by Dylan Allen
The pilots voice comes in tinny and loud in our earphones. “We’re flying up over the Upper Bay. On your right, you’ll see governor Island, and on your left is France’s gift to the United States, donated in 1886 - our Lady Liberty, a universal beacon of hope and welcome that is the symbol of America’s promise. Fun fact, the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island are actually on the New Jersey side of the official state lines.”
I listen, but my heart feels so much more than the facts he’s sharing as soar above the Statue of Liberty. She’s the beacon of hope and welcome that drew me to this city. And I’m seeing her for the first time with him. My heart is full as we soar above the landmarks that I’ve only ever read about.
Carter squeezes my hand. I turn to look at him and my breath catches in my throat at the naked longing in his eyes.
My mouth goes dry and I know why he’s looking that way. The last time we talked about making a trip to see her, we’d been naked and damp and he’d still been inside me. Sitting here like this, having that memory, sends a surge of heat to the last place on my body that needs it. But, I don’t feel the familiar shame that usually follows these feelings.
We didn’t know the truth, then. We just loved each other so deeply that the world wasn’t big enough to contain it. And of course, we had no idea what was coming.
I bite my lip and his eyes move to my mouth. His free hand reaches up and cups the side of my face, his thumb sweeping the top of my cheekbone before his hand moves lower and slides down my neck.
His hands on me makes my eyes heavy and my head lolls to the side, his fingers tickle the swirl of hair at the nape of my neck and his face moves closer to mine.
“From 1892 to 1954, over twelve million immigrants heeded her call and entered the United States through the portal of Ellis Island,” the pilot’s voice cuts in and Carter’s hand falls away from my face as if it’s aflame and he sits back, his expression goes from panicked to stoic in seconds.
Tears sting my eyes less from the loss of his touch. It’s the extinguishing of warmth from his eyes. After a minute he turns to look at me and smiles, but it’s not the same.
He nods out the window, his expression wistful as his eyes focus back on the sights outside. I turn away from him and look outside, too.
This is so hard.
If he had kissed me, I wouldn’t have stopped him.
But then, what?
Because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that if we start, we won’t be able to stop. Not for anything. And we both have lives we can’t afford, and don’t want, to ruin.
I look down on the city - it’s like a brightly lit circuit board. There’s so much happening. But up here, we’re alone with just the moon for an audience. I feel a kindred spirit in it as we whiz through its sky.
In the same sky where it commands the tide, it’s also a captive with no escape from the falling debris of exploding stars.
Just like my heart.
It’s grown strong because I’ve known a love like his, but it must also endure the pain of breaking every time I remember that we won’t be making more memories like the one we just recalled.
I try to focus on the pilot’s descriptions of the sights. We fly over the Freedom Tower, Rockefeller Center, the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, and One World Trade Center.
We head north up the Hudson over Central Park, and come back down again. We swoop over the 120 year old Brooklyn Bridge, Yankee Stadium and back over Lady Liberty before we land back on at the airport.
As we walk back to the car not touching, not speaking - but with a nearly frantic need lacerating my heart, our feet are firmly back on the ground.
Something You Can’t Replace
CARTER
The tension in the car on our way home stretches. The almost kiss in the helicopter shook me up. I forgot myself. And I can’t afford to. I told Dean our story this morning when he invited me to his fancy barber shop. He warned me in no uncertain terms that I would regret it monumentally if I let things with her get out of hand.
But, I don’t know how else to be with her. She seems to be struggling, too. I wonder if she’s having second thoughts. In the veil the dark interior of the car offers, I ask her.
“You wrote me a letter on the day you left Winsome. You said, you hoped that one day, we’d find a way to be in each other’s lives. But that you weren’t ready. That was just six months ago. What’s changed?”
She shifts in her seat, clears her throat. “I started therapy. Group therapy. And all of the things I hadn’t dealt with when I wrote that letter, I have or at least am in the process of. I have new…perspective on things,” she says with a shrug.
“That’s great. I should probably do the same. I’ve been avoiding it because I didn’t want to move on.” I admit.
Her chuckle is hollow, forced. “Oh, I haven’t moved on. I’ve just gained an acceptance that there are some things I won’t be able to control. And I’ve found an outlet for my grief,” she says and her voice cracks. I have to stay my hand when it reaches for her, instinctively.
“I guess I haven’t really tried all that hard. I was hoping for miracle. Looking for cases where things like this, people like us… worked out.”
“Oh,” she breathes, surprise in her voice.
“Yeah, I became a little obsessed with it after I left.”
“What did you find?”
I sigh. “In the grand scheme of things, we were lucky finding out when we did. Some of them didn’t find out they were related until they were married, and had kids. At least, we didn’t do something that couldn’t be undone. You know?”
She reaches up and presses the button to turn on the overhead light.
When I see her face, I can tell that I’ve said something monumentally wrong. Her eyes are haunted and bleak.
She takes a deep breath, and takes my hand, squeezing it tight. “I need to tell you something.”
My throat goes dry, my gut clenches at the deepening anguish in her eyes.
“Okay, I’m listening,” I say.
“I was pregnant. When you left.” She brushes tears off her cheeks and shuts her eyes.
I recoil, not from her, but from the pain that slams into my chest.
“What? When?” I squeeze the words out. I want to say so much more, but my heart has folded in on itself and the pain has stolen my breath.
“I found out for sure the day you took your DNA test with Phil and my dad…I’d already decided to end it.”
I close my eyes against a wave of nausea. I’m sick that she went through this alone.
“Did you have anyone with you?”
She shakes her head, her expression is heartbreakingly sad.
I bring her hands to my mouth and press a kiss to them. She hiccups a sob, wraps her arm around my neck and climbs into my lap.
“I lost the baby. I had a miscarriage,” she says in a voice that makes everything ache.
She presses her head to my chest, I hold her, and curse the whole fucking world.
“I didn’t think I was going to survive. It was terrible. I still feel like I lost best thing that will ever happen to me. All my therapy, all this time, and I still wake up with that gnawing in my gut. I could have had something of us…forever.”
She’s sobbing openly. I wish I could erase her pain. But my own is compounded by the knowledge that she went through all of that alone. I was licking my wounds and feeling sorry for myself, and her whole world was ending. I’m grateful that I can be here now. But it’s too little, too late.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry I left you alone with that.”
Her sobs quiet, as if she pulled the reigns on them. “None of that was our fault. We… it was just really bad luck.”
She stays in my lap, her head next to my heart. We ride in silence, both adrift in our own thoughts. When we pull up outside her building, she’s asleep.
I wake her, because I don’t trust myself to walk up to her apartmen
t. I’ll want to crawl into bed with her. Hold her until she doesn’t hurt anymore. But I can’t do that.
I can’t do anything.
Except, watch her walk away.
Tell The Truth
BETH
“I don’t understand how this tradition, out of the many beautiful ones that you Americans could have chosen, is the one that gained traction,” Porsha grumbles sullenly as our car pulls away from the curb of our building.
“Stop complaining, girl. I’m a fifty-five year old man wearing the same thing as you two knuckleheads, and you don’t hear me talking shit.”
I spear Joe with a knowing look. This morning when I’d taken his down to him, he’d said, “I’m not wearing that shit.”
That shit is one of those tacky holiday sweaters, complete with a light up turkey on it. It’s ugly as hell, but considered acceptable because it’s the holidays.
“You’re both ruining my fun,” I complain.
“I shouldn’t have let you watch Bridget Jones’ Diary so many times,” Porsha grumbles and I roll my eyes, but don’t hold back my laugh. Because it was that movie that gave me the idea.
“See? It’s an international holiday tradition. This our first one together, guys. We can do it every year.” I grin excitedly and they both groan.
“Spoil sports.” I stick my tongue out at both of them and turn to look out the window.
I’m not even a little bit annoyed by their whining. This is our first holiday together, and if I have any say, it won’t be our last, either.
I’ve always dreamed of family traditions like this and I finally have people I create them with. The sweaters were also part of my plan to take both of their minds off the families they would be missing today.
Porsha’s family is in Ghana, and she and her mother aren’t on speaking terms. Her father died and besides an Aunt in Houston and cousins in DC, she’s alone, too. She won’t admit it, but behind her brave, bold exterior, she’s nursing a hurt that flashes in her eyes every time we talk about our families and how fucked up they are.
Joe’s son, of course was a no show. I wasn’t surprised, it fit the pattern.
But, it still sucked that I was right because Joe wanted it to happen so badly.
Up until the night before, Joe had been outwardly optimistic. When I called down to say goodnight, he said he was expecting his son to call no later than 7am so he could be on the road to Delaware and make it there for lunch.
I didn’t want to dampen his hope, so I kept my thoughts, and my plan B to myself.
At nine o’clock I went down on the pretense of giving him the sweater.
I acted when he told me that his plans to visit with his son had changed. I told him the car for the Bosh’s place would be there at noon and handed him the sweater, wrapped up in Thanksgiving themed paper.
He smiled, but his eyes misted over before he pulled me into a fierce hug and went to change. A minute later, he came out his room, refusing to put it on.
It’d had taken some convincing. But, I knew he was just busting my chops and I could tell that he loved what the sweater stood for. And so did Porsha. I’d been so wrapped up in making them happy, I hadn’t spared a thought for what the rest of this day would bring.
As soon as the car arrived and called down for us, all of the apprehension I’d been struggling with came rushing back. What would Penn say to me? His whole family knows the truth about us. Would there be people there who didn’t?
Would Penn be angry because of my father’s treatment of Carter? How would things between Carter and me be today after that intense helicopter and car ride? He didn’t say very much after I told him about the baby. I wonder if he’s angry that I didn’t tell him sooner.
Even worse is, that however uncertain I am about his feelings, there’s no ambiguity about how I feel. I’m not even close to being over him.
And my body isn’t it, either. That kiss we’d come so close to sharing has reignited the rapacious longing that consumed me the summer we fell in love.
I’ve been touching myself constantly. I’m always wet, always hot, always hungry and now I’m about to be in close proximity with him.
Can I hug him in front of them without feeling self -conscious?
Does he have someone in his life who’s coming for dinner?
If we are going to be friends, what happens when the inevitable happens and he starts dating?
He’s a star now, and he’s only going to get bigger. No matter how he feels about me, at some point he’ll move on. I can’t say for certain that I won’t either. Even though right now, it’s the remotest possibility I can imagine.
“You seem nervous,” Porsha whispers as we pull up to the building.
My heart is alternating between racing and stuttering and I can barely speak. I’ve been trying to hide it because I don’t want Joe to know. She’s the only person I’ve told the truth about Carter and I don’t want to have to explain to anyone else.
I roll my shoulders to try and dispel some of the tension that’s building. “I’m fine, just tired.”
“She’s nervous cause she’s got a crush on that boy, and she’s about to see his whole family,” Joe quips and my stomach pitches.
“No, he’s just my friend,” I protest, my heart racing again.
He waggles his eyebrows and smiles. “Look, I’m not that old. And you ain’t got nothing to be nervous about, he cause he likes you, too.”
“No, It’s not like that. And I don’t want you to say that out loud in there, please.”
Joe’s eyes widen slightly at my vehemence. He shoots a quick, puzzled glance at Porsha and just nods.
The driver pulls open the door and he slides out.
“Maybe, he’ll have a date and you won’t have a choice but to keep your distance,” Porsha says unhelpfully and I whip around to glare at her again.
She raises her eyebrows in a show of innocence, but her eyes twinkle with mischief.
My scowl deepens.
She relents with a sigh, and reaches for my hand. Her expression is solemn. “I’d be scared shitless if I were you, I mean, this is a fucked up situation,” she says.
“Gee, thanks. That’s so reassuring,” I try to tug my hand free and she holds on tighter.
“Let me finish. The fact that you came today is something you should be proud of. You’re the bravest person I know. I’m not even close to being able to face my fears this way. But whatever happens, you’re not alone. I’m here. Joe’s here. We’ve got you. Okay?”
I relax a little and nod. “Thank you. You’re the best.”
She winks. “I know, I’m fabulous.” She gives her head a toss and laughs.
“Are you two coming? It’s freezing.” Joe sticks his head back in the car and we slide out to join him.
The short ride up to Penn’s loft feels like the longest minute of my life.
The door open into her home and we’re greeted by Christmas music blaring, the smells of delicious food cooking, and Penn’s broad smile.
As soon as I see her, she sweeps me into a hug so warm that my nerves settle.
“I’m so happy you’re here, Beth. We’ve missed you,” she whispers and then I almost sag with relief. I want to cry, but I bite them back because I’m afraid if I start, I won’t stop. I squeeze her back and then make introductions.
“These are my dear friends, Joe Freeman and Porsha Tagoe. Guys, this is Penn Bosh, Carter’s mom.”
“Ah, Joe, I hear you’re a fellow Brooklynite,” Penn claps in delight, grasps Joes hands and beams at him with the same lovely warmth she showed me.
“Yes ma’am. I sure am. Thank you kindly for the invite. This is already the second best Thanksgiving I can remember in my whole life,” he says with more energy than he’s shown all day.
“You can’t call me ma’am, Joe. Everyone calls me Penn. And we’re so happy to have you two and Beth here, today.”
“What a beautiful home you have, Penn,” Porsha says, turning in a cir
cle to take in the beautifully decorated apartment.
“Ah, thank you, decorating for the holidays is my favorite thing to do. I kind of go all out,” Penn claps her hands in delight.
She’s not kidding. The open concept space is home to her kitchen, dining and family room.
The furniture and appliances and finishings are all done in shades of cream, white and light grey. But from the accent pillows to the coffee table knick knacks, everything else screams “Thanksgiving Day.”
Pumpkin shaped candle holders adorn every table. A wreath of fall colored leaves is slung on the huge fireplace. A gold sign that “Gather” hangs above it.
The showpiece of the space is the huge dining room table that’s set up in the middle of the room.
“Hey guys,” Carter’s shouted greeting has us all turning around to see him jog down the stairs behind us. His grin is as wide as his whole face and he’s dressed in jeans, a white t-shirt with a turkey on it and is barefoot.
The five o’clock shadow is back and he looks so much like he did that summer. My whole body clenches when I remember the scrape of his beard on the inside of my thighs, while he treated my pussy like it was a delicacy.
I press my palms to my flaming cheeks, and Porsha nudges me, her eyes wide with “what are you doing?” My blush deepens, but I shove my hands into my coat pockets and hope that no one notices.
“Joe! You made it,” he grins broadly as he approaches.
“Sure did. Thank you for inviting me,” Joe sticks his hand out to shake it, and Carter grasps it, but only to pull him into a hug that Joe returns immediately.
I try to regain my composure. It’s really hard.
He’s so beautiful.
Oh God.
Why do I want the only man I can’t have?
“Thank you for having us. This is Porsha,” I gesture at her.
She smiles. “Very nice to meet you, finally. I love your music.”
“Thank you. And nice to meet you, too.”
“Hey, Happy Thanksgiving,” I say.