I bought a one-way plane ticket from Heathrow to Sea-Tac for New Year’s Day—excruciatingly expensive since it was less than a week away, but my parents’ Christmas check covered half of it. I emailed the flight confirmation to Andy. He responded:
Woohoo!! I even have the 1st off, so I can pick you up at the airport if you like.
So in a week, I would be in Seattle. With him.
Free-fall feeling of panic. What was I doing? Abandoning the UK and a blossoming acting career, all because of sex? I’d informed Jerry, my London agent, of my move, and he expressed regret and told me I had a bright future there if I kept at it, and wouldn’t I at least consider coming back soon? He understood the work visa was a pain in the arse to maintain, but …
I promised I would keep the option open. In fact, if this Seattle expedition fell flat, I might come back sooner rather than later. But it was too late to bail. I’d said I was doing it, I’d bought the ticket, and anyway, I could still have an acting career in the US.
I motored onward, covering my panic by keeping busy with packing and scrubbing my flat.
That evening as I sorted my possessions into heaps and boxes, Andy messaged me.
Andy: Lunch break finally. Whew, busy day
Sinter: Is work insane?
Andy: Yeah, project with impossible deadline. Boring too. Spreadsheet software, blah
Sinter: When are you going to get into the games department where you belong?
Andy: I keep begging, no one’s letting me, SIGH. I should’ve held out for a job with a proper game company
Andy: However this awesome guy asked if we could hang out soon, so life’s not too bad
Sinter: Really, who?
Andy: :P
Sinter: ;)
We chatted for the rest of his lunch break, mainly about our dream jobs (game designing for him, longer-term acting roles with interesting challenges in them for me), with only a sprinkling of flirtation. Still, somehow by the end of it, I no longer felt completely insane to be jumping an ocean just to be closer to my hot best friend.
A cockroach scuttled across the kitchen floor, five feet away from me. I seized a Terry Pratchett book and chucked it. It missed; the roach escaped through the crack in the wall.
Yeah. I could leave. That’d be fine.
The next day, I attended my session at the studio, sitting with headphones on, watching the rough cut of my scenes and speaking in sync with them.
Fiona directed from the audio booth where she sat with the engineers, her voice clicking into my headphones every so often, neutral and controlled. Though we could see each other through the glass, our eyes rarely met.
Sebastian was in that day too, to dub his lines, and he cast Fiona and me a number of suspicious glances.
It only took a couple of hours to complete our lines. Afterward, the three of us walked down the studio corridor together, chatting about sound quality.
In the lobby, Fiona and I slowed to a stop.
“So you’re off,” she said.
Sebastian, strolling ahead, paused and turned halfway, listening shamelessly.
I nodded. “I’ll come back to visit, though. Can never stay away from the UK for long.”
Fiona looked down, hugging her bundle of documents. Sebastian slipped out of the building. The glass door swung shut behind him. No one else was around except the receptionist, talking in a professional undertone on the phone.
“Well,” Fiona said. “The bulldog in me is glad I got you when I wanted you, but devastated I couldn’t keep my teeth sunk in you.”
“I let it go too far. It’s my fault. And I still bet you would’ve gotten bored of me before long.”
“Hard to say.” Her dark hair was loose, its ends flipping up into messy spikes, the way she’d looked when I first met her in the pub. It tweaked at my heart. She arranged her expression into one of calm. “I’ve decided I don’t want any dramatic goodbyes at all, in fact. And I get what I want.”
“You’re the bulldog,” I agreed.
She unwrapped a slender hand from her bundle of stuff and extended it to me.
“Aw, come on.” I ignored the hand and hugged her.
Though she didn’t put her arms around me, she lowered her chin, leaned her head against my chest, and sighed. I kissed the top of her head.
We stepped apart. “Let me know how it goes,” she said, her voice strained. Tears gleamed in her eyes.
I nodded, feeling like an asshole.
Fiona walked back toward the studio, disappearing down the corridor.
Out on the pavement, Sebastian leaned his back against the building, knee bent and one foot on the wall. When I came out, he swung into step beside me, hands in the pockets of his long coat.
“So you’re abandoning her, you bastard.” He sounded conversational.
“I’m … leaving, yes. I don’t think it’s going to work out, and I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Any more than you already have.”
“Any more than I already have,” I said in defeat.
“Huh.” He spoke it as a derogatory snort. “She says you’re off to America?”
“Yeah. Seattle.”
“Got some blonde Yank Barbie doll over there, do you?”
“Nope, got a good-looking guy.” I wasn’t sure why I told him that. It wasn’t in the spirit of honest confession. It was more like I wanted to provoke him into saying something derisive about gay people, so I’d finally have an excuse to tell him to fuck off.
“A guy? Like, you’re off to shag a guy?” He sounded gobsmacked.
“I’m hoping.”
“Hang on, you’re gay?”
“Bi, actually.” We were still walking down the street. My blood sizzled with the anticipation of getting into a public shouting match any second, among all these strangers.
I almost fell over when he bopped his elbow against mine and said, “Well, why didn’t you ever say so? If I’d known you were all conflicted over some bloke, I might not have been such a ballbag.”
I slowed way down and stared at him.
“I’m trans,” he added. “Didn’t you know?”
I looked at him from head to toe as if I’d never seen him before. “No,” I finally spluttered.
“Almost seven years post-op.” He whapped my elbow again. “Angst over identity and coming out? Been there. I mean, would’ve preferred you hadn’t involved Fiona, but even so.”
“I wish I hadn’t, too.” I shot him another glance as we walked, trying to imagine the strong bones, swagger, and toothy punk-guy grin on a young female form. Almost inconceivable.
“Surprised Fiona didn’t tell you about me,” he went on. “But she’s not the sort to out others. Besides, suppose it doesn’t come up in conversation much.”
“No. Suppose not.” We reached a corner. I stopped and tilted my head toward the cross street. “Well, uh. My Tube station. Maybe I’ll see you next time I’m back in town.” I offered a handshake.
He seized my hand, hauled me in, and kissed me on each cheek. “Go nail that bloke, mate.”
“Could you not shout it?” Still, I smiled. “Be good to Fiona.”
“That I always shall.” With a broad-handed wave, he swung away and strolled across the street.
Andy: Lol! Well that’s kind of awesome
Sinter: Made me feel less crappy than the talk with Fiona at least
Andy: Think she’ll be ok?
Sinter: I expect so. No one has ever had much trouble getting over me
Andy: Present company excepted ;)
Sinter: Haha sure, if you say so
Andy: So I wanted to ask … there’s been nothing with other guys all this time? Not even anonymous cybersex?
Sinter: Nah felt creeped out by the idea. In person … ha, well nothing except the one time I kissed Daniel
Andy: Oh no way, when??
Sinter: We were 19, out drinking. I was infatuated with his accent or something. So I kissed him
Andy: Wa
s he nice about it?
Sinter: Very. We both laughed then pretended it never happened
Andy: Ah, modern cosmopolitan straight boys. They’re sweet. Are you going to come out to him and Julie too?
Sinter: Not yet I don’t think. It was weird enough coming out to Sebastian. Which I didn’t exactly mean to do. Think I’ll put off the next one ;)
Andy: Makes sense. Your call
Andy: Well hey, whatever you do or don’t feel like doing when you’re here, it’s cool with me. Just wanted to say that. It’s going to be really great to see you regardless
Sinter: Thank you. You too
CHAPTER 17: TO THE SKY
NEW YEAR’S EVE PASSED IN A CACOPHONY OF FIREWORKS I MOSTLY IGNORED WHILE PACKING MY STUFF. In the morning, I handed over the key to my landlord, and two hours later was getting waved through the gate at Heathrow.
If anything is less sexy than moving, it’s airports and economy-class flights. First class might have its attractive features; I wouldn’t know. But not this: cramming my long legs into insufficient space, fiddling with the blast of air above my head, wedging myself into a seat far too close to strangers.
The plane took off. As it banked, dipping my stomach with it, I looked across two other passengers at the window to watch London recede. It added grief to my big vat of troublesome emotions. I loved the UK. Why was I leaving?
I got out my phone and re-read my long scroll of messages from Andy to remind myself why. But in the too-bright air, assailed by the smell of airplane cabin and the whine of engines, none of our flirtatious exchanges looked hot. Only silly.
I plugged in earbuds and dug into my music. The right songs would fix me if anything would. And there: “To the Sky” by the Cure was still on my phone after all these years. What better tune to choose while ascending into the atmosphere?
The dreamy guitar and synth of the opening lifted me out of my surroundings and took me back to the day Andy and I parted.
Now the song comforted me rather than crumbling me into desolation. We’d finally get to undo that miserable day. We’d meet after a long separation, hug, climb into his car, and drive off together—as if playing that day in reverse, turning a sad ending into a happy one.
The plane reached cruising altitude. Shuffle-play picked one song for me after another. I read Terry Pratchett for a while, but mainly my thoughts drifted. You have too much time to think on a nine-hour flight.
I thought of Fiona and our last text exchange that morning.
Sinter: I’m off to Heathrow. Just wanted to say goodbye, and thank you again for understanding, for the role, for everything. I’ll be in touch
Fiona: Thank you as well. I will miss you, lovely boy.
Sinter: I’ll miss you too
We left it at that. My declaration sounded inadequate compared to hers, but then, I was the one leaving, the one saying we weren’t going to work. She’d probably be hurt for a while, and it was just as well I was putting an ocean and the majority of North America between us.
I thought of my parents too. I’d waited until practically the last minute, in line to board the plane, to email them. I didn’t want them to have time to say anything to aggravate my current stress levels.
Hi guys,
Just letting you know I’m coming back to the Northwest. I’m flying to Seattle today and will stay there awhile. I’ll let you know my plans when I have a better idea what they are. Can still be reached at this email and my cell in the meantime.
Cheers,
S
I felt like a coward for not mentioning Andy. I would tell them I was staying with him. But at this point, the less fodder for disapproving remarks and unwanted advice, the better.
And of course mainly I thought, with stomach-curdling anxiety, about what I might be embarking upon with Andy in the next few days.
I thought all the possible thoughts:
It would be hot and kinky.
It would be a friendship-ending disaster.
It would get nowhere because I’d lose my nerve before even starting.
It would be so awkward it would give me a whole new assortment of mental and social issues.
It would never happen, because my plane would crash on the way there, and my grieving friends would out me posthumously to my parents and everyone else.
It would be fantastic and make me want nothing else my whole life, and what the hell would I do then?
By the time the pilot announced we were beginning our descent into Sea-Tac, everything in me hurt. I hadn’t eaten or drunk enough and felt weak. I had only gotten up for the bathroom once and had been sitting too long. The stiffness in my back had spread to become an ache in my neck, shoulders, and head.
It was still daylight, since we’d followed the sun on our westward flight. The kid in our window seat was freaking out in excitement, telling his mum he could see the Space Needle. Now that we were almost down, we passengers were warming up to each other, and when I smiled at the kid, his mother smiled at me too and remarked, “Are you from Seattle?” She and her son were English, I’d gathered from their accents.
“Close,” I said. “Oregon. But I have friends here.”
“It’s my first time in America,” the boy told me, bouncing in his seat.
“Right on. Welcome.”
“Welcome home, for you,” his mum said to me.
Home. This wasn’t strictly home, but then, wasn’t the space surrounding Andy more like home to me than the house where my parents lived?
I looked across at the window as the plane dipped its wing. The skyscrapers of downtown Seattle rose into view, their lights coming on in the dusk, tucked in all around by blue water and dark forests. The snow-capped Cascades rambled along the horizon under a layer of high gray clouds, Mount Rainier looming biggest of all.
We sank low enough to see individual cars crawling along the interstate. One of those drivers might be Andy, coming to pick me up. I felt queasy and faced forward again.
Should I kiss him in greeting? A hug was standard airport reunion procedure—basically nothing special. I didn’t know if he expected anything more yet, but one kiss wouldn’t hurt, and might prove I hadn’t chickened out in case he doubted me.
I should have kissed him the day he left for college. It seemed obvious. So why not go ahead and do it to make up for lost time?
We landed and disembarked. I bought a Moroccan mint tea at a Starbucks in the concourse, hoping the mint would calm my stomach. But the tea was about four thousand degrees, so mainly it only burned my mouth, and after the first swallow, I had to leave it alone to let it cool off.
At baggage claim I texted Andy.
Sinter: Arrived! Picking up my luggage, then I’ll be out
Andy: Sweet! Come to the arrivals curb and look for Celery
Celery was his green Volvo, the same one he’d driven away from me that day before college. I felt clammy all over.
I found my luggage and hauled it away. In the men’s room, I splashed cold water on my face and rinsed my mouth. From my checked bag, I dug out my leathery-scented deodorant, which Andy once said smelled good on me. I wormed it up under my sweaty T-shirt and sprayed each armpit, then packed it away.
Walking toward the arrivals curb with a heavy bag hanging from each shoulder and my paper cup of tea in hand, I seriously thought I might puke, I was so nervous. I’d felt like this before the curtain rose for plays, of course, but this was scarier. This was real life, unscripted. If it went badly, if he didn’t want me after all, if I screwed up everything between us … that mattered so much I couldn’t even think about it.
I stepped outside. Cold air washed around me. It smelled like traffic and wet asphalt, but it was fresh and helped calm me down. The Sea-Tac arrivals curb was a madhouse of cars creeping in and darting out, five lanes of automotive tangle lit with bright overhead bulbs.
My phone buzzed, and I set down a bag to get it out and look at the text.
Andy: I’m down at the front end, by th
e taxi sign
I threaded through other travelers, scanning the sea of idling cars, until—there.
Over the celery-green top of the Volvo, two lanes from the curb, Andy’s head popped up, and he waved, grinning.
A smile broke the mask of my face. I jogged between waiting cars, set my luggage and tea on the asphalt next to Celery’s back tire, and rose again. Andy stood before me, beaming, in fleece jacket and jeans and sneakers, six inches shorter than me, as ever.
“Hey!”
We said it simultaneously. Then we leaped at each other and tangled up in a hug, laughing.
CHAPTER 18: REUNION
THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE SOOTHED ME LIKE A FAVORITE SONG, EVEN JUST IN LAUGHTER AND IN THE obligatory “Good to see you!” He smelled unbelievably good—like himself and the fragrance he’d worn for years, but I hadn’t been near him in so long I’d forgotten how comforting it could be when someone smelled right.
I was only nervous because we’d been apart. Now that we were together, I’d be okay. Or such was my out-of-nowhere thought.
“Good to see you too,” I said, and stepped back so he could open the trunk.
Once we’d begun loading up my bags and complaining about airports, I realized the moment for a kiss had passed. I should have planted one on him during the hug. But other drivers and travelers were everywhere. I hadn’t reckoned on the chaos of the arrivals curb. Did I really want to kiss him for the first time in ten years with a bunch of harassed strangers glaring at us and waiting to move their car into his spot?
Not feeling queasy anymore would have to be victory enough. We climbed into the Volvo and joined the flow of traffic oozing out of the airport.
We chatted, our remarks overlapping each other’s like they usually did, like this was any other occasion hanging out together. We discussed the flight, Celery’s maintenance issues, Seattle traffic, his job, the Bleachers song we both liked that was playing on the radio.
All the Better Part of Me Page 10