Darkness fell, and the air turned chilly. Rory opened the door wide enough to toss me a hooded sweatshirt. I continued my narrative through dinner. Beth smiled sweetly but said nothing as she placed a plate of home-cooked food on the swing next to me. One by one the lights downstairs went out, followed shortly by the ones upstairs. I wrote until I had nothing left to write about, except the act of writing itself.
Then, finally, I slept.
*
Jody exited her little black car and raised her hand to shield her eyes against the low-hanging sun. “You look much improved.”
“Thanks,” I said from my near-permanent spot on the porch swing. “I think.”
I enjoyed the view of her as she strode across the yard and up the porch steps. She’d clearly just come from school in her white oxford shirt, navy blazer, and sensible heels with her hair pulled back in a gold clip. She filled out the ensemble better than she had as a student teacher, and she carried her authority naturally, more from her grace and air of capability than from her fashion choices.
“I wanted to make sure you were still on the mend.”
“I think I am.” I scooted over and patted the spot next to me. “Both physically and mentally.”
“I saw Beth this morning,” Jody said, taking the seat and falling into the gentle rocking of the swing. “She said you’d been writing.”
“I went on a binge all day yesterday and most of the night.”
“Is it a new book, or a play?”
“I’m not sure. Right now it’s therapy.”
Jody nodded thoughtfully before affecting her best therapist voice. “And how does that make you feel?”
“Actually, a lot better. I worked through most of my major conflicts about what was real, or at least what reflected truth.”
“Care to share?”
“Well, I don’t know if the time travel itself actually happened, but you helped when you said everything turned out right in the end. When I was under, I got wrapped up in Kelsey’s survival, and that worked out exactly how I wanted. Then I got worried about you and your career, but you’re right where you need to be in this moment.” I sighed and thought about the last remaining questions, the ones that took me back to the start, the ones that tripped me up every chance I let them. You’ve got to put yourself out there more, Stevie. “I’ve resolved two of my three major plot points and am trying to work up the courage now to face the third.”
“And what’s that?”
My heart beat faster but without the crippling self-consciousness I’d felt in the past. “Will you go to St. Louis with me tonight?”
“What?”
“I want to test a theory. No, that sounds too clinical. I’d really like to take you on a date. The kind of date we may or may not have had before, the kind that builds memories and makes meanings regardless of what comes next for us.”
She smiled brightly, her eyes shimmering with emotion. “I’d love to have that kind of a date with you.”
I fought the urge to give a fist pump and instead revealed my eagerness by saying, “Can we go now?”
She gestured to her clothes. “I’m still dressed for work.”
I indicated my worn jeans and Rory’s hooded sweatshirt. “I’m still dressed for the porch. We’ll balance each other out. Let’s live this moment in present tense.”
“All right.”
“All right?”
She nodded. “Let’s go.”
She shed her suit coat as we crossed the Darlington city limits. We flew down I-55, laughing, talking, touching tentatively, the brush of a hand against a knee or a shoulder. As we crossed the mighty Mississippi, Jody unclasped the clip from her hair and shook out the fair strands. She pointed out new Busch Stadium in the shadow of the Arch, the corners of her mouth curving so deliciously they crinkled the corner of her eyes. The St. Louis scenery was impressive from the riverfront to Forest Park, but I couldn’t take my eyes off Jody. Any affinity I’d held for the city paled in comparison to the emotions she stirred in me.
Without the shifting walls of time or the rigid responsibilities of her job to constrain us, thoughts I’d previously fought finally flowed freely. My attraction to her strained every muscle and tendon in my body, but even more so I felt drawn to her on a deeper level, as though my heart pressed against my ribs in an attempt to be nearer to hers. Surrendering to her allure both thrilled and terrified me. The last time I’d been in this city with her I’d focused on the future I believed in. But now I refused to consider even the idea of a tomorrow.
“Where are we going?” Jody asked.
“I don’t know.”
She raised her eyebrows, and I realized she hadn’t meant for the question to be about my long-term intentions but rather about driving directions. “Oh, sorry. Head toward the Central West End.”
She slowed as she turned onto North Euclid, leaving the speed and congestion of the larger city behind. Trees shaded the road from the lingering light of dusk as the muted streetlamps cast dancing shadows across wide sidewalks. I had the overwhelming urge to be outside with her, strolling hand in hand while soft music wafted on the breeze around us. Well, maybe the music played only in my head, but I still directed her to the first open parking spot. Then on a whim I jogged around the front of the car and opened the door for her.
Jody flashed one of her heart-swelling smiles. “Thank you.”
Normally I would’ve felt cheesy in any sort of romantic lead. I was a New Yorker, for goodness’ sake, a modern lesbian, aloof and suspicious. But Jody had met each chance I’d taken tonight with openness, and even joy, so I decided to try for one step further and held out my arm. She took the offering without hesitation and looped her arm loosely through my own. An unusual lightness spread through my chest as we strolled along window-shopping and soaking up each other’s company.
While she stopped to examine some antiques in a storefront window, I surveyed her. I marveled at the complete sensory connection, from the gentle touch of her hand on my arm to the scent of her perfume in every breath I took. Her beauty filled my sight, and the sound of her voice thrilled my ears. The only sense left unsatisfied was taste, and the memory of her mouth on mine begged to be renewed, but I wouldn’t rush or push like I had before. The moment was no longer mine to command. The time we shared tonight would be an offering, an opening of myself for her to accept or reject of her own accord.
We ambled along until we reached the large plate-glass windows of Left Bank Books, and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end.
“I love this place,” Jody said, her reflection smiling brightly at me in the glass. “Whenever I need to escape the small-mindedness in Darlington, I usually head here first.”
I eyed her seriously, wonder building in my chest. “I knew that.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I answered emphatically and turned back to the books on display. The familiar sense of belonging enveloped us. We might have years and miles and jobs and a whole society between us, but we found solace in the same things. Surely that counted for something.
“Stevie, look.” Jody tightened her grip on my arm as she stared at the upper right corner of the display. There atop all the others sat my most recent release.
The thrill of seeing my own work on someone else’s shelves never got old, but this time it carried a different kind of excitement, of purpose, of belonging.
Belonging tied me to this spot in the past, and now the connection spilled out from the window to the woman beside me. I was through considering coincidences. She’d seen me here with her twice now, and as I stared at her reflection covering my name in the window, I couldn’t deny the two fit together somehow.
I untangled my arm from hers and looped it around her waist, lightly pulling her closer. The choice was hers, but I wouldn’t shy away from my desire to hold her. That desire grew tenfold as she fulfilled it by leaning closer, connecting her hip with my own and resting her head on my shoulder.
“Wh
at are you thinking about?” she asked.
“About us, how nicely we fit together.”
She hummed a little noise of contentment. “That’s a very nice thing to think.”
“What about you?” I asked, meeting her eyes via our reflection. “What’s on your mind?”
“I like it here in your arms very much, but I don’t trust myself.”
“Why?”
“Because you feel too good. It all feels too right in a way nothing else has felt right in my life for a long time.” She shivered. “But there’s also a sense of urgency. When I see your book there, I remember you’re not tied to this place, or even to me. You’re going back to New York.”
My chest ached at the thought, and I tried to force it from my mind. “Not until tomorrow. We’ve got all night together. Let’s make the most of it.”
“One night.” She sighed. “Then you’d better distract me with a pretty nice dinner, because if I let myself dwell on everything I might like to do with the remainder of our time together, we’ll have to find some place much more private than a city sidewalk.”
The heat in my body quickly spiked to a level akin to a brick oven, expressing all the air in my lungs and zapping my throat dry. I opened my mouth in the suave manner of a fish snatched from water and stared at Jody. Amusement spread across her twinkling eyes and impish grin.
“Come on,” she said, pulling on my arm. “Duff’s is right across the street, and I think that’s our safest option…for now.”
I nodded mutely, trying to focus on steadying my legs as we crossed the street even while the echo of her “for now” rattled around my chest before settling someplace decidedly lower in my body.
*
Duff’s was an Irish-American pub with high-backed wooden booths and low lighting. The color scheme was overwhelmingly dark with the occasional brass accent, and I worked hard to study the details instead of losing myself in Jody’s eyes. If I didn’t stare at her, maybe I could lie to myself about how consuming my attraction to her had become. She seemed to be waging her own internal battle, but she’d chosen the weapon of our impending separation to combat her feelings.
“Tell me about your life in New York.”
“It’s, well, pretty standard. I live in the Village, down by…Wait. Have you ever been to New York?”
She shook her head.
“Then you wouldn’t know the cross streets. How else should I describe it?”
“Can you walk to the Statue of Liberty? Central Park?”
“Not really. Mostly I walk to Starbucks.”
She laughed, and then her eyes brightened even in the low light of the pub. “Do you go to Broadway?”
“A couple of times a year.”
“I’d love see a Broadway play,” she said wistfully.
“Come with me.” I reined in my enthusiasm and sat back in the booth. “I mean, come visit. We’ll go see whatever play you want.”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. What kind of theater teacher has never seen a Broadway play?”
Her smile turned sad. “One who will probably never leave Darlington.”
The warmth in my stomach went cold and empty. Why did she have to keep reminding me I was leaving tomorrow and she would never leave? How would I stay present in the moment if she insisted on reminding me this might be our last moment together? “You have all summer off. You wouldn’t come to New York for a visit?”
“Just a visit?” she asked in a voice so soft I barely heard her. “I’m not sure I want to be a tourist in your life.”
The words struck me like a punch to the stomach. Is that what I asked of her? To play a bit part, a walk-on, a cameo? Was she saying she couldn’t play any part in my life, or that she’d accept only a starring role?
Our food arrived, perfectly cooked, perfectly plated, perfectly delicious, but neither one of us did much more than push it around our dishes. Maybe tonight hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Could we really repeat the past, especially a fictional one?
I struggled with the silence and tried to reignite our previous conversation. “I do live close enough to walk to the Stonewall.”
“That’s exciting,” she replied, her interest sounding genuine, if subdued.
“Yeah.” The novelty of the historic landmark had impressed me when I’d first moved to the area, even though I didn’t particularly identify with the Stonewall rioters. I’d never had much emotional attachment to the gay foremothers and forefathers who’d fought there. Even now I saw no part of my life as belonging to their legacy, except for a few moments in the halls of Darlington High School that might or might not have actually happened.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill the mood.”
“No, you didn’t. I just realized the only part of my life I considered worthy of the Stonewall lineage probably wasn’t real.”
She turned her attention back to not eating her chicken marsala. “I know how you feel.”
“Really?”
“How could I not? I’m closeted. Everything I’ve ever done for our community has been a covert operation.”
“But you do so much good for your students. Your whole life is about making things better for the next generation. You offer them hope and protection.”
“Do I? Or am I only protecting myself?”
I reached across the table, and she met me halfway, interlacing her fingers with my own. “At least you’re doing something. I can’t say the same for my life. I’ve taken the easy road, the selfish road, and what do I have to show for it?”
“You have a successful career.”
I shook off the platitude. “I observe, I sit on the sidelines, I comment on fictional lives without ever taking a risk myself.”
“I’ve avoided risk too, Stevie.”
“But at least you did so for an honorable cause. Every student you reach goes on to help make the world a little better.” I squeezed her hand, trying to anchor myself though my faith in her. “And the world is changing. You have nondiscrimination laws in Illinois now, federal hate-crimes legislation. Gay marriage has even made its way to the Midwest. The generation you’ve educated made those changes.”
“But have I changed with them, or am I the same person I was ten years ago?” The creases in her forehead caused her brows to furrow over darkening eyes and made her appear older than ever. “And more importantly, do I want to be the same person ten years from now? Because that’s where I’m headed.”
My chest constricted, and I sat back, breaking the contact between us. “I think that’s the biggest question I’ve had left after my whole ordeal. Am I the same person I was in high school?”
“Maybe the more important question is do you want to be the same person you were in high school?”
“A week ago I would’ve said yes. I liked my life, myself, just fine.”
“And now?”
“I don’t.” It was the first time I’d said those words aloud, but the parts of my life or my personality I’d been content with now seemed weak and drab compared to the person I’d let myself become during my date with the past. “I’m ready to change. I’m just not sure how.”
She nodded, a strand of hair falling into her eyes. I wanted to slide it through my fingers, to run my thumb across the smooth skin of her cheek, to cup her face, to pull her in. I worried she’d pull away, but I still ached to take the chance.
“Jody.” I breathed the word more than said it. “I want to be the person I became in the past. I want to hold onto the good things I saw in myself. And one of the things I most liked about the new me was you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Or at least the person you made me want to be. That’s why I asked you out tonight. Regardless of whether those moments were actually real, I needed to know if the feelings they’d inspired in me held true.”
She inhaled a slow, deep breath as if steadying herself. “And?”
“They do. You inspire
me. You make me better. The best version of me is the one with you, and I don’t want to lose you.”
She stared at me, eyes focused, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling slowly while I waited, attempting to remember to breathe. Seconds passed like hours. God, why wouldn’t she say something? Anything? Preferably something nice or reciprocal. Maybe she was trying to formulate a gentle letdown. As an English teacher, she hated clichés. So perhaps she wanted to formulate a more original version of the “we’re better as friends” speech. But with each second spent in painful silence, I began to suspect I’d prefer a slap across the face to the suffocating tension.
Finally, Jody held up one finger and signaled the waiter. Before he’d even fully approached the table she said, “We’re going to need the check now.”
“Would you like me to box up your—”
“No, thank you. Just the check, please.”
He reached into the pocket of his apron and produced the bill. I reached for it instinctively, still uncertain what had happened. Was she walking out on me? Had I offended her? Her expression remained controlled, neutral, unreadable while I counted out a couple of twenties and shakily tossed them on the table.
She rose slowly, took two steps, then turned back and drained her glass of merlot before wordlessly heading toward the door.
My heart hammered relentlessly as I followed her to the car. Clearly, I’d blown everything. How had I misread the situation so badly? I thought she’d sent me signals of her interest all night long. Maybe I’d gotten too emotional, too personal. Maybe she didn’t like me hinting at a future we couldn’t have. What if she had only expected a night of fun, and then I turned serious on her?
She got in the car, and I hesitated at the passenger-side door steeling myself for a long, awkward ride home. My heart felt like someone had fastened a metal clamp around it and begun to tighten the screw. So much for putting myself out there. I’d obviously misread the moral of this story, and damn, it hurt.
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