Chapter Thirty-Three #2
I press my hand on the grass to make sure it’s dry before we sit.
We take out the snacks we bought from the bodega we found after getting off the subway.
I pass John a bottle of pop, then I take a chicken sandwich from its plastic container and offer him half.
He opens the bag of popcorn and props it between us.
“This is the quietest New York has been since we got here,” he says.
“It’s nice. Kind of like we found our own private island within an island.”
He smiles, his eyes flitting up and around. “So? Is it everything you imagined?”
“And more.”
His gaze shifts down to his sandwich, but he doesn’t take a bite.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re so different,” he says, shaking his head.
“In all these big, fundamental ways. But I still can’t help wanting to be part of your world.
” He picks at his sandwich now, his mouth turned down in a frown.
“Seeing you here, how you’ve come alive in this city, makes me think that maybe the differences between us are just too big. ”
“Too big to what?” I ask, afraid to hear his answer.
“I got into Shay College,” he says instead of answering my question. “The carpentry program. I’ve accepted.”
I sit up straighter and smile. “That’s amazing. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. It’s three years, mostly apprenticeships, but I’m excited about it. I didn’t realize how much I wanted it until I got my acceptance letter.”
“I’m excited for you. I hope it’s everything you want.”
“Not everything.” He clears his throat. “It feels so small compared to your dreams. I’m not saying this for sympathy or because I feel bad about myself, it’s just, as much as I’ve loved being here with you in New York, I can’t help but wonder if I’m enough for you.”
I put my food down and move closer to John. “You are. You’re more than enough.”
“In this moment, maybe. But what about once we get home? In a few months I’ll be in college. And next year you’re going to be here, meeting amazing people and doing incredible things, and I’ll just be some guy you knew in high school.”
I shake my head at his words. “No. I’ve met amazing people and, to be honest, they’re more amazing to themselves than they are to me.
You have captivated me since the moment we met.
We’re not the same people we were three years ago.
I’ve changed and so have you. But one thing hasn’t. The way I feel about you.”
He looks up at me, his eyes glossy. I don’t think he believes me. But how could he not?
“You have such a romanticized view of life,” he says, dipping his chin. “I wish I could see the world the way you do.”
Suddenly inspired by an idea, I grab my bag, searching through it, almost desperate, and finally pull out my journal. I nod to myself before passing it to John, who hesitates a beat before accepting it.
“It’s where I write all my thoughts. Song lyrics.
Bad poetry. Short stories. You’re the first person I’ve ever let touch this journal.
” I pause and take a breath. “Take a look,” I say, as his eyes meet mine.
“You might notice that a lot of what I’ve written over the last almost three years has been about you.
You are the boy in the pages of my story. ”
John delicately thumbs the pages, his eyes tracing the words slowly.
Reading. Sometimes stopping to look up at me and shake his head before he reads more.
I watch as his Adam’s apple moves around a swallow.
His brown hair falls in front of his face as he turns the pages.
I bite on my lip in an attempt to steady my racing heart as I hang on to every single movement he makes, trying to dissect the meaning.
When he comes to the last entry, his eyes lift off the journal to meet mine again. His lips are parted slightly as he studies me.
“It’s too much.”
“He won’t get it.”
“You can’t trust your heart with him.”
“You wrote these words…you wrote them about me?” he asks, his voice low but clear.
I nod and then force down my own swallow. “A lot of them.”
“All this time, you’ve always known how you’ve felt. You’ve never wavered.” He shakes his head again, fingers gripping my journal, now closed. “I don’t deserve this.”
“That’s not true,” I say, inching closer. “You’ve had a lot to deal with. You have a lot to deal with. And I’m a person who sits with my feelings. So much that it becomes too much, and I need an outlet for them. That’s why I write.”
“Thank you for sharing this with me.” He stares at the journal as if he’s just received the best present on Christmas morning.
“You’re a beautiful writer. And so talented.
Honestly, I’m impressed and honored,” he says as a blush turns his cheeks pink.
He passes it back to me and releases a deep breath. “Can I share something with you?”
“Always,” I respond.
John offers me a small smile before taking a sip of his drink.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he straightens.
“I think about my future a lot, especially when things are hard with my dad. It helps me, I think, picturing it. I see myself living in a house bigger than mine, but smaller than yours. And inside, all the trim work, anything to do with wood, will be because of me and my hands. I picture a workshop behind the house where I work on my clients’ projects.
Music is playing on overhead speakers, and the sun is shining through the windows when the person I love walks in on a Saturday, bringing me lunch because, if she doesn’t, I’ll forget to eat. ”
He has the sweetest look in his eyes as he tells me about this dream he has for himself.
As I listen to him describe this random future Saturday and this nameless person, a pit grows in my stomach at the possibility of another girl in my place.
Building a life with the boy I love. The boy I loved first, I want to scream.
“She puts the sandwich down on a dusty table full of wood shavings, teasing me about the mess, and I pull her to me for a dance.”
John leans in, his eyes locked on mine.
“It’s you I picture in this fantasy,” he says, his face so close to mine I don’t know if it’s his breath making my hair move in front of my face or the warm breeze blowing between us.
“The thing is,” he begins, as he pulls away slightly, “we’re back home.
We’re not in New York. We’re not living in a fancy city condo.
We have a house with a yard and maybe even a pool.
” He lets out a soft laugh as our fingers twine.
“But I know that this is my dream, and it doesn’t have to be yours. ”
I squeeze his hand. “It’s a nice dream,” I say, because it is. But I get it. I get why he has doubts, why he’s afraid. “I know you have this idea of who I am and who I’m meant to be,” I tell him, “but the truth is, whenever it’s just the two of us, I never need anything more.”
He lifts his head slightly, his eyes searching mine, as if he wants to believe me but can’t fully trust himself, me, the universe. If only I could read his mind to find the exact right words to show how much I love him.
“We have this moment,” I tell him. “It’s ours. And the future. That will also be ours. The in-between…we’ll figure that out.”
John sits up straighter. “I don’t want you to settle.”
“Believe me,” I say, burying a strained laugh, “choosing you would be the opposite of settling.” It would be an earthquake.
John reaches out and weaves his fingers through my hair, pulling me toward him.
We kiss, and everything that’s been weighing me down, and all the things yet to come, slip away. Because this feeling, right now…no one can take that away from us.
John stands. “There’s something I want to do before we head back.”
I get to my feet, and together we gather up and toss our trash. We follow the path back to Strawberry Fields, where there are only a few people now, hanging around the Imagine mosaic.
The busker is still there, playing the Beatles’ greatest hits.
We listen as he wraps up “Hey Jude”—one of Dad’s favorites.
John walks to the man and whispers something to him.
He pulls out a ten-dollar bill and places it inside his guitar case.
The man nods as John leads me to the mosaic.
My heart expands as I hear the first few notes of “And I Love Her.”
“Dance?” John asks, his expression so earnest, so sincere.
We dance across the black-and-white memorial, swaying slowly as the busker sings behind us.
John’s breath tickles my neck as strands of his hair fall onto my cheek. I can feel his heart pounding against my chest, begging my own to beat in sync with his.
I wrap my arms around his neck, setting my cheek on his shoulder.
He holds me close, and we barely move, still in this moment.
Tears prick at my eyes. All the what-ifs race through my mind.
How could I turn this away? This feeling.
For what? To appease a father who will never be satisfied no matter how many times I try to win his approval?
If I choose John, my number one concern is What will Dad do?
Will he disown me? I’m their second chance to get things right.
But making things right for them only chips away at me and the person I’m meant to be.
One day I might be someone they can parade around proudly, but I’ll just be an empty shell.
Being here with John in New York has built me back up, piece by piece, to the version of myself I want to be.
A version I’m not sure my parents will accept. Or love.