety wooden single swing I sat on that first time I saw him. He holds out his left hand and I grab it, ignoring the trembling of mine. His plump lips curl up a little and I notice his Adam's apple bobbing under his olive skin as he swallows hard. I swallow too. Because the electricity in the air is so sharp it might cut right through our skins as we pick our way down the familiar path.

The earth is chilly, so we lay our jackets down as rugs. River rummages through the scrub on the forest and comes down dragging branches in both hands. I sift through bushes and find kindling.

I stare at the bones of the fire: crumpled papers from a class copybook, twigs, snapped branches, bigger ones. A nice, real teepee ready to burn.

He steps back and stares at our creation. "Now, that's a fine structure, Miss. Gray."

"Award-winning, no doubts," I say, a smile creeping its way up my face.

"Prime real estate." He chuckles in delight.

"Twelve out of ten." I'm beaming.

We light the paper and watch the fire feast, tentatively at first, then snapping and popping. It licks and crackles. It wants us to understand how fragile we are. How our hearts can melt under the intensity of this moment.

Mr. Fire is right. We are nothing other than an arrangement of elements. Collapsible. An array of empty atoms ricocheting underneath this starry sky.

My gaze finds River's silhouette. Drawn in shadows. We are ghosts made of flickering, fickle light. Does he know that? Can he tell?

I stare at the flames once more and flashes from my childhood invade my thoughts. I remember how I loved helping my dad to build a fire for his famous barbecue Sundays. I'd throw cone pines and watch them twist and morph into red coal. We'd sit by its warmth, he'd grab his acoustic guitar and some s'mores and he'd tell me endless campfire stories.

When Dad died, Mom thought about turning him into ash. I was so scared. I had seen how fire worked... Once burnt, there'd be no magic space for Dad's body to go—but it didn't happen. That's why I can still talk to him.

"I'm right here, baby bee. In the shades of the sleeping oaks. In the moon's twilight. I have gone nowhere."

Yes, Daddy. Here you are. I can hear you. If only that were enough...

A branch breaks underneath the pressure of River's boot. The noise brings me back to him. I try hard to stay rooted in this moment, so I focus on what's around me.

Blink.

The rustling of the branches from the trees unwilling to wake up.

The path with its cold, smelly gravel.

Blink.

River's voice telling me he's brought snacks.

My voice telling him I brought drinks.

Dad fades away, and I stay with River. We sit by the fire and eat crackers with cheese dip, and we drink hot lemon tea from an old thermos I found in one of Mom's kitchen cabinets.

The tinkling of the lake, and the two of us crunching and sipping fill the air.

We talk a little, we watch the flames. It's like they are magical, and I say that, "It's like they are magical, River." Damn it, I should know better than blurting weird things out. I should scan them through my brain to see if they make sense enough to say out loud.

River turns to me. "I was thinking something like that, too."

"Really?" My heart melts amid the warm cadence of his voice.

"No," he says, giving me a sheepish grin a second after.

"I wish I could explain, but my thoughts are sometimes too many," I say. "They rush in and slip away."

"Like our time together." He scoots closer to where I am. So close, the minty scent from his words invade my nostrils, taking no prisoners.

Is this real? Can this be happening to me?

"How so?" I ask instead.

"It's never enough." He lingers on that last word. His voice is raspy. Barely above a whisper. There's a galaxy in his gaze. I want to be an astronaut and wonder about those lights forever.

I don't know what to say next, so I keep quiet. In the silence, he says, "I thought it was just... uncomplicated. This. You. Here." There it is again, his smoldering ways—and this might be the first time anyone has spent time with me like this.

We gaze at the fire once more. It makes shapes for us to marvel at. Part of me wants to detach and step inside it. Lift with the flames.

I imagine us from above. A tall boy and fidgety girl. They seem happy.

Are you happy, Dawn?

What about Dad?

Is he happy? Is he?

Is this better? Is it?

Life alters in the blink of an eye. Fire reduces us to nothing. Dad's ashes are not in an urn or scattered by his favourite fishing shoreline. He's underneath the soil I'm digging my nails in. He is the gravel I'm trying so hard to root into.

I don't have time to be happy. I have to find him.

Something dark inside of me blossoms. It says, "You are not real."

It's true. I'm a leaping molecule. I'm the fire flushing River's cheeks.

The fire pops, showering sparks. He reaches across my body instinctively. "Whoa!" he says.

An owl hoots, and I slam back into my skin, my body, my bones.

My face is warm. My mouth inches from his. It finally happens. He leans in and presses his soft, plump lips onto mine. They are full of sweet and salt.

I reciprocate with the little knowledge I have. He sighs into my neck and whispers my name and kisses me again. His long fingers twirled around a lock of my hair as his tongue prods mine. I thrust out a shivering hand and brush my fingertips against his stubble as I float in this delicious in-between.

I close my eyes and place my other hand on his chest. His heartbeat is there. It whispers with each beat, "Take it for now; take it in, Dawn. Hold it, this trembling, borrowed time."