We step in at the same time and pull each other into a cross-body hug.
“Take care of her,” he says.
“Always.”
I clap his back one last time, release him and move toward the driver’s side door.
“Love you, man,” Drew says.
I throw him a shit-eating grin over my shoulder. “Love you too, Gus Gus.”
He spears me with a blank stare as I drop into the car and a middle finger in my rearview mirror as I drive away.
Bathroom breaks and energy drink replenishment are the only stops I make on the road. I drive all night, timing things so I pull into our complex’s parking garage an hour after Gretchen has left for work.
Barely conscious, I power through the next couple of hours as I haul everything from my car up to the apartment. When I finally make the last trip, I drop the final box next to the pile I’ve amassed in the living room and take in the space.
I haven’t been here since the weekend I moved Gretchen in at the end of July. She’s added shelves on either side of the television, every inch of them filled with her books. A small entry table sets by the front door and a sofa table rests behind the couch. Everything enhanced with knick-knacks, decorative pieces and framed pictures.
The living room wall that was once bare is now a massive collage display of picture frames. Something I haven’t seen before now. Pictures of her family. Pictures of Cheyenne, Miguel and hersiblings. She’s printed and framed pictures of my family, too. My parents, my brothers, their wives and my nieces—pictures that she, no doubt, procured from my mom.
There at the center, surrounded by images of all our favorite people, lies a picture of us. Placed atop a white matte encased inside a thick black frame is an oversized print of the selfie I took of us on Devil’s Bridge. My chest grows tight as warmth blooms in my heart. Back when I didn’t think I’d ever get another chance, when I just needed an excuse to touch her, to pretend for merely a moment that she was mine.
Now she is.
After I unpack a few of the most urgent boxes, I take a shower and crawl into bed for a nap. Later in the afternoon, I feel marginally less tired, so I unpack some more while I count down to 5:45 when Gretchen usually gets home.
Mom’s weekly phone call comes at five on the dot.
Throwing on a hoodie, I step out into the crisp November air and take a seat on the small patio set on the terrace. The sun has set and the warm amber colors of dusk reflect off the Hudson as the Manhattan skyline slowly comes to life with its glittering lights smattered across skyscrapers from one end of the island to the other.
Gretchen was right; this view is worth the commute a thousand times over.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Honey, did you make it?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Just waiting for Gretchen to get home.”
“She’s going to be so excited to see you.” Since their talk in Arizona, Mom’s voice softens to a balm at any mention of Gretchen. A contentment I wasn’t sure I’d ever have settles over me knowing how much my family loves her.
“I hate that you two are going to be alone for Thanksgiving,” Mom says.
Gretchen and I don’t hate it at all, but I won’t tell my parents that. After four months apart, we’ve been counting down the days to next week when we can hunker down in our new home. Nowhere to be, no interruptions, nobody to entertain. Just us.
“Yeah, but we’re coming to see you at Christmas,” I supply, easing her disappointment.
“Want me to send you Grandma’s cranberry sauce recipe to make for your first Thanksgiving together? You know it’s a Vining tradition.”
I wince. “It’s also family tradition to eat none of it until Dad gets out the can of Ocean Spray.”
Mom bursts out a laugh. “You’re not wrong about that. Can’t beat those ridges, can you?”
“Honestly, my mouth’s watering right now.”
We talk for a while and my dad chimes in here and there, while I keep my eyes peeled in the direction of the transit station where Gretchen should appear at any minute.
Right on time, I spot her two blocks down the road. Six stories up and I could pick her out of a crowd of a thousand if I had to.
