“We made no promises to each other,” I whispered. “I’m sorry I brought it up. We’ll just see how things go, okay? This is just a ‘see you later.’ ”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
You told me I was yours and you were mine.
Sniffling, I said, “Make love to me?” And then he did, sweet and tender and so full of emotion that I cried as he held me for a long time after, though it wasn’t nearly long enough.
A few hours later, we drove to JFK. Tati stayed in the car while I walked Matt to his gate at the airport.
“I’ll try to call you as soon as I can.”
“Okay. Where will you be?”
“Northern Bolivia at first.” He had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder but set it down and stared at his shoes. “Grace, I don’t know how remote it’s going to be down there. You might not hear from me for a while, but I’ll writeto you and we can figure out how to call each other.” He squinted into my eyes as we memorized each other’s face. “Grace, Pornsake bought the photo.”
I blinked. “I know. Why did you wait to tell me until now?”
“I just thought you should know. He’s a good guy.”
“How nice of you. And how nice of him,” I said, sarcastically.
“I didn’t want you to find out that I knew and didn’t tell you.”
“Okay.” I understood. Matt was trying not to leave loose ends.
An airline worker announced final boarding over the speaker. “It’s time.” He opened his arms and I rushed into them with such force, like I was trying to jump inside of him so he could take me along, a stowaway inside his heart. He squeezed me hard and for a long time. “I’ll see you, Grace.”
We let go of each other and stepped apart. “I’ll see you later, Matt.”
He smiled and walked away. Just before he reached the Jetway, he turned back, pulled something out of his pocket, and held it up. “I stole this, just so you know!”
It was a practice tape, a recording of me playing the cello. He laughed and then he was gone.
The love of my life was gone.
19.What Happened to Us?
GRACE
The day after Matt left, I auditioned for a grunge band as a cellist at a little venue off Allen Street in the East Village. Their music was like Nirvana, with haunting runs and loud, screaming choruses. I imagined that we would end up on VH1’sUnplugged, and I’d have an awesome career as a rock cellist, guesting for all the who’s-who bands in New York. I felt like I was finally following my dreams.
I kept to myself, played well, practiced a lot, and collected my money at the end of the week. For three nights, I made a hundred and twenty dollars. Things were promising, and I was excited to tell Matt about it.
A week and a half after he left, he called for the first time. I was practicing in my room when Daria knocked on my door and yelled, “Grace! Matt’s on the phone for you in the lounge.”
I ran down the stairs, wearing nothing but one of Matt’sT-shirts and an old tattered pair of underwear. I didn’t care—I was so fucking excited.
“Hello!” I said, out of breath.
“Fuck, this phone call is costing me, like, seventy bucks.”
My excitement died a little at his greeting. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Never mind. Oh my god, I have so much to tell you.”
“Tell me.”
“National Geographicis launching a television channel in September. There’s going to be tons of new job openings, and I’ve already totally impressed Elizabeth.”
