If you’d told me I was about to meet the love of my life, I would not have believed you for several reasons:
First, I was out in a bad way. My mates were all pissed at each other. Fame was rapidly tearing the band apart. Our US tour was filling our trousers with money but leaving each of us bone dry.
Second, I’d just fled from yet another successful show and could still hear thousands of women screaming my name, but I had to get out of there. It was too much. Felt like I was going looney.
Third, in my mad dash, I’d wandered into a graveyard and accidentally smashed my beer bottle into a telescope that I thought was a tree.
Fourth, the owner of the now-damaged telescope was a witchy-looking young American woman who was staring at me with eyes as cold as the moonlight that lit her pale face.
In her monotone, raspy voice, she asked, “What happened?”
Unable to form words, I stared at the lace-gowned woman, awestruck by her gothic beauty. In my stammering, my British accent gave me away because she said, “Oh, you’re one of them.”
Was there an air of contempt? I couldn’t tell. But I knew how to flirt with a fan, so I switched on the charm. “Oi, Paul Davies of Fourdust. Did you catch the show?”
Her nose wrinkled. Instead of replying, she knelt beside her telescope and removed a roll of tape from her satchel.
“Not a Fourdust fan, aye? By the looks of it, you’re into The Cure? Or maybe Siouxsie and the Banshees?”
I’d broken a leg of her telescope, snapping it like a twig. As she righted the instrument, the tape miraculously held.
“I don’t enjoy music.”
Fifth, I could never fall for someone who didn’t like music.
“How is that even possible?”
She shrugged and bent to peer into the scope’s viewer.
“Bloody hell, you are a wet blanket.” I nudged the shattered pieces of my bottle. “Is your telescope all right? I can buy you a new one.”
“Thanks, but Henrietta’s fine.”
“Henrietta? You named your telescope?”
Straightening, she smoothed the black skirts that swept out from her black leather bodice. I glimpsed fishnet tights on her calves, matching the fabric on her hands. “Yes, named for one of the greatest female astronomers who worked at the Harvard Conservatory.”
“So you’re a grad student?”
The goth girl gave me a once-over. Her smokey eyes stopped at my auburn pompadour hair that was extremely fashionable for a Brit pop-rocker in the 80s. Immediately, I was self-conscious. Her dark lace and chains starkly contrasted with my white shirt, khaki vest, and tan leather trousers with a jacket to match.
“You’re more intuitive than you look.”
I had two choices. I could either be hurt by her quick, dismal assessment of me, or I could shrug it off and try to woo this mysterious creature. I was Paul Davies, after all. Women loved me. I wasn’t about to allow one woman to defeat me.
“Well, you’re more witchy than I’d expect of a student.”
Her eyebrows’ thick makeup drew them closer together as she frowned. “Why are you wandering around in a graveyard breaking things?”
“Why are you in a graveyard at all?”
Her purple-painted lips flattened. “I take it back.” From her satchel, she produced a notebook and pencil. A glance at the sky, and then she was scribbling notes.
“All right, I see your game, Yankee Witch.”
Her shoulders twitched. Otherwise, she didn’t indicate that she’d heard me.
Lighting a cigarette, I leaned against a headstone. “You can ask questions, but I can’t. Here’s what I know so far. You’re a student—astronomy, I’m guessing? You dress and act as cold as the moon above, hoping people will leave you alone. This tells me you’re fighting for something, and this shell is the armor you put on to have the strength to battle. But because of my acute charm, I’ve gotten under your flawless skin. Aye?”
Ignoring me, she pressed an eye to the telescope. “What are the kids saying these days?”
“Another question,” I muttered.
“Eat my shorts.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. As the laughter peeled from me, something started to break inside. I couldn’t remember the last time I had actually laughed. Recording, press conferences, touring, rinse and repeat—it sucked the life out of me. I wanted to be rid of it. Had been for a while. Yet I felt bound to my mates, to our dream of making it big.
My laughter died as I thought of the band. They’d be wondering where I was.
Sober again, I took a drag of my cigarette. “Will you be here tomorrow?”
She nodded. “Tomorrow is the full moon.”
“Looks bloody full to me.”
“Not quite. Tomorrow. It’s a blue moon.”
“I hear those don’t happen often.”
An involuntary twitch of her lips gave away a suppressed smirk.
“Tomorrow then, my Yankee Witch.”
Don’t ask me how I managed to get back to my mates. But I did. And they were angry. I spent the next morning at a library downtown. We were playing in the same city, different venue, and I was two hours late for rehearsal. I only remembered to go because a pair of teen girls started stalking me through the stacks. When I tried explaining to the band, they blew me off. They just wanted the same Paul Davies that everyone wanted, minus the goth astronomy girl.
After the show, I fled again, this time in a cab.
The old stone parish cast a long shadow over the graveyard. Above, the moon was brilliantly white.
She was stationed further from the parish, in a row of crumbling headstones. Bent at the waist, she intently looked at the sky through the telescope.
“Henrietta Swan Leavitt,” I started as I angled through the rows. “Known as one of Harvard Observatory’s ‘computers,’ she was part of a group of women who cataloged the stars.”
The Yankee Witch jolted upright and whirled around. The whites of her eyes were wide against the swaths of black smeared across her skin.
“You did your homework,” she said flatly.
“And you sound as enthused as my fifth-grade maths teacher.”
“Get more than one question right, and maybe I’ll give you an A.”
“How ‘bout a name, Yankee Witch?” I bent to take a look in the telescope but was swatted away.
“Don’t touch Henrietta. You’ve done enough damage.”
Raising my hands, I took a step back, yet grinning all the while. “How’s this for lessons? This moon isn’t just a full moon but a blue, which occurs when there are two full moons in one month.”
She opened her mouth.
“Ah, not done. In March, it’s called a ‘Worm Moon.’ Pretty good, eh?”
Turning to her notebook, she kept her eyes down. “In Old English, it’s known as the Chaste Moon, referring to the purity of the spring season. Do they not teach Old English at your boarding school anymore?”
Another laugh escaped me. I’m not sure why this killjoy had such an ability to make me giddy. It didn’t make sense.
Unless…
“Full moons are known for making people go, well, looney.” I made a goofy face.
“Alright, teen wolf.”
“See? You’re funny.”
She snapped the notebook closed. “And you’re a distraction.” Shoving the items in her satchel, she grabbed the hefty telescope and started marching away, black skirts swishing.
“Oi! Where d’ya think you’re going?”
“Away.”
Extinguishing my cigarette, I jogged after her. “C’mon Yankee Witch—”
“That’s not my name.”
I took her elbow, stopping her. Beneath the thin lace, her skin was cold. I shrugged off my brown leather jacket. “Here, you’re shivering.”
Recoiling, she clutched the telescope tighter.
“I know, wearing black and brown is a fashion—”
“No, stop.” Lips quivering, she said, “You were right. This is my armor, and I cannot let you in. There’s too much to lose. So, please, go away.”
“Look, I can’t tell you if it’s the full moon or some spell you cast—”
“I’m not a witch,” she stated. “My name is Andie. Andrea King.”
The second I heard her name, the stupid love songs I’d written finally clicked.
“Andie…” I whispered. “Don’t you see what I have to lose, too?”
When she didn’t answer, I began to wonder if I was wrong.
“I thought you saw past the stage version of me.”
Trembling in the cold, telescope clutched against her leather bodice, Andie kept her eyes down.
Suddenly feeling foolish, I turned on my heel to dash away, but my shins connected with a tombstone, and I went sprawling into the dirt.
There was a flurry of black skirts and lace gloves near my head, helping me roll over. Groaning, I asked, “I looked gnarly, right? Please tell me I didn’t look like a fop.”
“Paul, are you all right?”
With Andie’s help, I sat up in the dirt and brushed bits of grass out of my no longer immaculate hair. “My pride hurts more than my shins.”
Taking my hands in her own, Andie scooted closer, her skirts now covered in dirt. “Paul, my mom gave up everything for a man. You know what she got?”
Gazing into her gray eyes, I saw a crack in the armor. I shook my head.
“A dead-end job and raising a kid by herself.” Idly, her long fingers played with the chains around her slim neck. Her eyes flicked to the stars. “We’re from different worlds, you and I.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Andie sighed, disagreeing.
“No, Andie, listen to me.” I took her fingers from her neck, gripping both her cold hands. “Moon or no moon, I am all in for you. It doesn’t make sense. But I’m here. I’m here, ‘spite of everything I have to lose. Don’t you see that?”
There was a pause as she stopped to consider. “Yes, Paul, I see what you have to lose. That terrifies me because I will not give up my dreams for another person.”
“I’ve never asked you to.”
“You don’t know what my dreams are.”
I shrugged. “My guess is to be like Henrietta. She was pretty bitchin’.”
A bright, clear laugh like a bell echoed from Andie’s throat. All the money, women, booze, and whatnot that fame brought could not compare to that sound and the smile that finally broke through this stoic young woman’s armor.
I knew for certain at that moment that I would give it all up. For her.
Reaching for each other, our lips met in a kiss.
Maybe it was the full moon. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was pure happenstance. I couldn’t tell you what it was. But I knew I would spend my days writing love songs about the fever of full moons.
I pulled back just to see the smile that now spread across Andie’s beautiful face.
“What?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“What is it that Shakespeare writes about Juliet being the moon?”
Again, that clear, bright laugh. “I wouldn’t advise using that quote. Romeo compares her to the sun and cites the moon as being envious—”
“I’m sorry I asked.” Chuckling, I leaned in to kiss her again. “Wait!”
“Oh what now?”
“Do you at least like Queen? They’re beyond radical! They’re—”
“Yes, yes I like Queen. Now just kiss me, lover boy.”
“As you wish.”
As an author, Alexandra Rexford enjoys writing stories with wit and romance, including a dash of danger. In a perfect world, she would spend all her time writing, reading, sipping hot cocoa, and snuggling with her dogs.
Featured image by Matthew Ansley on unsplash.
