by A. J. Pine
Weary with travel, after a day of flying to London and then taking the train back to Aberdeen, I rest my head on Elaina’s shoulder in the cab.
“You had fun, yes?” she asks.
“Of course. Your family is lovely.”
“They like you.” She smiles. “Enough to let me go with you.”
“You didn’t tell them about Duncan, though.”
She sighs. “When he is ready to make that kind of a promise to me, then I tell them. As long as I am with you, they will trust me.”
I lift my head to look at her. “What was that phrase your parents kept saying to me? Omorfo something.”
Her smile shifts, and I can’t read her expression. “Omorfo koritsi me lepemena matia. They called you pretty girl with sad eyes.”
I bang my head against the headrest of my seat. “Is it that obvious? Oh, Elaina. I don’t want them to think I didn’t enjoy my time with them, with you. I really, truly did.”
“But you love him.”
My heart races at her recognition, and I fight back the pressure of tears.
“I do.”
“Why is that something to be sad about?” Her tone is cool, logical.
“Because I live in Illinois. He lives in Ohio.”
Her eyes narrow, as if I’ve said the most ridiculous thing on Earth.
“I do not know American geography well, but tell me something. Is there a giant body of water that separates you from him, much like one that separates Scotland from Greece?”
“No, but…”
“Jordan.” Her r rolls my name into that extra syllable. “Why does it have to end? You do not see Duncan and me planning for our relationship to dissolve. Do you?”
My cheeks suddenly burn with anger.
“That’s not fair, Elaina. You two have the entire summer together to figure out where you go from here. It’s April already. Noah and I are just beginning, and we have only six weeks left. That is not the foundation for a long-distance relationship.”
The fear I’ve been suppressing, the one that’s made it both easy and painful for me to visualize the end, rises to the surface. I love Noah. I love him, and I’ve admitted that not only to myself but to Elaina. I would fight for him, for us to go beyond this short span of time together, but I have no indication that he feels the same way. He’s done nothing but acknowledge the end, exactly as I have been since the day I arrived.
You were right.
“Stupid, stupid, American girl,” Elaina says, breaking the silence. “How can you not see that he feels the same way?”
“Because,” I admit, matter-of-factly, “he’s never told me.”
She doesn’t have to respond. Her look says it all, that I, of course, have never told him.
By the time we get back to our flat, it’s nearly ten p.m. Duncan and Noah are not due to arrive from Ireland until tomorrow evening, which leaves only tomorrow night and Sunday to soak him in before classes resume. So when I roll my suitcase up to the entrance of our building, I am breathless to find Noah sitting there on the small patch of concrete in front of the door.
I let go of my suitcase and run the last twenty feet, giving him barely enough time to stand before hurling myself into his arms. There are no words, no question as to why or how he’s back a day early. There’s only lips crushing against lips as he lifts me to his mouth, the tips of my toes leaving the ground as he pulls me closer, ensuring no space exists between us. The only reason we stop, other than for air, is because we are reminded that we are not alone.
Elaina audibly clears her throat before speaking.
“I will let you two get back to devouring each other if you could please tell me where your Scottish companion is.”
Noah laughs, and although we are no longer kissing, our arms are still wrapped tightly around each other. “We arrived a couple of hours ago. He is in town visiting with his parents and should be back soon. He’ll be sorry he didn’t make it here first.”
And then I see something very rare, a stupid, goofy, I’m in love grin take over Elaina’s face. She quickly regains her composure before speaking again.
“Good. I have time for a coffee. You two may continue.” She steps past us and walks inside.
And, oh, do we continue.
Several minutes go by as our mouths make up for two weeks of separation, but we can’t make up for everything out here.
When our lips finally part, I’m the one who speaks. “I’m not going to be ready to do this in May.” I’m not sure if he hears the faint break in my voice, but as the reality of what the next six weeks mean sinks in deeper, I know I won’t be ready, no matter how much I think I’m preparing myself. Noah and I have never really talked about the summer other than he knows I am traveling with Elaina and Duncan.
“Come with me,” I say. The thought of it, the suggestion, has me short of breath, so much so that I can’t finish the rest of the sentence.
He clasps my hand in his, and he brings my tattooed wrist to his mouth, bathing me with his warmth. The weather in Scotland is still cold enough to warrant my fleece, but Noah manages to push the sleeve up past my elbow so his lips can weave a trail of warmth up my arm.
“I’m all yours,” he says, softly, against my skin.
My eyes flutter closed at his touch, and I almost forget what I was saying. If only to keep my focus, I pull my arm away and lift his head so his eyes meet mine.
“Not now. I mean, yes, I do want you to come with me now. But I’m talking about this summer. We need more time. Come with me to Europe. Stay with me until August.”
My hands on his neck, I feel his pulse quicken, his breaths become ragged. But his eyes do not shine with the same fervor I feel. They are a dark, stormy blue, reminding me of the night he told me he and Hailey came here together.
“Jordan.” My first name. The word soaked in pain. He has not used my first name since February, so whatever comes next can’t be good. “I’m student teaching in the fall, graduating in January.”
We know so little of each other beyond what is here, in Aberdeen. We’ve never discussed our futures, not even our separate futures, and he can see that I don’t understand.
“There are meetings, both at the university and the school where I’m placed, in mid-July and early August. I have only the summer to prep the courses I’m going to teach.”
The impossibility of what I’m asking him abounds in his words, in the added strain to his voice.
“There’s nothing I want more,” he says, kissing my lashes that are now wet with tears. “But I can’t.”
The night isn’t the homecoming I expect after first seeing him in front of the building. Noah stays the night, kissing me softly and reading to me my favorite passage from Gatsby, the shirt scene. But a wall rises slowly between us, both of us adding the bricks. We go on like this for weeks, not spending time apart, but not wholly being together. I still ache for him, for his touch, but now that we’re building the wall, we exercise restraint, blocking the pain that would accompany the kind of intimacy we’ll never share. By the time the wall is done, May will approach with ease. At least, that’s what I’m sure we tell ourselves.
May
Much Ado About Everything
“It isn’t possible to love and part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.”
E. M. Forster
A Room with a View
Chapter Twenty-seven
Though my employment ended a week ago, I went back to the Blue Lantern last night for a small farewell with Elaina, Daniel, the kitchen staff, and friends. Noah and Duncan were there as well, and though we’ve spent nearly every night together since my return from Greece, the distance between Noah and me thickens.
We wake together each morning, but the closer we get to May, the more excuses he finds to leave, keep us separate, compartmentalize our relationship.
“I
forgot something I need for class. I’ll see you there.” Other times it’s “I’m going to stay late this afternoon to work on a paper in the lab.”
The worst is that I never question it. I let him pull away because I get it. Maybe if we do it little by little, we can chip away at the hurt we know is coming. So I take comfort in knowing he’ll be here when I sleep, but I let him build a wall because I need it, too.
I’d nearly given up on writing in my journal, always afraid that reading it later would be too painful. But once Noah solidified that May had to be the end, I went back and retraced everything that happened between us, even the painful parts, because there is nothing about this year, about him, that I want to forget.
Today I wake before my alarm, the last day of classes, the Friday of our performance. Noah left early to go back to Fyfe and shower, so I skim through the journal, reliving the year in fast-forward. Tomorrow I get on a train to Dover, where Elaina, Duncan, and I will take the ferry to Calais to begin our summer.
“You will not be the pretty girl with the sad eyes. Not for ten weeks.”
Elaina chants this to me daily, my mantra for the past week. I promise her I won’t, but I’ve been known to break promises.
It doesn’t take me long to thumb through the entire journal, and upon reaching the end, I page back to an earlier entry, one dated the morning of January second. My breath catches at a thought, and without letting my logic get in the way, I rip the page from the journal and throw it in my messenger bag. I know what I want. A certain giddiness overrides my impending dread, and I almost skip down the stairs to meet Noah outside. It’s our last day. I have nothing more to lose than what I’m already losing tomorrow, and I’ll have no one to blame but myself—not God, the universe, or L. Ron—if I don’t take this chance.
Noah’s outside, his dark hair almost black with the dampness of his shower.
“You’re quite smiley this morning,” he observes.
I don’t say anything but instead place a palm on each of his cheeks and kiss him without restraint, unlocking in me something I never should have stored away. The effect is a pure and undeniable hunger, not only for me. His hands tangle in my hair, and our tongues don’t hesitate to meet, their prelude to a last dance.
“I thought it would be easier,” he says amid our shared gasps, “to pull back.”
“I know,” I admit, the only thing restrained being the threat of tears. “I know. But it’s not. It’s not easier, and I miss you already, have missed the part of you you’ve been holding back for weeks. I want all of you, Noah, today, for this last day and this last night. I want it all.”
I want you with my whole body, with the entirety of my heart. Soon he will know.
“Brooks.” He pauses between kisses. “You’ve got me, all of me. You always have.”
Our little episode in front of my building gets us to class two minutes late. Oliver looks simultaneously relieved and furious when we walk in.
“We missed two minutes of rehearsal time!” he cries, ever the exasperated director.
“Don’t worry,” Noah says, the picture of calm. “We’ve got this.”
We do, I know we do, but we run through our lines anyway. And in the moments before Professor Thompson quiets us and sends us to our seats, I slip Emily the folded piece of paper from my bag.
“Use this for a prop when Hero gives the note to Benedick of Beatrice professing her love for him.”
She nods, a knowing smile on her face. The prop missives are supposed to have our lines written on them, in case we forget the important stuff at the end. But I’ve no doubt about my lines. What makes me anxious is the thought of Noah’s reaction, but I’m not scared. I want him to know. He needs to know.
Anything worth the wait is also worth the fight.
They are Griffin’s words, but he meant them for now, for this moment, and I can’t believe I ever considered not fighting.
I vaguely recall the two performances before us, but now, as we take to the front of the room, there is only this—this moment and this opportunity—to show Noah I’m willing to fight.
We sail through the scene without a hitch. Then I hear Phillip as Claudio begins one of his last lines.
“And I’ll be sworn upon it that he loves her, for here’s a paper written in his hand, a halting sonnet of his own pure brain, fashioned to Beatrice.”
Phillip hands me the piece of paper, as anticipated, my final lines written upon it.
“And here’s another,” starts Emily as Hero, “writ in my cousin’s hand, stol’n from her own pocket, containing her affection unto Benedick.”
Emily hands the note to Noah, and I suck in a breath. He looks at it, then up at me, his eyes wide with astonishment, and for a few seconds he doesn’t speak.
It is not possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.
These are the words, Forster’s words from A Room with a View, that I wrote in my journal after tracing the healing skin of his tattoo. In all this time, I never found the right moment to ask him about it, why he got it on a day I now know he was looking for me, hoping to find me in London.
I fear for a moment I’ve ruined the performance, as he still stands in stunned silence. But then his next line comes.
“A miracle.” His voice is soft, not the usual over-the-top flourish that is Benedick and the way I’ve heard him speak the line dozens of times before. When the clear blue of his eyes meets mine, I understand. Though they are Benedick’s words, it is Noah who speaks them, and not to Beatrice but to me.
“Here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light I take thee for pity.”
Noah laughs. And, oh my God, I get it. We’ve been foolish and for too long. And I can feel something building, starting, and suddenly the next few minutes can’t move quickly enough.
“I would not deny you,” I start, stepping closer to him, “but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”
He does not hesitate. “Peace! I will stop your mouth.”
In front of our small cast, our peers, and our professor, Noah scoops me into his arms, kissing me with all the intensity of that night in London, with all the gentleness of the morning where he woke on my floor, having spent the night taking care of me after my Valentine’s injury. He kisses me for all the time we spent promised to another and for the time we spent alone and apart.
Applause rings throughout the class, and we finally break apart. There are lines left to speak before the end of the play, but Professor Thompson is on her feet, her hands clapping wildly. Oliver takes the cue and bows, the rest of us following, as we end the scene.
The time is so close to the end of class that Professor Thompson thanks us all and excuses us on the spot. Noah and I still stand, no longer in Beatrice and Benedick’s embrace, but his fingers are laced with mine. He doesn’t let go, even as we lean in for hugs and good-byes with the rest of our group.
“Brilliant. Just brilliant,” Oliver says as he walks out of the room.
We’re still standing there after everyone has left, including the professor.
“You never asked me about it. I knew you had to know, but you never said anything.”
“The tattoo? Yeah. I first saw it that morning in January. I wanted to ask about it, but then, well, things happened, and we weren’t talking, and then I never found the right time after. Not until you told me about London did I let myself hope that maybe it was for me.”
His chest rises and falls as he lets out a huge sigh. He turns to me, his other hand linking with mine.
“It sounds crazy. I told you I had no hope of actually finding you, even in a small borough of the city, but I felt this connection to you and to that stupid book.”
“It’s not a stupid book.”
“Let me finish.” He presses his finger gently to my pouting lips. “It’s like I somehow knew you were there. I told you when I saw you, it was then I knew what I wanted to say to you. But that’s not the truth. It was the minute the needle touched my skin that I knew I would fall in love with you, that I probably already had that day on the tour.”
“Noah.” The word is a sigh, a revelation of what I should have said when I returned from Greece.
“I am irrevocably in love with you, Jordan Brooks, and a few hundred miles isn’t going to change that.”
I’m dizzy with elation, a swarm of butterflies taking up residence in my stomach, my vision blurry with the hot tears pooling in my eyes.
“Brooks?” His thumb swipes at the first tear to fall. “This might be a good place to tell me something.”
I laugh and choke back a sob at the same time. “You mean the journal entry wasn’t enough? I love you. God, I love you, and I know we’re about to separate for ten weeks, and that you have to student teach, but I have a car, and I mapped it. It’s only five hours from my school to yours, maybe farther from where I live in Chicago to where you live, but I can do it. And I know what I want to do after graduation. I don’t want to teach. I want to write. There’s an MFA program at Ohio State and maybe, in a year…”
I’m losing my nerve. This is fast. I’m moving too fast, assuming things about a year from now. I’m going to freak him out. Does he look freaked out? I can’t tell. Oh hell. Daniel was right. I might be more than mildly unhinged.
