You're a Mean One, Matthew Prince, page 31
“Okay.” Another sweet round of hugs warms me.
I wave goodbye to Hector, and after another stunned beat, he waves back. If this is the end of the road for us, at least I’ll get to remember his half smile, the look in his eyes when he opened his gifts, and the crackling feeling still heating up my heart.
At the street corner, I pull one final apology from the pocket inside my coat—a stamped letter addressed to Baz and Spencer explaining myself and taking responsibility for my actions. I drop it with a flourish into the shiny blue postal box.
I tilt my head up toward the sun, finally embracing the light—my light; and that’s the greatest gift I could’ve given myself this year.
Chapter 41
The long TSA security check is a cacophony of zings and rings behind me. Holiday travelers argue and roll their bags back and forth in impatient misery. I stand at the inlet with my Louis Vuitton carry-on in one hand and a plane ticket in the other.
I haven’t seen him yet. Checking my Movado watch, I realize the minutes are ticking closer to departure. I didn’t get any confirmation that he’d be here, but I promised myself I’d see this through. That’s what Josiah would’ve told me to do. Even if my advance is rejected, I can begin the healing process. It’s a personal win either way. Though one success would be much sweeter than the other.
Mom and Oksana return with a carrier full of sludgy peppermint mochas from the Dunkin kiosk. “He’s not here yet?” Oksana asks. I shake my head, stuffed full of tissue paper.
“He’ll show. He will,” Mom assures me, but it does nothing to quiet my rumbling stomach.
I asked Oksana to come with me, and when Mom found out what I was up to, she invited herself. It’s all part of her promise to be more present.
If they weren’t here, I might’ve dipped by now, so I suppose it’s a good thing. Their confidence, even if wavering, helps me stay strong.
I check my watch again. And again. Over and over for the full hour.
Five minutes late. There’s probably traffic.
Ten minutes late. The parking here is a nightmare.
Twenty minutes late. My grand gesture failed.
He’s chosen tomorrow’s flight.
Acceptance is inevitable, but futile.
I sip my less-than-decent coffee, willing him one last time to appear, but he doesn’t. For once, I do wish I was one of Mom’s characters so she could write me a different ending…
“We should go,” I tell Mom, sorrowful.
Oksana tugs me tight to her side. “You tried. That’s what matters.”
She’s right. If it was meant to be, it would’ve been. Hector said it back at the lights spectacular, and now it’s holding true.
That’s okay. I’ll ring in the New Year single, but I’ll have plenty to look forward to. I’ve already begun contacting mental health nonprofits about volunteering. I put out feelers with Nan—Dad’s mom—about a loan for my eventual event-planning business. I’ve even started decorating my new apartment, giving it all the Matthew Prince interior touches it needs to feel like home.
It’s not such an evasive word any longer. I’m investing in me, believing in me, and holding my own damn heart in caring hands, forever and ever.
Home was inside me the whole time.
Just as I start heading toward the exit, a voice breaks above the ruckus.
“Hold the plane! Hold the plane! He’s coming! He’ll be here!” Gramps is jogging—not running—but jogging through the masses.
“You can’t just hold planes. That’s not how planes work,” I say when he gets to us, winded beyond belief. I couldn’t be more excited to see him.
“Well, private planes…” Mom offers. I give her a look. “What? I’m just saying.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask Gramps. Then I see Grandma pulling up the rear in her snug coat and puff-ball hat. Noelle is beside her, giant replicas of the Times Square Ball hanging from her ears.
When they split off, a flushed Hector appears, rolling a suitcase behind him.
My heart catches, and my breath snags.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I say.
“I wasn’t sure I’d come either, dude,” he admits. “It took a village just to get me here.” He gestures to his posse.
“His car wouldn’t start,” Gramps says.
“And then Gramps lost his wallet,” Grandma says.
“So they called me,” Noelle says.
“And we had a terrible time finding parking,” Hector says. At least I got that part right.
“Which is expensive as hell,” Noelle cries. “I will be Venmo-ing you for reimbursement, thank you very much.”
I laugh. “I got you. Don’t worry about it.”
But as I say it, my own worry rears its ugly head.
Focusing on my breath, I allow the atmosphere of this liminal space to settle in around us. We’re far removed from the fantasy of Wind River and the reality of Manhattan. Somewhere in the middle of Queens, in its own zip code, Hector and I become uncertain reminders of a Christmas romance gone awry.
“Does this mean what I think it means?” I ask, needing to hear it to be certain that this isn’t a holiday hallucination.
There is a long pause where I’m certain I’ve lost him to his own doubts, but then he smirks that delicious smirk and my body goes woozy. “When you first arrived in Wind River, I sincerely thought my whole holiday was shot to hell, dude. That my unfortunate situation had somehow gotten more unfortunate. Then we agreed to work together, and I thought, Well, at least one good thing is coming out of this. If I’m being honest, I never thought I’d get two good things. This.” He holds up his plane ticket—the one for today. “And you.”
Relief rushes through my body; his words mean everything to me.
“It crushed me that you wouldn’t hear me out and that you left knowing that it would hurt me most of all, but I understand that the Matthew who believed the lie is not the Matthew I shared a room with, planned a gala with. Definitely not the Matthew that showed up with gifts and sincere apologies,” he says.
“You’re right.” I’m suddenly scared. “That’s right, but here’s the thing: I can’t promise that incoherent, spiraling Matthew won’t come back. There’s no cure or quick fix or reset button that will turn him off. All I can do is try and take care of myself.”
He nods, understanding. “I know.”
“Well, I guess…I guess I’m just saying I understand if that’s too much for you.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Matthew Prince—too much?” He laughs, oozing care. “No. Honestly, I don’t think there will ever be enough. I was ready to say as much when you showed up at the bookstore, but why waste a perfectly good grand gesture, right?”
The lovely creases by his eyes let me know he’s being genuine. It’ll take some time to process all of this, but we have a whole plane ride together to hash it out.
“I forgive you, Matthew. And I know I said I don’t believe good things last.” Hector reaches out to touch me, and I lean in. “But I believe in our good thing, and I believe in us.”
The wooziness multiplies. I stare back, at a loss for human words to describe the beautiful blasts booming inside me.
Right there in the middle of rushing commuters and frenzied guards, we kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that reads like an ellipsis and hangs in the air over our heads, an uncertain piece of punctuation on a story we’re still writing. It’s a promise of something more to come. I surrender to his taste, his touch, his warmth, his life and then some.
The TSA security guard starts a slow clap for the absolute scene we’re making. A horde of people join in. Gramps whistles. And for once I couldn’t be happier about the sheer spectacle I’ve become.
New year, new me?
Nope.
New year. Same me. Better choices.
Starting right now with this one.
Epilogue
A FEW HOURS LATER
I’m in a relationship. So what?
It’s not a perfect relationship. It’s only been, like, six hours.
The guy is tall and solid and a little gruff, but underneath, he’s intelligent and caring, and he sees my potential. I’ve always wanted to be with someone who believed in my full potential, so I asked him to be my boyfriend on the flight over, and he couldn’t have said yes faster.
So here I sit in the back of a RideShare as our driver speeds up Route 121 North from the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport to the very nearby suburb where my boyfriend is from.
Before we arrive, I check my social media. It shouldn’t matter, but the way people are shouting about our airport reunion makes my heart beat faster. For once, the world gets to see the unfiltered me beside the person who makes me feel the most me I’ve ever been. Satisfied, I log out and delete the apps. I don’t need a forced detox this time to trick me into living in the present.
To break up the silence, I ask, “Will I finally get to try some of this storied coquito?”
“Absolutely.” Hector smiles. “Oh, and I forgot to ask. Do you like grapes?”
“What a highly specific getting-to-know-you question.” We spent most of the flight over running down one of those internet lists—“200 Questions to Deepen Your Relationship” or something—to help pass the time.
“No, it’s not that. I ask because my grandma will force you to eat twelve grapes at midnight to attract fortune and prosperity for the year ahead and if you don’t participate you will be given the silent treatment by the entire family.” He gives me worry-eyes.
“I will eat a million grapes if it will make your family like me. Promise.”
Shortly after, we come to a stop at a vacant curb.
On a quiet tree-lined street sits a single-story house of brown and red brick. Expertly trimmed shrubbery lines the front exterior, adding softness to the sharp lines of the geometric home.
I hesitate before slipping out of the car, suddenly nervous. “You know what? I just remembered that I was cursed by a witch as a baby and now if grapes even come close to my lips I’ll fall into a seven-year slumber.”
“How do you explain all that wine you drink, then?” Hector rolls his eyes. “It’ll be great. They’ll love you.” He offers me a hand as he hunches in the open car door, wearing a reassuring smile. “Come on.”
I ride the wave of my emotions, letting the anxiety register and then roll away.
Hand in hand, we walk the worn path to the maroon front door. Hector knocks a unique rhythm, one the family must know by heart, and one my own heart saves away for later.
I take a breath—inhaling gratitude—and prepare myself for what lies beyond the threshold.
ONE YEAR LATER
I’m in the kitchen of the Cornelia Street apartment Hector and I are renting. Greenwich Village glows at night with a vibrant community and more sweet treats than my metabolism can take. I’m happy to be back in the city that raised me, in a new neighborhood that accepts me, living with someone who loves me.
I pour a glass of red wine to celebrate another successful event fully planned and on its way to completion—a holiday charity fundraiser for a mental health organization I’m affiliated with. I close my laptop. I’ll start up again in January for Oksana and Maxim’s wedding. Tonight, I’ll bask in the pleasant uncertainty of an impending event blended with the cheerful certainty of helping others.
With Nan’s backing, I finally opened Prince Charming Events, an upscale, boutique event-planning service catering to all walks of life and all budgets. I sometimes work pro bono, like I did for this evening’s affair, but my usual rates have helped me manage my own bank account, independent of my parents’ now equal-and-separate wealth.
Hector had been right: hard work feeds the soul.
Right on time, the key jangles in the lock. Hector slips inside. His hair is short now, tapered at the sides and trimmed at the top. He looks as handsome as ever as he slings his Herschel bag near the shoe rack and hangs up his coat. He’s just come from his final class in his first semester as a graduate student in the department of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University.
“Congratulations!” I call from my perch. I pour a second glass of wine and hand it to him as he greets me with a kiss on the crown of my head. “How does it feel to be free for at least a few weeks?”
“A student never stops learning,” he says. He takes his first sip and mmms at the crisp, oaky notes. The bottle was an expensive gift from one of the celebrities whose vow-renewal ceremony I worked on a few months back.
“Well, you’re going to have to keep your books in the bookshelf for this evening. I’m leaving in five and you should leave in, like, an hour just to be safe,” I say.
“Oh, crap. That’s tonight. Right.” It’s not like him to forget one of my events, but I shrug it off.
He sets his wineglass down near the toaster with a nod. “Guess I’d better get changed.”
I follow leisurely behind him into our master bedroom where our king bed sits up against exposed brick and the large windows look down upon a relatively quiet sidewalk. I guess it was possible to find peace in this city of so many noises after all.
“It’s business casual,” I remind him. “You don’t have to wear a blazer if you don’t want to.”
The way he relaxes makes me laugh. Dressing Hector up is a chore and a half. Mrs. Martinez told me he was the same way as a child when she broke out the scrapbooks nearly a year ago. It’s one of the many quirks I love about him. If he wants to live in ripped jeans and beanies, that’s his business. And besides, he looks so damn good in them.
I make myself comfortable on the edge of the bed, careful not to spill any red wine on our fresh, white duvet. I like watching Hector change. Taut, tan skin reveals itself like the gift that keeps on giving. He wiggles out of his jeans and into slacks.
As he lifts his shirt, I swiftly jump up and run a finger through his treasure trail toward his belly button. He giggles, which he only does, I’ve learned, when I surprise him. I wanted to see his smile.
“Keep it up like that and we’ll never make it out of this apartment,” he says, grabbing two handfuls of my ass with a low growl. The city looks good on him, I must admit.
Wind River Hector was tough and sure, but here, he’s really transforming into a rare breed of self-assured man. I waited for this to scare me, but the fear never came. I thought somehow a catch with a face like his might meet another intellectual, stylish grad student and finally realize that while I might have been a Massachusetts seven, I was a New York City five.
Ugh. I throw that thought away like the trash it is. It’s not productive. It’s not me anymore. I’m working on it.
He fixes his button-down in the mirror. I come around behind him. The reflections staring back at us shoot happiness out in every direction. We’re bright individually, but we’re shinier together.
“Don’t you have a staff to oversee?” he asks.
My eyes nearly leap out of my head when I check my Apple Watch. I fling on my coat and blow Hector a kiss from the already closing doorway.
I take the subway, which I’ve come to love in its own unreliable and grimy way, uptown to Queens. It’s a bit of a hike but it will be worth it. The venue is everything I could’ve hoped for and more for this particular event. I settle on the plastic orange double seat and let the rattle and rock of the M train lull me as I do some meditative breathing.
Up on street level, I walk down the block and around the corner where the white, window-covered exterior of the modernist Museum of the Moving Image comes into view. Standing in front of the entrance, backed by neon-pink block letters, are a few of my highly skilled team members. They are all young, thriving, and willing to work for free this evening (though I secretly have holiday bonus envelopes stashed in my bag for each of them).
“Ready for some fun?” I ask.
Charlie, my assistant with iconic wire-rimmed glasses, pipes up first. “Everything in the café is in order. The centerpieces were a little more colorful than we expected, but they give a nice pop against the stark white of the space.” He opens the door for me to step inside.
No matter how many of these events I plan, I still get misty-eyed every time. I don’t know if it’s pride or disbelief or a combination of the two, but I’ll never get over the feeling of something sprouting up inside my brain and then blossoming to life in a location like this. I take in the soft lighting, the view beyond the windowed walls, and the busy bartenders polishing glasses.
A tasteful banner draped across the ceiling reads: Holiday Benefit for the LGBTQ Mental Health Alliance—Tis the Season to take care of your Mind, Body, and (Holiday) Spirit. Not my subtlest tagline, but then again, nobody hires me for subtlety anyway.
Charlie hands me my iPad with my last-minute checklist already marked off. It’s not like him to do my final sweep for me. “We all pitched in and figured you’d want some time to yourself before the event started. There are some early guests waiting for you in the exhibition.”
“There are? I specifically said doors weren’t open for another hour,” I begin to argue, but rein it in. I remind myself that I can be a boss without being bossy. Charlie just shakes his head with a secretive smile. “What’s going on? Who’s here?”
“I think you’ll want to see for yourself,” he says, pushing his glasses farther up his nose. “I think you know where to find them too.”
I start away, taking the stairs in twos. I bypass Tut’s Fever Movie Palace with its ornamental marquee and the nearby prosthetics exhibit.
On the second floor, the zany orange and black of the Jim Henson Exhibition (my happy place) appears across the way. Mom stands there expectantly, dressed in complementary all-magenta. I can’t help but pick up my pace.
“I thought you couldn’t come,” I say before giving her a kiss on the cheek.
I wave goodbye to Hector, and after another stunned beat, he waves back. If this is the end of the road for us, at least I’ll get to remember his half smile, the look in his eyes when he opened his gifts, and the crackling feeling still heating up my heart.
At the street corner, I pull one final apology from the pocket inside my coat—a stamped letter addressed to Baz and Spencer explaining myself and taking responsibility for my actions. I drop it with a flourish into the shiny blue postal box.
I tilt my head up toward the sun, finally embracing the light—my light; and that’s the greatest gift I could’ve given myself this year.
Chapter 41
The long TSA security check is a cacophony of zings and rings behind me. Holiday travelers argue and roll their bags back and forth in impatient misery. I stand at the inlet with my Louis Vuitton carry-on in one hand and a plane ticket in the other.
I haven’t seen him yet. Checking my Movado watch, I realize the minutes are ticking closer to departure. I didn’t get any confirmation that he’d be here, but I promised myself I’d see this through. That’s what Josiah would’ve told me to do. Even if my advance is rejected, I can begin the healing process. It’s a personal win either way. Though one success would be much sweeter than the other.
Mom and Oksana return with a carrier full of sludgy peppermint mochas from the Dunkin kiosk. “He’s not here yet?” Oksana asks. I shake my head, stuffed full of tissue paper.
“He’ll show. He will,” Mom assures me, but it does nothing to quiet my rumbling stomach.
I asked Oksana to come with me, and when Mom found out what I was up to, she invited herself. It’s all part of her promise to be more present.
If they weren’t here, I might’ve dipped by now, so I suppose it’s a good thing. Their confidence, even if wavering, helps me stay strong.
I check my watch again. And again. Over and over for the full hour.
Five minutes late. There’s probably traffic.
Ten minutes late. The parking here is a nightmare.
Twenty minutes late. My grand gesture failed.
He’s chosen tomorrow’s flight.
Acceptance is inevitable, but futile.
I sip my less-than-decent coffee, willing him one last time to appear, but he doesn’t. For once, I do wish I was one of Mom’s characters so she could write me a different ending…
“We should go,” I tell Mom, sorrowful.
Oksana tugs me tight to her side. “You tried. That’s what matters.”
She’s right. If it was meant to be, it would’ve been. Hector said it back at the lights spectacular, and now it’s holding true.
That’s okay. I’ll ring in the New Year single, but I’ll have plenty to look forward to. I’ve already begun contacting mental health nonprofits about volunteering. I put out feelers with Nan—Dad’s mom—about a loan for my eventual event-planning business. I’ve even started decorating my new apartment, giving it all the Matthew Prince interior touches it needs to feel like home.
It’s not such an evasive word any longer. I’m investing in me, believing in me, and holding my own damn heart in caring hands, forever and ever.
Home was inside me the whole time.
Just as I start heading toward the exit, a voice breaks above the ruckus.
“Hold the plane! Hold the plane! He’s coming! He’ll be here!” Gramps is jogging—not running—but jogging through the masses.
“You can’t just hold planes. That’s not how planes work,” I say when he gets to us, winded beyond belief. I couldn’t be more excited to see him.
“Well, private planes…” Mom offers. I give her a look. “What? I’m just saying.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask Gramps. Then I see Grandma pulling up the rear in her snug coat and puff-ball hat. Noelle is beside her, giant replicas of the Times Square Ball hanging from her ears.
When they split off, a flushed Hector appears, rolling a suitcase behind him.
My heart catches, and my breath snags.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I say.
“I wasn’t sure I’d come either, dude,” he admits. “It took a village just to get me here.” He gestures to his posse.
“His car wouldn’t start,” Gramps says.
“And then Gramps lost his wallet,” Grandma says.
“So they called me,” Noelle says.
“And we had a terrible time finding parking,” Hector says. At least I got that part right.
“Which is expensive as hell,” Noelle cries. “I will be Venmo-ing you for reimbursement, thank you very much.”
I laugh. “I got you. Don’t worry about it.”
But as I say it, my own worry rears its ugly head.
Focusing on my breath, I allow the atmosphere of this liminal space to settle in around us. We’re far removed from the fantasy of Wind River and the reality of Manhattan. Somewhere in the middle of Queens, in its own zip code, Hector and I become uncertain reminders of a Christmas romance gone awry.
“Does this mean what I think it means?” I ask, needing to hear it to be certain that this isn’t a holiday hallucination.
There is a long pause where I’m certain I’ve lost him to his own doubts, but then he smirks that delicious smirk and my body goes woozy. “When you first arrived in Wind River, I sincerely thought my whole holiday was shot to hell, dude. That my unfortunate situation had somehow gotten more unfortunate. Then we agreed to work together, and I thought, Well, at least one good thing is coming out of this. If I’m being honest, I never thought I’d get two good things. This.” He holds up his plane ticket—the one for today. “And you.”
Relief rushes through my body; his words mean everything to me.
“It crushed me that you wouldn’t hear me out and that you left knowing that it would hurt me most of all, but I understand that the Matthew who believed the lie is not the Matthew I shared a room with, planned a gala with. Definitely not the Matthew that showed up with gifts and sincere apologies,” he says.
“You’re right.” I’m suddenly scared. “That’s right, but here’s the thing: I can’t promise that incoherent, spiraling Matthew won’t come back. There’s no cure or quick fix or reset button that will turn him off. All I can do is try and take care of myself.”
He nods, understanding. “I know.”
“Well, I guess…I guess I’m just saying I understand if that’s too much for you.”
His eyebrows knit together. “Matthew Prince—too much?” He laughs, oozing care. “No. Honestly, I don’t think there will ever be enough. I was ready to say as much when you showed up at the bookstore, but why waste a perfectly good grand gesture, right?”
The lovely creases by his eyes let me know he’s being genuine. It’ll take some time to process all of this, but we have a whole plane ride together to hash it out.
“I forgive you, Matthew. And I know I said I don’t believe good things last.” Hector reaches out to touch me, and I lean in. “But I believe in our good thing, and I believe in us.”
The wooziness multiplies. I stare back, at a loss for human words to describe the beautiful blasts booming inside me.
Right there in the middle of rushing commuters and frenzied guards, we kiss. It’s the kind of kiss that reads like an ellipsis and hangs in the air over our heads, an uncertain piece of punctuation on a story we’re still writing. It’s a promise of something more to come. I surrender to his taste, his touch, his warmth, his life and then some.
The TSA security guard starts a slow clap for the absolute scene we’re making. A horde of people join in. Gramps whistles. And for once I couldn’t be happier about the sheer spectacle I’ve become.
New year, new me?
Nope.
New year. Same me. Better choices.
Starting right now with this one.
Epilogue
A FEW HOURS LATER
I’m in a relationship. So what?
It’s not a perfect relationship. It’s only been, like, six hours.
The guy is tall and solid and a little gruff, but underneath, he’s intelligent and caring, and he sees my potential. I’ve always wanted to be with someone who believed in my full potential, so I asked him to be my boyfriend on the flight over, and he couldn’t have said yes faster.
So here I sit in the back of a RideShare as our driver speeds up Route 121 North from the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport to the very nearby suburb where my boyfriend is from.
Before we arrive, I check my social media. It shouldn’t matter, but the way people are shouting about our airport reunion makes my heart beat faster. For once, the world gets to see the unfiltered me beside the person who makes me feel the most me I’ve ever been. Satisfied, I log out and delete the apps. I don’t need a forced detox this time to trick me into living in the present.
To break up the silence, I ask, “Will I finally get to try some of this storied coquito?”
“Absolutely.” Hector smiles. “Oh, and I forgot to ask. Do you like grapes?”
“What a highly specific getting-to-know-you question.” We spent most of the flight over running down one of those internet lists—“200 Questions to Deepen Your Relationship” or something—to help pass the time.
“No, it’s not that. I ask because my grandma will force you to eat twelve grapes at midnight to attract fortune and prosperity for the year ahead and if you don’t participate you will be given the silent treatment by the entire family.” He gives me worry-eyes.
“I will eat a million grapes if it will make your family like me. Promise.”
Shortly after, we come to a stop at a vacant curb.
On a quiet tree-lined street sits a single-story house of brown and red brick. Expertly trimmed shrubbery lines the front exterior, adding softness to the sharp lines of the geometric home.
I hesitate before slipping out of the car, suddenly nervous. “You know what? I just remembered that I was cursed by a witch as a baby and now if grapes even come close to my lips I’ll fall into a seven-year slumber.”
“How do you explain all that wine you drink, then?” Hector rolls his eyes. “It’ll be great. They’ll love you.” He offers me a hand as he hunches in the open car door, wearing a reassuring smile. “Come on.”
I ride the wave of my emotions, letting the anxiety register and then roll away.
Hand in hand, we walk the worn path to the maroon front door. Hector knocks a unique rhythm, one the family must know by heart, and one my own heart saves away for later.
I take a breath—inhaling gratitude—and prepare myself for what lies beyond the threshold.
ONE YEAR LATER
I’m in the kitchen of the Cornelia Street apartment Hector and I are renting. Greenwich Village glows at night with a vibrant community and more sweet treats than my metabolism can take. I’m happy to be back in the city that raised me, in a new neighborhood that accepts me, living with someone who loves me.
I pour a glass of red wine to celebrate another successful event fully planned and on its way to completion—a holiday charity fundraiser for a mental health organization I’m affiliated with. I close my laptop. I’ll start up again in January for Oksana and Maxim’s wedding. Tonight, I’ll bask in the pleasant uncertainty of an impending event blended with the cheerful certainty of helping others.
With Nan’s backing, I finally opened Prince Charming Events, an upscale, boutique event-planning service catering to all walks of life and all budgets. I sometimes work pro bono, like I did for this evening’s affair, but my usual rates have helped me manage my own bank account, independent of my parents’ now equal-and-separate wealth.
Hector had been right: hard work feeds the soul.
Right on time, the key jangles in the lock. Hector slips inside. His hair is short now, tapered at the sides and trimmed at the top. He looks as handsome as ever as he slings his Herschel bag near the shoe rack and hangs up his coat. He’s just come from his final class in his first semester as a graduate student in the department of English and Comparative Literature at Columbia University.
“Congratulations!” I call from my perch. I pour a second glass of wine and hand it to him as he greets me with a kiss on the crown of my head. “How does it feel to be free for at least a few weeks?”
“A student never stops learning,” he says. He takes his first sip and mmms at the crisp, oaky notes. The bottle was an expensive gift from one of the celebrities whose vow-renewal ceremony I worked on a few months back.
“Well, you’re going to have to keep your books in the bookshelf for this evening. I’m leaving in five and you should leave in, like, an hour just to be safe,” I say.
“Oh, crap. That’s tonight. Right.” It’s not like him to forget one of my events, but I shrug it off.
He sets his wineglass down near the toaster with a nod. “Guess I’d better get changed.”
I follow leisurely behind him into our master bedroom where our king bed sits up against exposed brick and the large windows look down upon a relatively quiet sidewalk. I guess it was possible to find peace in this city of so many noises after all.
“It’s business casual,” I remind him. “You don’t have to wear a blazer if you don’t want to.”
The way he relaxes makes me laugh. Dressing Hector up is a chore and a half. Mrs. Martinez told me he was the same way as a child when she broke out the scrapbooks nearly a year ago. It’s one of the many quirks I love about him. If he wants to live in ripped jeans and beanies, that’s his business. And besides, he looks so damn good in them.
I make myself comfortable on the edge of the bed, careful not to spill any red wine on our fresh, white duvet. I like watching Hector change. Taut, tan skin reveals itself like the gift that keeps on giving. He wiggles out of his jeans and into slacks.
As he lifts his shirt, I swiftly jump up and run a finger through his treasure trail toward his belly button. He giggles, which he only does, I’ve learned, when I surprise him. I wanted to see his smile.
“Keep it up like that and we’ll never make it out of this apartment,” he says, grabbing two handfuls of my ass with a low growl. The city looks good on him, I must admit.
Wind River Hector was tough and sure, but here, he’s really transforming into a rare breed of self-assured man. I waited for this to scare me, but the fear never came. I thought somehow a catch with a face like his might meet another intellectual, stylish grad student and finally realize that while I might have been a Massachusetts seven, I was a New York City five.
Ugh. I throw that thought away like the trash it is. It’s not productive. It’s not me anymore. I’m working on it.
He fixes his button-down in the mirror. I come around behind him. The reflections staring back at us shoot happiness out in every direction. We’re bright individually, but we’re shinier together.
“Don’t you have a staff to oversee?” he asks.
My eyes nearly leap out of my head when I check my Apple Watch. I fling on my coat and blow Hector a kiss from the already closing doorway.
I take the subway, which I’ve come to love in its own unreliable and grimy way, uptown to Queens. It’s a bit of a hike but it will be worth it. The venue is everything I could’ve hoped for and more for this particular event. I settle on the plastic orange double seat and let the rattle and rock of the M train lull me as I do some meditative breathing.
Up on street level, I walk down the block and around the corner where the white, window-covered exterior of the modernist Museum of the Moving Image comes into view. Standing in front of the entrance, backed by neon-pink block letters, are a few of my highly skilled team members. They are all young, thriving, and willing to work for free this evening (though I secretly have holiday bonus envelopes stashed in my bag for each of them).
“Ready for some fun?” I ask.
Charlie, my assistant with iconic wire-rimmed glasses, pipes up first. “Everything in the café is in order. The centerpieces were a little more colorful than we expected, but they give a nice pop against the stark white of the space.” He opens the door for me to step inside.
No matter how many of these events I plan, I still get misty-eyed every time. I don’t know if it’s pride or disbelief or a combination of the two, but I’ll never get over the feeling of something sprouting up inside my brain and then blossoming to life in a location like this. I take in the soft lighting, the view beyond the windowed walls, and the busy bartenders polishing glasses.
A tasteful banner draped across the ceiling reads: Holiday Benefit for the LGBTQ Mental Health Alliance—Tis the Season to take care of your Mind, Body, and (Holiday) Spirit. Not my subtlest tagline, but then again, nobody hires me for subtlety anyway.
Charlie hands me my iPad with my last-minute checklist already marked off. It’s not like him to do my final sweep for me. “We all pitched in and figured you’d want some time to yourself before the event started. There are some early guests waiting for you in the exhibition.”
“There are? I specifically said doors weren’t open for another hour,” I begin to argue, but rein it in. I remind myself that I can be a boss without being bossy. Charlie just shakes his head with a secretive smile. “What’s going on? Who’s here?”
“I think you’ll want to see for yourself,” he says, pushing his glasses farther up his nose. “I think you know where to find them too.”
I start away, taking the stairs in twos. I bypass Tut’s Fever Movie Palace with its ornamental marquee and the nearby prosthetics exhibit.
On the second floor, the zany orange and black of the Jim Henson Exhibition (my happy place) appears across the way. Mom stands there expectantly, dressed in complementary all-magenta. I can’t help but pick up my pace.
“I thought you couldn’t come,” I say before giving her a kiss on the cheek.
