Chapter 16 Rhett #2
The kiss that followed was gentle, unhurried, a reaffirmation rather than an ignition. We had time now. No need to rush, to grasp desperately at moments before separation. For the next two days, we had the luxury of simply being together, learning the rhythms of each other’s daily lives.
Dinner was a leisurely affair, eaten at my rarely-used dining table with the city lights spread out below us through the wall of windows.
We talked about everything and nothing, his bar, my current projects, the property in Carolina that had become a symbol of our shared future.
The conversation flowed as easily as the wine, punctuated by comfortable silences that required no filling.
Later, as we prepared for bed, I was struck again by the rightness of Moses in my space, his toiletries beside mine in the bathroom, his clothes hanging next to mine in the closet, his presence filling the rooms that had sometimes felt too large, too empty.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, catching me watching him from the doorway as he turned down the bed, a domestic gesture that seemed both ordinary and profound.
“That I could get used to this,” I admitted. “You, here. Us, together. Not just visits, but... permanence.”
Moses’s expression softened, his eyes reflecting the same longing I felt. “Me too. Though I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Three-month plan, remember?”
“I remember,” I assured him, moving to join him beside the bed. “Doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy imagining the possibilities while we evaluate the practicalities.”
“Always the architect,” he teased, pulling me close. “Balancing vision with structural reality.”
“It’s served me well so far,” I pointed out, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“Can’t argue with results,” he agreed, turning his head to capture my lips properly.
The next two days passed in a blur of activity and contentment.
I showed Moses my Boston, not just the tourist landmarks, though we did walk the Freedom Trail and visit the Museum of Fine Arts, but my personal landmarks.
The café where I sketched preliminary designs, the small bookstore with the architecture section I’d helped curate, the park bench where I’d decided to start my own firm rather than continuing with a larger company.
Moses, in turn, explored Boston’s craft cocktail scene with professional interest, critically evaluating gin selections and mixing techniques with an expert’s eye.
We visited three different establishments specializing in artisanal spirits, each time leaving the bartenders slightly starstruck after realizing they’d been serving the Moses Morley, whose small-batch gins that I had made and developed had become something of a cult following among enthusiasts.
“You’re a celebrity,” I teased after the third such encounter, where the bartender had practically begged for Moses’s opinion on a house-infused botanical blend.
“Hardly,” Moses scoffed, though I could tell he was pleased by the recognition. “Just respected in very niche circles.”
“Don’t downplay it,” I insisted. “What you’ve created in Atlanta is impressive. You should be proud.”
He smiled, a hint of shyness in the expression that I found endlessly endearing. “I am. It’s taken years of experimentation, failures, refinements. But I’ve built something that’s truly mine, that represents my vision and standards. That means something.”
“It means everything,” I agreed, understanding completely. We were alike in that way, both creators who had poured ourselves into our respective crafts, building businesses that were extensions of our passions and principles.
On Moses’s final evening in Boston, I took him to dinner at a small, exclusive restaurant overlooking the harbor, a place that required reservations months in advance, though the head chef was a former client who had been happy to accommodate me on short notice.
“This is incredible,” Moses commented as we were shown to our table, the prime spot with unobstructed water views. “How did you manage this?”
“I designed his house,” I explained. “He was pleased with the results.”
“I’m beginning to think you know everyone in Boston,” Moses observed with a smile.
“Not everyone,” I corrected. “Just the interesting ones.”
The meal was exceptional, course after course of beautifully presented local cuisine, each paired with wines selected specifically to complement the flavors. We lingered over dessert and coffee, neither of us eager for the evening to end, for tomorrow’s separation to begin.
“I’ve been thinking,” Moses said as we walked along the harbor afterward, the lights of the city reflecting on the dark water. “About the property. About our three-month plan.”
My heart rate picked up slightly at his serious tone. “Oh?”
“I think we should make an offer,” he said, stopping to face me directly. “Sooner rather than later. Before someone else snaps it up.”
I blinked, surprised by the decisiveness of his statement. “Are you sure? We agreed to take three months to think it through, test the waters.”
“I know,” he acknowledged. “And maybe that was the right approach a week ago. But being here, seeing your life, showing you mine when you visit Atlanta next month... I think we already know this is what we want. The property is exactly right for us, location, character, and potential. Why wait if we’re both certain? ”
The simple logic of his argument, combined with my own growing conviction, was persuasive. “You’re sure?” I asked again, needing to be certain. “This is a big step. I don’t want you to feel rushed.”
Moses laughed, the sound warm in the cool evening air. “Rhett, we’ve waited twenty years. I don’t think ‘rushed’ is a word that applies to us at this point.”
Put that way, it was hard to argue. “Alright,” I agreed, a smile spreading across my face as the decision solidified between us. “I’ll contact the real estate agent tomorrow. Start the process.”
“Good,” Moses said firmly. “And I’ll talk to Bronwyn about restructuring my schedule at the bar. If we’re really doing this, I need to start planning for more regular absences.”
The practical considerations: financing, scheduling, logistics, would need to be addressed, of course.
But in that moment, standing by the harbor with the city lights reflecting on the water and Moses’s hand warm in mine, those details seemed manageable, even trivial compared to the significance of the decision we’d made.
We were putting down new roots, not in Gomillion, where our past had begun, not in Boston or Atlanta where we’d built separate lives, but in a place chosen together, designed to accommodate both our individual needs and our shared future.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on either of us as we made our way back to my apartment, hands linked, steps in sync.
We were choosing each other, deliberately and with open eyes, no longer the afraid teenagers we’d once been but grown men who understood both the value and the challenge of what we were building.
Morning came too soon, bringing with it the inevitability of Moses’s departure. We moved through the rituals of breakfast and packing with a quietness that reflected our reluctance to separate again, even temporarily.
“One month,” Moses reminded me as we prepared to leave for the airport. “Then I’ll see you in Atlanta. And in the meantime, we’ll be working on the house.”
“Our house,” I corrected, the possessive pronoun still new and thrilling on my tongue.
“Our house,” he agreed, a smile lighting his features despite the impending separation.
The drive to the airport was subdued, both of us lost in our own thoughts, hands linked across the console as if to maintain connection for as long as possible. At the departures drop-off, I parked in a loading zone, ignoring the potential for a ticket; some moments were worth the risk.
“I’ll call as soon as I land,” Moses promised as we stood beside the car, his bag slung over his shoulder, the moment of parting unavoidable now.
“I’ll answer,” I assured him, attempting humor despite the tightness in my chest. “Even if I’m in a meeting. Especially if I’m in a meeting.”
Moses laughed, the sound cutting through the melancholy of the moment. “Don’t get fired on my account.”
“It’s my firm,” I reminded him. “I can’t be fired. Though my clients might have opinions about my professionalism.”
“Your clients adore you,” Moses countered. “As evidenced by last-minute reservations at impossible-to-book restaurants.”
The banter was a familiar defense mechanism for both of us, a way to navigate emotional moments with humor rather than succumbing to the full weight of feeling. But as the final boarding call for Moses’s flight echoed from the terminal speakers, even that buffer fell away.
I pulled him close, unconcerned with the busy flow of travelers around us. “I love you,” I said simply. “Travel safe.”
“I love you, too,” he replied, his arms tightening around me briefly before he stepped back. “One month.”
“One month,” I echoed, already counting the days.
I watched him walk into the terminal, staying until he disappeared from view before returning to my car.
The drive back to my apartment was quieter, emptier without his presence beside me.
But unlike our separation in Gomillion, this parting carried none of the uncertainty, none of the fear that had colored our previous goodbye.
We had a plan now, not just the immediate schedule of visits between Boston and Atlanta, but a larger vision for our shared future.
The property in Carolina, once just a possibility I’d researched on a whim, had become a tangible goal, a physical manifestation of our commitment to building a life together.
Back in my apartment, I noticed the small traces Moses had left behind, a book on the coffee table, a borrowed sweater draped over a chair, his preferred brand of coffee in my kitchen.
These weren’t the artifacts of absence that might have triggered melancholy, but rather promises of return, of continuity, of a story still unfolding.
I settled at my desk, opening my laptop to find an email already waiting from Moses, sent from the airport lounge:
Missing you already. But excited about what we’re building. Talk to you soon. Love, M.
I smiled as I typed my reply:
The feeling is mutual. On both counts. Just contacted the real estate agent about the property. First steps toward our new roots. Love, R.
As I sent the message, I felt a sense of rightness settle over me. The path ahead wasn’t entirely clear, there would be challenges, compromises, adjustments as we navigated the integration of our separate lives. But the destination was certain, the commitment unwavering.
After twenty years apart, we were finally moving in the same direction, no longer running from the past but building toward a future of our own design. New roots, new beginnings, built on the solid foundation of a connection that had withstood time, distance, and misunderstanding.
It was, I reflected as I turned to the preliminary sketches I’d begun for potential renovations to the Carolina property, exactly the kind of project I’d spent my career preparing for.
Taking something with good bones and great potential, preserving what worked while adapting for a new purpose, creating space for life to unfold in all its messy, beautiful complexity.
Only this time, I wasn’t designing for a client. I was designing for us. For home. For the life Moses and I would build together, day by day, choice by choice, moment by moment.
New roots. New beginnings. But the same strong foundation that had always existed between us, now finally given the chance to grow and flourish as it was always meant to do.