She flashed back to the photo she'd seen two years ago of James holding his newborn niece, how precious and sweet that tiny, soft bundle looked in his strong arms. How can I deny him this experience? How can I look into his eyes and tell him that I don't want to fulfill his dream of fatherhood?
I can't, she sighed.
"What's wrong?" he questioned when he felt her body tense. "Are you having second thoughts?"
She smiled. "No, darling, not at all," she assured him. "I guess in vitro makes the most sense, don't you think?"
He nodded. "I usually prefer doing things the old-fashioned way, but yeah, when I look at the pros and cons, it really seems to be the way to go."
She squeezed his hand. "I'm glad we're both on the same page. I'll call tomorrow and see what I need to do to get the ball rolling."
He squeezed back.
***
Orientation week was nearly over, and Abby couldn't be more relieved. She'd managed to survive. And she achieved minimal contact with strangers by simply lurking in the background and keeping her eyes downcast. I don't know why, but I'm just not feeling social, she reflected. Or maybe it's that I hate forced socialization.
She had taken to eating her meals with the mousy girl, Maddy, who introduced herself on the first day of orientation. Sometimes they both ate in silence while staring out the big windows overlooking the rocky cliffs that shielded the back side of campus.
"So, you're really into girls?" Maddy asked during an uncharacteristically brave moment.
Abby solemnly nodded. She was not officially "out," but at this point, starting over with a new identity in a new place, did it matter? She couldn’t make an overly dramatic exodus from the closet when no one even knew she was in it.
It wasn't that she was embarrassed or ashamed to admit it; she simply did not feel it was worth drawing attention to. She knew that her family, at least her mother's side, would have no reaction other than
support. She could show up one day with a woman she introduced as her girlfriend, or even her wife, and she doubted her grandmother or mother would bat an eye. They'd embrace her female partner and carry on as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Because it is, Abby believed.
It was her father's side that gave her pause. She had become close with her little sisters, Emma and Elise, thanks to the three or four times she'd seen them including their first meeting in Washington DC a year and a half ago. One of the reasons she'd chosen to attend college in Colorado Springs was to be close to her new family. Her father, Matt, was a single dad
and he seemed to have his hands full. Abby wanted to help out. She wanted to be a role model for her sisters. But she was unsure if her father would be so keen on it if he discovered she was a lesbian.
And that's what I am, right? she gulped, trying the term on for size. She had yet to use that label, either privately or publicly. It was just a three syllable word that started with an L, ended with an N and had that satisfying B to lend it some bulk in the middle. It was a weighty word. One that isn't easily misheard or misunderstood. You kind of need to be sure you’re all in before applying it, she realized.
So what is holding me back?
A good 90% of her was certain...wait, make that 80%, Abby corrected herself as she noticed a tall, lanky skater boy with a long black ponytail and chocolate brown eyes amble past. He looks Native American or half-Asian or something, she thought, as she watched him balance his cafeteria tray in one hand and grip his skateboard in the other. His brown skin sported two tribal-looking tattoos: one ringing his biceps and the other his calf.
Maddy seemed to notice Abby staring and began to giggle. “You know that’s a guy, right?” she teased.
Abby flushed in spite of her usual cool, collected demeanor. She rolled her eyes as she snapped back at Maddy, “Yes, I’m aware.”
“Maybe I like boys and girls,” she sighed a moment later, trying to be satisfied with that designation for the time being, but it felt too much like indecision. She’d never been a fan of that.
***
Chapter Two
Back in the Swing of Things
Sarah was anxious to get back in the classroom. She had spent the summer revamping the syllabus for her Research Methods class, and she was planning for her students to gain some practical experience in the course. They would be helping with research for the next edition of her book on college sexuality, which was due to the publisher in a little less than a year’s time. She knew her students would be very excited to witness the research process from conception to publication, not to mention making their own contributions. They’ll be pleasantly surprised to find that the research topic of the semester is sex! Sarah predicted.
During their monthly departmental meeting, one of her older male colleagues had shifted his eyes in what may have been construed as a roll. Then he conspicuously coughed under his breath when she outlined her revised syllabus. But she had covered all of her bases by presenting a proposal to both the chair of her department, Dr. Knowling, and the head of the Institutional Research Board prior to the meeting. All of the major players had expressed unanimous support for her new applied approach to Research Methods.
Leave it to the old fogey nearing retirement to concoct all sorts of ridiculous scenarios trying to make me look incompetent and unprepared, she fumed to herself. Fortunately, she maintained her composure and addressed each of his questions with poise and tact. Everyone’s concerns were thoroughly allayed, just like a few semesters prior when Sarah pitched having her students live-tweet while Rachel gave birth to Amethyst via webcam. Many reported it was the most memorable and meaningful assignment of their entire academic careers. Sarah even published a paper about harnessing the power of social media in teaching.
That departmental meeting still fresh on her mind, Sarah was feeling something resembling smugness as she distributed the syllabus in her class that afternoon. These were junior sociology majors, and she recognized many of them from advising and one-hundred and two-hundred level classes she had taught in previous semesters. One of the reasons she enjoyed teaching Research Methods, despite the heavy grading workload, was that the class was capped at 30, and she really got a chance to know her students in a way that she didn’t in the big lecture classes with 100-300 seats.
A girl in the front row caught her eye. She didn’t remember seeing her before and wondered if she was a transfer from a local community college. She had waist-length honey-brown hair, just a tinge darker than her daughter Abby’s. It was plaited into a thick braid running down the length of her spine. She had wide, green-flecked hazel eyes unadorned by eye makeup. She wore a plain white long-sleeved shirt and an almost floor-length denim skirt even though it was at least ninety degrees outside. With her legs primly crossed at the ankles, the skirt shifted up just enough to reveal bobby socks and plain brown loafers on her feet.
It didn’t take a PhD in Sociology for Sarah to infer that the student practiced a conservative religion. Perhaps she’s Pentecostal or Apostolic, she guessed. She tried to hide a slightly worried look as she watched the student glance through the syllabus, her hazel eyes growing wider and wider with each word she read.
Sure enough, as soon as Sarah dismissed the class, she watched the girl in the long denim skirt hesitantly rise to her feet and make her way toward the lectern, her eyes shifted down to the brown loafers as she walked. “Dr. McAllister?” she asked in a bigger voice than Sarah had imagined her capable of mustering.
“Yes?” Sarah replied, still caught off guard when someone addressed her as “Dr. McAllister.” She had wanted to keep her last name “Lynde.” After all, she had never taken Daniel Taylor’s last name when they were married and Lynde was the name she had published under and used professionally for her entire career. It was the one point of their union about which James was adamant. She compromised by taking Lynde as her middle name and McAllister as her surname.
The young student smiled as she began to speak. She didn’t look much
older than fifteen or sixteen, but Sarah imagined she owed her youthful looks to her long braid and lack of makeup. “I am not sure if I’m going to be able to take this class,” she said with concern etched onto her pale face.
“Why is that?” Sarah asked as a formality, because she was fairly certain she knew the answer.
“The syllabus is full of stuff about sex.” She whispered the last word, but it was still loud enough that a few students who hadn’t quite trickled out of the classroom heard it. It’s amazing how that one tiny three-letter word can have such a loud presence, Sarah mused.
She displayed her most professorial smile. “Yes, it is, because sex is a very important sociological phenomenon.”
“Even so,” the girl continued, “I know my parents would not allow me to read such….” She scrambled for the right word and then settled on a generic, “things.”
“How old are you?” Sarah asked.
“I know what you’re going to say,” the student retorted with just a smidge of smartness, “that if I’m over 18, then I’m an adult and can choose what I read. I understand that, but I share my parents’ desire to keep myself pure.”
I have never encountered this in all my years of teaching, Sarah reflected. She rarely saw fundamentalist Christian female students in her classes, probably because most of them didn’t attend college, at least not a big research university like Maryland. She considered her response for a moment, very careful to avoid saying anything she might find offensive. The young woman stood, her back stiff and straight, clutching an armful of books tightly against her chest while she awaited an answer.
“Well,” Sarah said after she’d contemplated the student’s options, “I know you need this class to graduate, and there are only three sections of it offered this semester. The other two are full. You can try talking to those professors to see if one will let you drop my class and add theirs, but I can’t make any guarantees.”
The student looked disappointed, as if she was hoping the arrangements would be made for her. And maybe she thought I’d try harder to convince her to take my impure sex research class, Sarah thought.
Finally the student nodded with a faint air of resignation. “Okay, thank you, I’ll give that a try.”
She turned to walk away, but Sarah called after her, “What’s your name? I just want to mark you as a possible drop on my roster.”
“It’s Esther Thompson,” she answered, and in a flash, her tall, thin, denim-clad silhouette disappeared through the door.
***
Two things stood out to Abby regarding her first day of college classes. The first was the English composition professor, Dr. Gilley, who began class with the question, “Are you a good writer?” and the directive to write a five hundred word essay answering the question by the end of class. Abby hadn’t expected to be given an assignment in class the first day and was a bit flummoxed. Am I good writer? she thought. This question sounds like a trap.
She had preliminarily chosen to study journalism, but she had a hard time articulating why. The truth was she did think she was a good writer, and she had been told as much by her high school teachers, who regularly fawned over her essays and research papers. Abby had considered going the academic route and becoming a professor like her mother – although in English, not sociology, but she couldn’t bear the thought of all those years of school. It seemed so daunting.
“You don’t think about all those years when you’re a freshman,” Sarah explained. “You just focus on one year at a time.”
Still, Abby liked the idea of being at the forefront, the cusp, the beat. It seemed like academia’s wheels moved so slowly that by the time they published, the news was stale. Journalism had immediacy to it, instant gratification. Perhaps that’s what appeals to me, she considered.
While she was pondering how to work that realization into her essay, she noticed a girl sitting one row in front of her. She had broad shoulders accentuated by a deep crimson tank top with a black houndstooth print. Her hair was black and spiky and shaved close to her neck where Abby saw a sprinkling of tiny star tattoos that arched into oblivion. She imagined that there was a galaxy of them on the other, invisible side, but there was no way of knowing. Her ears were small, delicate, and filled with silver jewelry, hoops and studs with dark gemstones. Abby could see when she turned her head that they were green, red, and black; but the mystery of the stellar tattoos remained unsolved.
Abby could barely concentrate on finishing her essay, she was so fixated on studying the back of the girl’s head. There was something so alluring about the curve of her neck contrasted with the shaved black hair; Abby wanted to run her fingertips down it and across her bare shoulder. She imagined them gliding off the skin and hanging in the air like a skier flying off a ski jump.
Finally, as the clock edged toward the big, bold 12, she scrambled to complete her assignment, slapping down a rushed conclusion. She wanted to state that obviously she wasn’t a good writer because she couldn’t overcome the temptation of staring at someone to properly complete the task at hand. But she thought better of it, not knowing if her professor had a sense of humor or empathy. Her initial suspicions pointed to “no.” Now she anxiously awaited the moment the girl would stand up and turn so she could see her face and the point where the star tattoos originated.
But that moment didn’t come. The girl rose and walked to the front of the room, silently placing her blue book down on the professor’s desk. She exited without ever turning around. The mystery was intact, and Abby’s heart plummeted into her stomach with disappointment.
Later that night, she opened the Whisper app on her phone and searched the database until she located an image of the back of a head. The picture happened to be a male, but he had a similar hairstyle to Star Tattoo. She posted the following text superimposed on the picture: First day of college and all I could concentrate on was the person sitting in front of me. It’s going to be a long semester.
She fell asleep wondering what color her eyes were.
***
So far, there had not been much discussion regarding where the lifestyle fit into James and Sarah’s marriage. In the first six months of their relationship, when they were merely friends with benefits, they’d enjoyed a threesome and a foursome, and James had lost his house party virginity. But once he came back from Afghanistan and they decided to be a couple, they’d put adding others into their sexual relationship aside.
Sarah had not been monogamous for years, and at first, she wondered if she would be able to cope. But making love with James was unlike anything she had ever experienced. She had never imagined feeling such a physical and emotional connection with one person. At times, she felt their union sublimated to a spiritual level. Soon Sarah grew reticent to add anyone into the mix, fearing it might compromise their closeness and threaten the trust and fidelity they were building together.
The morning she arrived in North Carolina after driving all night to reach him, all she could focus on was the possibility of coupledom. She wasn’t thinking about cohabitation, and the word “marriage” hadn’t yet entered her lexicon. She wanted to know what it would be like to just be James and Sarah, exclusive of anyone else. The only commitment she wanted was a promise to see where their relationship could lead given the chance to grow. That promise was made on that fateful day she arrived at his cabin in the Smoky Mountains in July 2012.
The proposal only a month later came as a complete shock to Sarah. They had not even broached the cohabitation conversation yet, and from her vantage, it seemed the “c” word nearly always preceded the “m” word in these modern times. One weekend, they’d gone hiking in western Maryland. High up in the mountains, they traversed a rugged trail overlooking a winding stream. Sarah peered into the valley below, watching the water rushing past, studying the way it gathered up in white foam around the wet, gray rocks. When she turned, she found James on one knee with his hand outstretched, a navy blue velvet-covered box resting in his palm.
>
For the first few moments, she was paralyzed, her lips and limbs frozen. Then she realized she’d emitted an audible gasp that seemed to echo throughout the canyon. She had never been one for surprises, but this one was so unexpected and wonderful, it left her completely exhilarated. And there was her beloved looking up at her with eyes bluer than the sky, so wide and so full of love and hope.
“Since the moment I met you, I knew there was something different about you, something very different from me. I’d always thought of myself as a normal guy, an ‘average Joe,’” he began his speech.
Sarah smiled, a tear starting to burn at the corner of her eye as she remembered how she’d nicknamed him “G.I. Joe” the first night they’d met, when she was speaking on a panel about gays in the military. He was in uniform and looked like the quintessential soldier: buzzed hair, broad shoulders, and excellent posture. Everything about him was clean-cut and wholesome.
“But you’re so far from average, Sarah,” he continued. “There is not one part of you that is mediocre or common. You are beyond extraordinary, and for the longest time I failed to see us together because of that. I’d always envisioned myself with someone like me – someone traditional, someone average.” He laughed a bit, not nervously, but she noticed his still outstretched hand was shaking.
“When you drove to my cabin in North Carolina last month, I finally accepted beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were the One. You lift me to extraordinary heights, Sarah. You make me want to be more than I am, and I have learned I am a greater man with you by my side.”
Now tears were streaming down Sarah’s face. Every time she blinked, another pair trickled down her cheeks and tumbled off her jaw to the ground below. She looked into his eyes and saw they were glassy with tears as well. Her heart swelled as she realized not one aspect of the scene unfolding before her was less than perfection: the lush green of the thick forest, the cloud-softened sunlight of the late August morning, and the sound of the stream meandering toward some distant river who would claim it as its own.
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