Chapter 39
Thirty-Nine
Victor
The March wind slices through me as I wait in the taxi line at JFK.
Looks like it snowed while I was away—a while ago, if the grimy, gray piles of snow are any indication—though it doesn’t take long for snow to turn gray and grimy in this city.
It’s a far cry from the warm breezes of L.A.
and the tropical humidity of Costa Rica.
I get in the next taxi, let the driver stash my luggage in the trunk, and rub my gritty eyes.
I fucking hate red-eye flights, but I have an appointment this afternoon and what was supposed to be a reasonable departure time yesterday turned into a snafu of flight delays and plane changes and god, I’m so fucking exhausted.
I lean my head against the seat back and doze lightly while the cab driver navigates the early morning traffic into Manhattan.
He drops me off in front of my apartment building and I look up at my apartment window the way Adrienne did when she came to see me before the wedding.
The super has salted the sidewalk and steps but that just means that the building’s residents have tracked slush and salt through the lobby and up the stairs.
Three flights of stairs lugging two suitcases and a garment bag and I’m supposed to be fit and athletic but I’m breathing hard when I reach my apartment door.
I unlock the door, dump my luggage just inside, and make a beeline for the kitchen.
There’s still the solitary water glass upside down on the little dish drainer next to the small sink—just where I left it a month ago when I left for Costa Rica—and I fill it with water from the tap and gulp it down.
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket. I’m hoping, unreasonably, that it’s Jason, but it’s Micah.
Glad you’re back in the city. Confirming our 3:00 today. I should tell you that I do have another party interested in the space.
Of course it’s not Jason. I think about calling or texting him myself, like I’ve thought about every single day since we arrived at our respective locations after Kelsey’s wedding week. I’ve re-read our text exchange the night I arrived in L.A. from Costa Rica every day since.
But he didn’t text me the next day and I didn’t text him. Or the next day. Or the next. Three weeks have gone by with no contact between us.
I’ve been busy. I’m sure he’s been busy.
And it’s not like three weeks is the longest we’ve gone with no contact.
But I lost count of how many times I picked up my phone to text him.
Something dumb, another Buffy reference, maybe.
Anything, really. Or call him just to hear his voice, that velvety, deep voice that sounds like music even when he’s just speaking.
The Saint Sebastian Six have a concert at Saint Sebastian's next month and Kevin posted a clip from their last rehearsal last week. I watched it four times.
I thought things would be different after Costa Rica, but so far, they’re not.
I rinse the water glass and place it back upside down on the dish drainer. I need a nap before my appointment. I can’t make any decisions in this state of exhaustion.
My bedroom is at the back of the apartment, with a window that looks out onto a small courtyard.
The heat in my apartment is unpredictable.
Some days, the radiator hisses and spits but barely warms the place.
Other days, like today, apparently, the radiator steams like a boiling tea kettle and the air is stale and over-warm.
I crack the window and face-plant on the bed without pulling the covers down or changing clothes.
I feel somewhat better when I wake up and better still after a shower. It’s warmed up some outside and I jog lightly to the end of my block, turn the corner, and head two streets up. I’m peering into the ground floor windows of the building when Micah calls my name.
I turn, greet him and shake his hand, then wait while he fumbles with the key in the door. Micah steps back and allows me to enter first. He chatters about something as he steps in but I’m not listening. I cross to the middle of the large room and stand there.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen this space, and Micah knows that, so he quits listing its features out loud.
The big windows are great, lots of light and air, though I’m not sure if the natural light will be sufficient for filming, especially on cloudy days.
I’ll probably need supplemental lighting.
My own fitness studio. After all these years of teaching out of other people’s gyms and filming in the living room of my apartment, I could finally have a home base.
Roots.
A reason to stay in one city instead of drifting between coasts and countries, carrying my life in two rolling suitcases like I’ve been doing for too long.
Wood flooring, which is great for the yoga side of the space, though I’ll put mats down in the spin section so members can drip sweat and not ruin the floors.
Nice high ceilings. It was a restaurant before, I think Micah told me, and there are still faint marks on the walls where shelving or equipment was fixed.
It smells like wood varnish and cold air.
I walk the space slowly. The bikes would face the windows on the south wall, in a semi-circle. Yoga studio space on the opposite end of the space, with a short wall with cubbies for mats and props, and space for members to leave their shoes.
Camera rig in that corner for spin classes, moved to the opposite corner for filming yoga classes. Hmm, moving the camera rig every time I switch modalities might become a pain in the ass, but I’m not sure I have room in my budget for two rigs.
Still, I can see what this space can become so clearly.
I could do it in L.A. The rent would be a little higher, but let’s be honest, Hell’s Kitchen gentrified a long time ago and nothing’s cheap here. But Micah’s had this place vacant for a while and he’s willing to come down a little—a very little—on the rent.
Micah’s wandered off tactfully, and I sit down on the floor. I cross my legs in sukhasana and close my eyes. There’s really only one reason I’m thinking of renting this studio in New York City.
I’ve been so fucking patient for fifteen years. I’ve been so careful not to want too much.
And where has it gotten me? Sitting on the floor of an empty room, trying to decide whether to build a life around a man who might never choose me.
But I don’t know if I can sign this lease and not know.
“I hate to rush you, Victor, but…” Micah’s voice is quiet but insistent.
“I know,” I say. I get to my feet. “I appreciate you letting me see it again before I decide.”
“No problem,” Micah says. “Speaking of deciding, though…”
“Yeah.” I’ve already pushed the deadline about whether to sign the lease once and Micah’s been very patient.
“As I said, I do have someone else interested in the space, if you’re not going to take it.”
“I know,” I say again. “Can you give me the weekend to think about it? I promise I’ll give you an answer on Monday.”
Micah looks at me for a long moment. Maybe trying to suss out whether I’m bullshitting him or not. I’m not, but I have no idea how to make this decision. I should have made it before Costa Rica. But if I had, it probably would have been no.
Probably.
Stupid, stubborn hope. I don’t know why I keep torturing myself like this.
Micah finally shrugs his shoulders. “Fine. Monday, then.”
“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.”
I leave Micah to lock the space up and turn down Tenth Avenue. It’s still windy and I wish I’d worn a hat or scarf. Every time I come back to New York after L.A., I forget about the variability in the city’s weather.
I stuff my hands in my pockets and quicken my pace to keep warm. I weave my way around pedestrians—not as many as there will be in a month or two—and before I know it, I’m at West Thirtieth and taking the steps to the High Line two at a time.
I love this park. I love how a group of people got together to advocate for the preservation of an elevated rail line on the West Side and turned it into this.
It’s a hundred percent the triumph of community and persistence over apathy and government bureaucracy.
And I’m not making some highfalutin comparison of a decaying and dilapidated railroad line metamorphosing into one of the most beautiful and popular parks in New York City to how my relationship with Jason has evolved over the last fifteen years.
I find an empty bench in front of a patch of dried native grasses and take my phone out.
I’m in New York. Got in this morning. I didn’t call you because I didn’t know what to say and I still don’t but I’m sitting on a bench on the High Line and I’m thinking about you and I have a decision to make by Monday and I don’t know how to make it without knowing if…
I stop. Read back the message.
I delete it.
I’ve never asked Jason for anything. I’m not sure it would be fair to start now. I don’t even know how to start now. Nothing’s changed about the reasons Jason and I aren’t together.
And maybe that's the answer. Maybe the fact that I can't even send a text means I already know how this ends.
I put my phone back in my pocket and walk back to my apartment.
I sleep in late on Saturday. Jet lag catching up on me, I guess.
I go for a run. I do a series of sun salutations to stretch afterwards.
I don’t consciously think about the decision I have to make but it’s hanging over me and the day drags on in that particular way of days when you’re simultaneously avoiding and trying to make a life-changing decision.
I’m also not thinking about the text I almost sent Jason.
I wake up feeling more rested on Sunday. I’ve still got one more day before I have to call Micah but I take my phone out and look at it in my hand. I could call him today. He’d answer.
I might as well call him today. I should just end this agonizing. Tell Micah thanks, but no thanks, give the lease option up. Maybe look for space in L.A.
I don’t know if I can put down roots here, with Jason on the other side of the East River as what? Co-parent to a grown daughter? Casual fuck buddy? Friend?
When the phone vibrates in my hand, I almost drop it. It’s not Micah, though. It’s Kelsey.
“Hi, Kels, how was the honeymoon?”
“Hi, Daddy. It was so great. We did practically nothing after you all left. Just lounged around by the pool, got some massages, and…well, never mind what else.” Her voice trails off with a slight giggle and I smile even though she can’t see me.
“Glad it was…relaxing?” I offer with a teasing note in my own voice.
“Yeah,” Kelsey says, with another muffled giggle. “That’s exactly what it was. Relaxing.”
“Back to work then?” I ask. I let Kelsey’s chatter about the upcoming dive she has scheduled, the immense amount of data she still has to analyze before she leaves for it, the theatre plans she and Adrienne have with Logan and Silas, wash over me.
I might call Micah when Kelsey and I get off the phone.
Or I might wait until the last minute to decide. Tomorrow.
“You okay, Daddy?”
“Hmm?” I focus back on my daughter. “I’m fine, hon.”
“Okay, well, Adrienne and I are about to head out for brunch. I called Dad to see if he wanted to join us, but he’s going to confession after Mass today.”
“He’s what?” I wince at the sharpness in my tone. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.
“Going to confession after Mass,” Kelsey repeats. “It’s not like that’s unusual for him.”
“No,” I say. “Yeah, of course.”
There’s a brief silence. “You know I’d invite you to brunch if you were in town. Wait, are you in town?”
“Yeah,” I say distractedly. “I got in Friday morning.”
What does Jason going to confession three weeks after Costa Rica mean? Does he regret what we did? Is he promising God and his priest this time to resist the temptation to sin again? Maybe I’ve only ever been a temptation to him. Something to confess and be absolved of. Something to repent.
Fifteen years ago, I told myself the same thing. Apparently, I never learn.
Kelsey’s voice shakes me out of these thoughts. “Why didn’t you call?”
“Oh, I had an appointment Friday afternoon and then some things to deal with.”
Or avoid dealing with.
Another brief silence and then Kelsey says, “Daddy? Is everything okay?”
“Sure, hon,” I say automatically. “Listen, I gotta run, Kels. I’ll talk to you later.”
I end the call, sit for a minute holding my phone, then grab my coat and leave the apartment. I’m done waiting. Whatever’s going on in Jason’s head, whatever he feels about me, I need to know what it is.