Chapter 25 Sam #2
Our destination is still a good eight hours from here—at the tip of Florida’s alligator snout, if you will—and on we push.
Down, down, down the omnipresent I-95, and Ash gets quieter the closer we inch to our destination.
Apprehension, exhaustion, or a mix of the two, but as dusk blankets the sky and overhanging road signs start reading for Miami, he’s rapt and rigid, face plastered to the window.
I wonder if this city has reached mythological proportions for him by now. For me, it’s just home.
“Bienvenido a Miami,” I say, as the city unfurls before us.
“Holy shit,” he marvels.
The highway ribbons towards the skyline, towers rising out of the haze in mirrored blues and smoky greens, glittering mirages in the last light of the sinking sun.
Neon’s taking over where the daylight’s left off, hot pinks and electric blues bleeding from liquor stores and clubs.
Palm trees leave their fluttering shadows as they bend and clatter in the ocean breeze.
Traffic is a shit show as usual and even that’s not enough to dampen my mood, a stupid-ass grin splitting my face. I roll down my window and stick out my head and holler, “Llegué, cono!1” and a few people yelp and whoop in kind. Someone tells me to go fuck myself and that’s a kind of comfort, too.
Bass lines bleed from car to car, Spanish and English braided together in shouted conversations and choruses half-sung. Salsa and synth-heavy pop drift from open windows and meld together. Somewhere, a siren whoops and dies, swallowed up by the sounds of the city.
God, I fucking love it here.
I reach over and grab Ash’s hand and his fingers curl around mine. He’s smiling, too: maybe at my antics or maybe at the city, I don’t know. Both, I hope. I want him to love this city the way I do. I want to show him absolutely everything.
I point out my dad’s dealership as we pass by, the Rivero Ford sign lit up in pink neon over glassy bricks.
Take him along the Calle Ocho in Little Havana with its colorful rooster sculptures and Cuban restaurants and cigar shops.
There are people everywhere, crowding the warm sidewalks, playing dominoes, leaning against cars, laughing and kissing without a care in the world.
“Practically lived here as a kid,” I tell him. “You’re gonna see a lot of this.”
“I’m gonna have to learn Spanish, huh?”
“You are,” I agree. “That way my parents can’t talk shit in front of you.”
“Great.”
“Don’t wig out. They already know about you.”
“They do?”
“My dad does.” I peer through the windshield, waving at someone I think I recognize. They wave back. On second thought, I don’t think I know them at all. “So probably my mom does, too. I kinda sorta came out to him over the phone a few days ago.”
Ash is staring at me, eyebrows raised. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“Yeah. Turns out my tía’s been gay this whole time.” I shrug. “Who knew?”
Then we’re going over the Biscayne Bay, the salt-heavy air wafting in through the windows; humid, yes, but intoxicating all the same.
I take him along the famous Ocean Drive with its Art Deco facades lit up in rainbow.
And then, finally, sensing he’s getting overwhelmed and knowing he’s tired as hell, I turn north and head to Surfside, where I live.
“Home sweet home,” I tell him after I park in the garage beneath my condo building. “For both of us.”
“For now,” he reminds me, dragging his suitcase out of the Mustang’s trunk.
“For however long you want. Like, for ever.”
“Sam.”
I grab my duffel with a grin. “A boy can dream.”
We ride up to the eighth floor, where I let him into my unit. It smells good—thank you, Mom—and it looks good—thank you Mom, again—everything as neat and clean as if it’s staged for sale. Ash sort of pauses in the entry and I take his suitcase from him, nudging him along.
“Look around,” I tell him. “Make yourself at home. Nothing’s off limits.”
His bracelet jangles as he sweeps his hair back from his face. “You sure? No sex tapes lying around? Pornos? Nudie mags?”
“Why would those be off limits?” I quip. “What’s mine’s yours, yeah?”
He doesn’t say anything. He wanders around like he’s afraid to touch anything, really, going from room to room.
The small kitchen with its breakfast bar that looks over the living room, the slider that leads to the balcony.
Much like in Daytona he fixates on this, opening it up and stepping outside.
The sultry breeze greets me as I join him, music and the sounds of traffic wafting up from below.
In the distance the city lights glitter off the bay.
“Well?” I ask him. “Think you can tough it out with me for a little while?”
His hair blows across his face and this time I get to be the one to tuck it back behind his ear. His gaze drifts towards me. “This is real, right? Like, I’m not dreaming.” His hands tighten on the rails. “I’m here. With you.”
“Unless we’re both having the same, wacky lucid dream.” I press against him. “It’s real, Ash. This is real.”
“And you and me…” He turns, and I sweep him into my arms. “We’re really doing this?”
“We are.” My forehead tips against his.
“It’s just…hard to believe.”
“Happy to help convince you every single day.”
It gets a small laugh out of him. “Sam…thank you.” His fingertips ghost my face. “For everything. You didn’t have to do everything that you did. Coming back for me the way you did. That means so much to me.” His voice catches. “I never thought—”
“Hey. Shh.” I rub our noses together. “It’s over now. All the bad stuff. Only good days ahead, yeah? Just me and you, figuring this shit out.”
“Yeah,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around me. His lips capture mine in a soft kiss. “Could we go to bed?”
It’s exactly what I was hoping to hear.
I pick Ash up as he wraps his legs around my waist and take him back inside. I lay him down on my bed—our bed—and there I kiss him until we’re both breathless, shedding clothes until it’s just skin on skin, me on him.
He’s home at last.
And in him, I find that too.
1 I’m fucking home!