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He winks and then points out the window, telling me to look.
The pilot’s 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 we 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 Isla
nd,” 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 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.
52
Carter
Frustrated
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 about this whole friendship thing, too. In the veil the dark interior of the car offers, I ask her.
“In that letter your wrote me. 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. Are you ready now?”
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. So, yes.” she says with a shrug.
