When it’s time, she pats me on the back, telling me to let her go. Reluctantly, I do.
“Don’t cry or I’ll cry,” she says.
“I’m not going to cry,” I say past the tightening of my throat.
Tears glisten in her eyes. “I’ll see you soon. Sooner than you think.”
“Right.”
She lifts up on her toes and presses her lips against mine. I close my eyes, willing time to stop so I can linger here forever. It doesn’t work.
“Call you when I land, Hoodie.”
I brush the tear from her cheek and steal one last kiss. “Bye.”
“Not ‘bye.’ See you soon.”
I might lose my will to live if that proves untrue. “See you soon.”
She walks away from me, and a piece of my heart goes with her. The broken thudding in my chest worsens when she disappears from my view.
When will I find a good enough reason to make her stay?
Twenty-eight
Bri
It was so good to see Liem. Meeting his family filled in blanks and helped me understand him better; the way he can be reserved like his dad, quippy like his sister, inquisitive like his mom, and, sadly, the way he shrinks himself when he’s around them.
It was good tobewith Liem again—to be near him and relive the depth of the connection we have. I had almost forgotten how intense it is. Our phone calls always restore me, but when I’m able to reach out and touch him, I’m reminded of the way my soul rekindles when he’s around. That deep, fiery spark I’ve only felt with him.
And the sex. Oh my.
Clothes on, Liem is the timid, temperate friend I know so well, but the minute I get him naked, he . . .fucks. He takes over, acting like he knows my body better than I do, then proves he may be right.
There’s sex, then there’s whatever the fuck Liem does to me.
I rode to work with Keisha this morning so I can take her to her baby appointment later this afternoon. It’s starting to get real. Less than three months until my niece is here, and even less time before my birthday. I’ve been an emotional wreck all morning. Between the high of being happy for my friend, disappointment in my lack of progress, and a dash of ovulation pain, I’m a mess.
While I have the car, I visit my dream apartment, one in a good neighborhood, not too far from Keisha, and on a convenient bus line to DTLA and the arts district. But yet again, I fall short of qualifying because my last two months of bank statements were a few hundred dollars shy of what I needed. If I can pick up more gigs or a part-timejob, I could get the apartment before Keisha gives birth, if it’s still available. My freedom is at the tip of my tongue, and I am desperate for a taste.
After the bad news, I need something to boost my mood. A trip for a coffee turns into me slipping inside a museum. An art studio in La Brea with rotating exhibits, mostly utilized for its connected event space. The winding pathway through ceiling-suspended partition walls keeps me entertained more than the paintings. I sip my mocha and take in an abstract of a woman sitting nude in a chair. Her body is painted in near-realistic detail down to the dimples and stretch marks, but the chair and background elements are fractured geometrically in an unnatural color scheme. The title is simplyWomanhood.She’s beautiful, yet trapped in an anxious space she doesn’t match. Society telling her she doesn’t fit.
The struggle felt different in Brooklyn with Liem. I pushed myself too far trying to keep up with physical tasks, which I should have known would happen. The rest felt so . . . doable. We had our little space where everything was okay no matter what was happening outside. For a day in Seattle, it felt that way too. Because Liem, while being my safe space, bore the financial weight.
Would I be happier if I took Junie’s suggestion and moved to Seattle, struggling there while having Liem as my emotional support in the process? Yes. But I can’t give up my life to live in his, because I don’t want to resent the person with whom I feel the most loved. I can’t let him become part of the anxious noise I use to punish myself.
I stroll away from the triggering painting and shift my focus to happier thoughts. Then the sign appears before me.
Help Needed — Catering
The handwritten text on basic printer paper might as well have grabbed me by the hair and dragged me into the next room.
A group of people wearing all black, setting up for some sort ofbanquet. White floral centerpieces on circular cloth-draped tables. I pick the person standing at the side of the room, watching with a scrutinizing gaze.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I saw a sign saying you were hiring. Do you know who I should speak to about that?”
“That would be me.” The stern man with a short beard and black glasses holds out his hand for me to shake. “What was your name?”
