by JD Glass
I’ve learned that I won’t say never. I keep myself open to all the possibilities, the good and the bad—I try to live them as they come. Fran’s sunny and warm on the West Coast, and that’s exactly what she said she wanted. Samantha and I stay at her place when we go out that way, and when she comes to New York, even though she finally bought her old apartment, she stays in ours—it works.
Don’t misunderstand. Samantha and I don’t share our relationship; it’s her and me all the way; we belong together. We fit, lock and key, just like Fran said.
But when we see each other? Well, if we hold each other just a little too long or Samantha’s hands linger a little lower than an observer thinks they should, well, honestly? I don’t care—and neither does Samantha.
Now that I have a better understanding of the whole thing, I can honestly say that loving her was probably the sanest thing I’ve ever done—short of marrying Samantha, that is. I will never ever refer to Fran as my ex, because we still love each other even if it’s different now. And we will, always.
You know, it’s kinda nice to know that there’s someone out there that loves us both, exactly the way we are, exactly the way I am. If someone asks me about her, I introduce her as my friend, my friend and Samantha’s friend.
Here’s a weird observation. At times with Samantha, if I really take the time to notice, I see bits and pieces of other people—Fran’s gentle fierceness, Candace’s abandon, Trace’s sadness—that, and Trace’s lips always reminded me of Samantha’s—baby soft. I even see some of Dee Dee’s good-natured dry humor and some of Jer’s pretend dopiness, because who would have thought it; my so-serious Sammy is one hell of a prankster. I know it sounds odd, but it’s what I see, sometimes.
There are things I see now about myself. I could have been a lot like Trace, more than a lot, honestly, and I’m very glad I’m not. I also know that whether I like it or not, I am a lot like my dad, both the good and the bad. I don’t like accepting that, but I have to or I’ll do and say things that aren’t right. And you know what? I like being the good guy; I don’t want to wear another hat.
Samantha says she never, ever, sees anyone else but me, and it makes me feel a little guilty sometimes, because while 99.9% of the ABC time it’s exactly the same for me, so help me, green eyes still slay me—I can’t help it—but I would never betray Samantha’s trust in me, I would never betray this very special “us” I love so much.
I know a whole heck of a lot more about what Samantha does when she’s not with me, what her “real” work is. For the record, she’s not a government assassin. And when I think about some of what she had to do during the weeks I didn’t see her, my heart shakes with the knowledge of just how close I came to losing her. But…that’s not my story to tell. It’s hers, and maybe she’ll share it someday.
That would be really cool—my beautiful Goth. She scowls when I say that and says, “I am not a ‘Goth,’” and I laugh while I disagree.
My beautiful, beloved Samantha, with her scars and brands, her storm-tossed eyes that hold sorrow and clear only for me, in her black clothes and silver charms, and her deadly smile that only brightens to sunshine for the same reason her eyes do.
“Samantha, love?” I tell her. “You…are Gother than fuck.” She shakes her head at me, but smiles anyway because she knows I love her.
This always ends with a laugh and a kiss or, better yet, just the kiss.
There’s more to this story, of course; there always is because I’m not done growing, not done evolving yet. I don’t think I’ll ever stop, and I don’t think any of us ever should, but that’s just my opinion.
Some things you never get over—they leave a mark, a scar, a souvenir of some sort that becomes a part of who you’ll be—forever. If you’re lucky, if I’m lucky, we learn to live with it, to grow around it, maybe even make it a valuable part of our own foundations. I’m not saying I’ve done that yet; I’m just saying that maybe I’ll get there, too, someday—when I grow up or something.
For at least a little while I’ve achieved my own sense of peace, of self, of balance, and if it’s not ideal, well, what peace is?
Everything I’ve been through and felt and thought and become is with me now and forever in the studio. I briefly touch the charm around my neck that I never take off, and I inhale again. This is what I sing over the opening guitar riff I recorded earlier:
You and me together—we walk the longest mile
And falling down forever, we stumble, stand, and smile
Look at us—two crazy dreamers
We live on hope alone
But we are such as dreams are made of
Fire and wind and bone
Don’t give up on your love
We’ve lived with misdirection—almost torn apart
But in the introspection, we got down to the heart
Look at us—we’re still together
Though often thrown off stride
Take my hand, we’ll make it happen yet—I swear
We’ll let the passion ride
Don’t give up on your love
I had a dream—you were with me—you were laughing, you were singing
Out in the breeze, taking it easy…
Don’t wake me ’cos you’re happy
Don’t wake me ’cos I’m happy
Please don’t wake me ’cos we’re happy, yeah
So happy together—don’t give up
So happy together—don’t give up
We’re happy together, yeah
Happy together*
∗ ∗ ∗ ∗
* Don’t Give Up—Life Underwater
∗ ∗ ∗ ∗
∗ ∗ ∗ ∗