Free Even If the Sky Falls by Mia Garcia

Miles, my other hand reaching up to his neck, fingers brushing his hair, breath steadying. My eyes open and follow my hand down our path. “That way.”
    â€œYou sure?” he whispers, hands coming fully around my waist turning me to face him.
    I catch him calculating our route in his head, brow creasing. “Don’t think,” I whisper. With a finger I erase the horizontal lines across his forehead. “Please, just trust me. Whatever the night brings.”
    His grip tightens around my waist. A silent yes.
    W E STEP BACK out onto the streets, feeling the beat of something just around the corner. Miles’s phone buzzes again. I pull it out of his reach.
    â€œNo phones.”
    â€œNo phones?”
    â€œNo interruptions, just you and me and New Orleans.” I hope my tone is as playful as I feel.
    He turns the phone over in his hands. “Okay, but I gotta tell Taj and D.” He types something quickly and turns the phone off. “We’ll need a meeting place. Something popular, like Jackson Square.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œIn case we get separated.”
    â€œPlanning on running again?”
    He squeezes my arm, and I squeeze back before I have time to think about it. His touch is warm and welcoming despite the heat.
    â€œOnly if you run with me.”

I Am That Merry Wanderer of the Night
    The world it jests
    it plays for bets.
    It takes a soul
    or two at best.
    So quell your fears,
    and take flight
    let’s be wanderers
    just for tonight.
    Come, come away,
    to the evening that awaits.
    Come, come away,
    to the evening that awaits.
    Pack your troubles
    though they wail and storm
    tonight’s for lovers
    no room for scorn.
    And when she drinks
    against her lips
    the night alight on her fingertips.
    So quell your fears,
    and take flight
    let’s be wanderers
    just for tonight.
    Come, come away,
    to the evening that awaits.
    Come, come away,
    to the evening that awaits.
    Never waste
    a single breath,
    a night to wake
    no time to fret,
    a night to live,
    a merry wanderer ready to forgive.

The Holy Name of Jesus
    L OYOLA C ATHEDRAL IS OPEN, AND IT SHOULD NOT BE. T HIS FACT is a very welcome development, since Miles and I have just escaped from the clutches of several very drunk frat-boy types whose idea of a costume is simply to unzip their pants. Granted, the having to escape part is my fault; sarcasm and a man’s penis size don’t go hand in hand . . . so to speak.
    They are about a block behind us, and I make the mistake of turning my head to see where they are. The most vocal of the four catches my eye and attempts to smile, but it just looks like he’s unsure of whether or not he has to vomit. This doesn’t stop him from shouting in my direction.
    â€œOffer is still open, baby-uh-cupcakes-and-cream-heart.” He reaches down to grope himself. I stick my pinkie finger up in the air, wiggle it, and shake my head.
    Overall not my best idea.
    Hence I am more than elated that the Holy Name of Jesus Parish (official name) is open even though the last Mass was at six that evening. Perhaps it’s open all the time. My church back home started locking its doors around eight after a particular set of rowdy teens decided to have a midnight rager.
    I wish I knew more about architecture. Words, anything really, to describe what I’m seeing. The only word I can think of is breathtaking.
    The temperature shifts as we enter and quietly close the doors behind us. My eyes travel to the large stone pillars and up to the arches and the expansive ceiling, perfect for sound to bounce back and forth. Stained glass captures the lamplight from the outside, bringing the stories to life.
    The squeak of our sneakers travels up and up, fading as we walk. There are no other sounds; the silence makes me nervous after the vibrancy of the streets. My memories threaten to slip out without the Mid-Summer energy to hold them in. I concentrate on how the light radiates from