Page 119 of The Impossibility of Us
In August, I begin to pack my things. I spend every spare minute with Bambi, because she has to stay in Cypress Beach while I’m away at school. I hope she’ll keep my mom in check.
A week before the semester is to begin, I walk my dog next door, where Iris will keep watch over her while my family and I head for San Francisco. Then I climb into the loaded-down BMW with Mom, Audrey, and Janie, and we drive north to the city.
They help me unpack. Audrey paints the wall next to my bed thesame blue-green she picked for my room back home. I hang some of my photographs and paintings, sporadic, like a little gallery. My mom stocks my cabinets with cereal and bread and cans of tuna, new dishes, a toaster, and a rice cooker. Janie draws a picture of the four Parker girls on a stray sheet of packing paper, then tapes it to the fridge.
When they leave, a piece of my heart trails behind them.
At the same time, though,finally, I am free. Free to make choices that are right for me, to love the soul handpicked for mine.
Two days later, I hail a cab for a ride to the San Francisco International Airport.
Mati has been granted a student visa and accepted at San Francisco State.
I amjoyful.
Like me, he’s renting a studio apartment. I checked it out for him yesterday; it’s only a few blocks from where I’m living. It’s full of light and there’s a built-in writing desk next to a big bay window. It’s perfect.
I arrive at the airport early and loiter near the baggage carousels. The place is full of people: families returning from tropical vacations, smartly dressed men and women traveling for business, plus lots of greeters, like me. I long to pace the floor, but it’s too crowded and I’m reluctant to appear as eager as I feel. I snag a miraculously empty chair and people-watch, fidgeting, until…
Oh God.
Until I see him walking toward me, long and lean and beautiful. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, and there’s a sweatshirt draped across his arm. He’s got a backpack slung over one shoulder. His hair is shorter than it was the last time we video chatted, like he’s recently had it trimmed.
His eyes are the same—bright, blazing.
They settle on me, and his face opens in a grin, and before I register moving, I’m out of my seat, running toward him. I leap into his arms, wrap myself around him, bury my face in his neck. We’re a spectacle.He’s laughing and I’m laughing and finally,finally, I pull myself together enough to call up the sentiment I’ve written at the end of every email, every letter I’ve sent him over the last year.
Only now, I get to use it while holding his hands, while losing myself to his wildfire gaze.
“Za ta sara meena kwam.”
He grins, misty-eyed, and kisses me.
Minutes, hours,dayspass. I’d forgotten this—how his kisses feel, and how they make me feel. When it’s over, I’m warm, malleable, practically purring. He grins, knowing, and weaves his fingers through mine. Hand in hand, we walk to the baggage carousel, where we’ll wait for his luggage.
“So,” he says, pulling me into his chest, touching my hair, my cheeks, my neck, his eyes skimming my face like centuries have passed and all he cares to do is relearn my features. “This is San Francisco.”
I smile up at him. “This is San Francisco. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“No more waiting,” he says. “No more distance. Never again.”
This time I kiss him, and it’s thebestkiss, because I’m certain now.
A million more will follow.
