Lucid
Page 29
It is one of the best afternoons of my life. I just lie in the grass and let New York’s greatest undiscovered comedienne keep me in stitches. Hours pass. Let them. I could stay here forever.
The sun sets. We walk home, arms around each other. Not Boris, of course.
I cook her dinner because Mom won’t be home until eight. I try to re-create the exquisite spaghetti and butter sauce. She tries not to show her disdain, but she refers to them as buttery noodles. As I watch her eat, we are planning big fun in Los Angeles. Disneyland gets mentioned a lot. Maybe too much.
Then to my shock, she tells me that she’s going to move to Los Angeles and live with me. She already asked; there’s a Montessori school there. She wants my help in breaking the news to Mom because it turns out there isn’t an Elle there.
This is a tough one. I start with a smile. I tell her that one of us needs to stay in New York and take care of Mom. Mom may be a grown-up, but she needs taking care of too. We’re young—we have our whole lives to live together some other time.
She thinks this over. Holds up one hand.
“Pinky swear,” she says.
So we each kiss our pinkies and lock them together in a solemn promise that one day we will live together again.
Then I look in her eyes. “You know, the way things work out, we won’t always be in the same place.”
“Because you’ll be a famous actress, actressing all over the world, and I’ll be a famous zookeeper.”
“Right. But here’s the thing I need you to really hear. Are you really, really listening right now?”
I’ve never said anything quite like that before, and she responds by scrunching up her face to show how hard she’s listening.
“Wherever I am, I’m with you. Across whatever distance there is. I send you my love.”
She drinks that in. She really was listening.
“Me too,” she says. And leans across her spaghetti and kisses my face.
I slip on my jacket. My stomach does this flip as I head for the door. I don’t want to leave her tonight. I keep going. At the door, I turn back and she’s there. There’s the strangest look in her eyes. Lost and lonely. She reaches out her arms and I grab her up into mine.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“I’m practicing,” she says. “For when you’re far away and I have to pretend we’re together.”
“When that happens,” I tell her, “if that happens, we both have to work very hard at understanding something. We’re not pretending we’re together. We’re realizing that we actually are together in the ways that count the most.”
She stares in my eyes. Nods once, decisively.
“Okay,” she says. “I’ll practice that.”
I told Andrew to meet me outside of City Hall at the corner of Center and Chambers. It’s such a beautiful night. You never see stars like this in the city. Maybe I never looked hard enough. But I can clearly make out Orion and Rooibus and El Delicioso. I feel energy and excitement and love. Definitely love.
There he is. So happy to see me. I run to him, to hold him, to kiss him.
“Thank you for taking care of me last night. It was all I needed. I’ve had the best day.”
I take his hand and lead him onto the Brooklyn Bridge. I tell him we’re going to Grimaldi’s for pizza. And then to the Ice Cream Factory for dessert. My treat.
Crossing the bridge at night is the most romantic thing to do. The views up and down the river of the city, of Brooklyn, make you feel so small. The lights dance on the water so far below until you can’t tell whether they’re city lights or stars. We walk in silence so comfortable, like two people who have forever. Which we do.
It’s warm and cozy in the restaurant. We don’t know anyone, and yet it feels like family. We share a carafe of their best Chianti, which is not too good. We share pizza with extra cheese, extra pepperoni, extra onion. Because he likes the pepperoni and I like onion. Of course we could’ve ordered two pizzas, but it’s more fun to share.
We eat the slices messily, with one hand because we don’t want to let go of each other. He suggests a second carafe. I laugh and ask if he’s trying to get me drunk. I smile and say this shows a lack of confidence on his part. He insists he’s just developed a taste for really shitty wine.
The ice cream is perfect. I have a waffle cone filled with butter pecan. His is vanilla, which he says is proof that he’s no longer trying to impress me. I tell him it’s working.
We walk back across the bridge so slowly. At the midpoint, I stop us. And lean on the rail and stare out at the world. He nestles up beside me and I grab his hand. Too tight. But I can’t help it.
“I have to tell you a story,” I say. “But I have to kiss you first.”
And I do. His eyes are wondering. I’m not a good actress in this moment.
“There was a girl who fell in love with her best friend. And he fell in love with her. It was the deepest kind of love there could be. The kind that most people never find. But they were only fifteen years old. And the girl’s mother, who knew nothing of this secret love, had forbidden her daughter to date before her sixteenth birthday.”
The night and Andrew are very still right now. Both are waiting.
“So the girl and the boy kept their love secret from everyone and satisfied themselves with stolen kisses. For her sixteenth birthday, all she wanted was for them to be together. That became the promise they made to each other.”
I look at him for the first time.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He nods once.
I look back at the water.
“The night of her sixteenth birthday, she lay in her bed and waited for him to tap on her window. She would let him in so they could make love for the first time and then tell the world they belonged to each other. But as Bill was driving to her, something happened that we will never know, and his car crashed headlong into a tree. In her grief, she had to keep their secret. He had been only her best friend. Instead of the boy she was destined to belong to forever.”
“She’s Sloane,” he says.
“And you’re Bill.”
And when I turn to him, he is.
We look at each other with all the love we feel. We kiss a kiss that will last forever.
“Do you know why I’m here?” he asks.
I don’t.
“Because you think it was all your fault. Because I was coming to be with you. As if it was your love for me that killed me. But it was your love for me that made my life mean something. Did my love do that for you?”
“You know that it did.”
“Then let me go.”
And so I do. And he is gone.
I walk home alone through this city that I love so much.
I enter my darkened bathroom. I flick on the light.
She’s in the mirror. I’m in the mirror.
We don’t need any words.
I want her to smile first. So I can go.
And when she does, I smile back.
And I’m gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
sloane margaret
jameson
I open my eyes. I’m still smiling.
Acknowledgements
The authors would like to acknowledge Marty Bowen for the idea and the opportunity. Isaac Klausner for his countless contributions and kindness. Jenn Joel for being a patient advocate and advisor. Jocelyn Davies for her enthusiasm and thoughtful guidance throughout this process. GB, Mema, and Nessa for their encouragement and sweet support. The staff at the Montage for tolerating us. And of course Mystic, Connecticut, the most idyllic little town a girl could dream to call home.
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