October, One Year Later
October,
One Year Later
“P ush! ” Henry’s voice echoes as I thrust my body.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” My back seizes up. “Oh shit.”
“Should we take a break?” He wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead.
“Yes, please.” I set my side of the wooden dresser down on the steps. We made it halfway up the single flight of stairs to our new apartment in Brooklyn.
“Why is this thing so damn heavy?” Henry pants.
“I don’t want to hear it. You actually have a rock collection we’re going to have to move up these stairs.”
“Little tiny rocks, not boulders.”
“Let’s rest here for a minute.” I lean my body on the dresser sitting crooked in the middle of the flight of stairs. Henry holds it steady a few steps above me. This is the first piece of furniture we’ve moved out of the truck, and I cringe at the amount of heavy lifting we’re going to have to do today.
If you asked me a year and a half ago if I’d consider moving to Brooklyn, I’d have laughed. I barely wanted to live in Manhattan, let alone put roots down in another borough. But here I am, pushing an incredibly heavy dresser into a place in Bushwick that has my and Henry’s names on the lease. Our one-bedroom apartment has rooftop access and enough space for Henry to have a real photography studio. He took engagement photos for Terrance, our friend from the animal adoption center, and got three more couples to hire him from that alone. Martin helped him set up an LLC, and ever since, he’s been busy every day. He hasn’t quit L’italiano yet, but I know it’s because he’s nervous about doing photography full time. I tell him every day how much I believe in him and his business. I know he’ll make the transition when he’s ready. The studio in our apartment is step one.
I finished my undergrad degree last winter, and I’ve developed quite a fascination with psychology brought on by a book I picked up at McNally Jackson. I grabbed it because I thought I recognized the face on the cover, and bought it when I realized it was written by the psychologist who gave a talk at the library at the beginning of last summer. Dr. Barrera. I’ve now read everything he’s written, every psychology book I can find. I’m planning on applying to clinical psychology programs once everything is settled, and I want to become a grief counselor someday. Baby steps, but it turns out I do have a passion after all.
Henry’s back and forth from Denver fairly regularly, and I accompany him when I can. His dad is the sweetest man I’ve ever met, and I can tell it tears Henry apart that he never remembers who I am despite having met me several times. Sometimes I catch Henry looking at old photos of the two of them together, and I let him cry into my shoulder. But we never push each other away anymore. We always let the other in. We take care of each other.
My own parents have fallen deeply in love with Henry as well. I took him home for Christmas, and he absolutely crushed it. He was right. He is great with parents.
Sal and Mary moved permanently to Maplewood to be near their grandchild. He sends us photos of one-and-a-half-year-old Michael constantly. We try to visit them every couple of months if we can.
Sonya and Jamie decided to live together when our lease ended, and Sonya started her own business designing and selling jewelry. Her designs are sold in several New York City boutiques, including Harper shadows from the trees outside move over our eyes. I can’t believe so much has changed in a year. I spend my time laughing until my stomach hurts, kissing until my eyelids droop and I drift off to sleep in the arms of a man who loves me, trying to cook dinner before burning it and ordering takeout. I am strong. I am resilient. I am kind. I always have been. I am proud that I’m able to say it, and even more proud that I believe it.
I’d like to say that finding something I’m passionate about is what made me finally feel happier, but my therapist reminds me every session that it’s because I opened myself up to love from Henry, Sonya, Jamie, Sal, Marjorie, Andy, Mr. and Mrs. Chase, my parents, and even my own little heart beating in my chest.
This life is one that I didn’t feel worthy of, but I now know I am. It’s not too good to be true. It’s just true.
“Henry?”
He drapes his arm across my shoulders and squeezes. “Yeah?”
“I love you.”
He brushes his lips against mine, so softly it’s almost imagined. “I love you more.”
In his arms I’m reminded that happiness doesn’t need to be shrouded in guilt. Love doesn’t need to be shrouded in disbelief. Sometimes it just is .
And that’s enough.
I take his hand in mine and we walk toward the door for the dresser, our first piece of furniture in our new apartment. Even though this place is brand-new to me, I know that I’m home.
I can’t wait to fill it with the heaviest furniture I can find.