And yet, the remaining time we have together ticks inexorably down and there’s no privacy in a van full of people being transported to the airport. Then there’s the flurry of unloading luggage and tipping the driver and before I know it, we’re inside the airport about to head our separate ways to check in for our flights.
“When will you be back in New York?” Victor’s headed for L.A., where some client is getting ready for some action movie and needs her favorite personal trainer at her beck and call full-time, apparently.
“I’m not sure,” he says. He’s scanning the airport signs overhead and his attention is anywhere but on me. I guess this is how it ends.
“Okay, well, have fun in L.A.” I wince at how lame I sound. I pivot on my heel and shrug my garment bag’s strap more securely over my shoulder.
“Jay, wait,” Victor says. He grabs my arm to pull me around and my garment bag slides off my shoulder, pinching his hand between the webbing of the strap and my arm. “Ouch.”
Another casualty of my luggage, like when I accidentally jabbed Victor in the face the day I arrived in Costa Rica. I turn the full way around and give him a look.
“My fault,” he says quickly. He helps to detangle the strap and lifts it back on my shoulder. But then he just stands there, with this expression on his face that I can’t read and I’m suddenly exhausted by my upcoming flight, the cab ride to my house in Brooklyn, unpacking, and resuming my life. About the only thing I’m looking forward to in my immediate future is fetching Barnaby from the kennel and going to bed early.
“Jay…” Victor says again. He doesn’t say anything else, though.
“One or both of us are going to miss our flights if we don’t get moving here,” I say tiredly.
“Yeah,” he mutters. Then, “I’ll miss you, man.” He takes a step closer and leans toward me. “I’m really glad we…um…reconnected after all these years.” He waggles his eyebrows comically at the word reconnected, as if I don’t know what he means.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate his discretion. We’re in a public place—Mother of God, you couldn’t get more public than a bustling international airport terminal—and I’m not expecting a farewell blowjob in front of the JetBlue ticket counter. But this feels so impersonal it hurts.
I drop my garment bag at my feet and reach for him. He seems startled at first, but when I put my arms around him, he folds me into a strong embrace. “I don’t regret anything we’ve done together,” I whisper in his ear. “Except how long it took to get here.”
I’m still not exactly sure what here means. I know I want more with Victor. But I’m not sure how to get it.
Or if he wants more, too.
“Same,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ll come to New York as soon as I can, okay?”
“Please,” I say. I’m not begging. But depending on how long I have to wait before seeing him again, I might.
We release each other and I bend to pick up my garment bag. When I straighten up, Victor is backing away. He gives a little awkward wave, which I return, and then his lips move soundlessly. I’m not a hundred percent sure what he says, but I think—I hope—I know what it means.
Mother of Mercy, I’ll miss him.
#
I chat with Logan and Silas while waiting at the gate, as they’re on the same flight. The flight to JFK feels interminable but is otherwise uneventful. The traffic on the Grand Central Parkway and Brooklyn Queens Expressway is jammed as usual but I make it to the kennel just before they close. Barnaby is so happy to see me, his tail doesn’t stop wagging until we get home and he’s curled up on the sofa next to me, his chin resting in its usual spot on my knee.
I’m overwhelmed from the stress of travel and put on an album from my favorite choral sextet. The sun sets, the living room darkens around me, and the ice in my glass melts and waters down my whiskey.
Barnaby snuffles in his sleep and I think he’s drooling on my pants, but I can’t bring myself to change position. The music subsumes me, washes over me, and lets me put off thinking for a while. It’s a mix of sacred and non-sacred music, exploring shades of light through music, sung sometimes in Latin, sometimes in English, and about half the tracks include a trumpet soloist, either soaring over the voices or in musical dialogue with them.
I listen to the album twice all the way through, then rouse myself and Barnaby enough to let him outside. I promise him and myself a walk in the park tomorrow. I brush my teeth, strip down to a T-shirt and boxers, and try not to think too much about Victor.
Obviously, I fail.
Does he miss me as much as I miss him?
Is he even thinking about me at all?
I check my watch and calculate the time difference. Is he home yet? What does he do to occupy his time when he’s alone? Does he read? Listen to music?
How do I know everything about what he tastes like, what he looks like when he comes, and so little about what he likes outside the bedroom?
Fuck it. I reach for my phone and open the text messaging app.
Have you arrived yet? How’s your flight?
