Johan says to me, “At the very least, we’ll always have this.”
And I think, yes, this is one of the fundamental things, too: Even in a world so full of conflict and panic and distraction and demand, two people can still find a peace like this, dancing to an old song. This is not hiding; this is finding. This is not retreat; it’s a reminder of what matters.
Taxed by the demands of the keyboard, Jason steps away from the bench and moves to the record player. There, Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong have been waiting their turn. When the phonograph offers its arm, they take it and begin to sing about the nearness of you.
“This has been quite an evening,” Johan says—and the way he says it makes it sound like it’s coming to an end all too soon.
“I haven’t shown you the roof yet,” I offer.
“A wonderful point,” he says. “I think it might be time for us to venture to the roof.”
Parker and Frederyk join Jason by the record player, while KK pouts at her seat. All that’s left on our makeshift dance floor is the nearness of Ilsa and Li. Johan and I leave them to it.
“We’re going to the roof,” I tell Parker. “Be back shortly.”
Jason is displeased, but contains his displeasure. Caspian is encouraging, telling me to have fun.
“We’ll hold down the fort,” Parker promises.
I remember something and pick up a bag from the kitchen. Johan says he’s not that hungry, but I tell him to wait. As we head upstairs, Ella and Louis fade behind us. The spirit of their song carries us along.
It should feel romantic. It should feel like we’re coming up here to kiss, not sigh. But—
That’s not what I’m feeling.
I’m feeling time going by.
I’m feeling I need to get to the fundamental truth of the night.
And while I like Johan, I don’t think he’s the truth I was supposed to find.
“It’s a nice view,” he says, and luckily, he’s looking at the midnight skyline, not at me.
“It’s not bad,” I tell him. I take out two of the plastic bottles of bubble liquid that Jason brought as a host gift and give Johan one.
“Ah,” he says approvingly.
We open the lids and retrieve our wands. It’s strange to blow bubbles at night—they’re barely there, but we know they’re there.
I set the bubbles free over the streets of Manhattan. When I look over to Johan, I see that he isn’t focusing on the bubbles—he’s focusing on me.
There’s such power in that. Being someone else’s focus.
“Are you ready to leave it all behind?” he asks. He gestures to the city, which never recognizes such gestures.
I tell him, “I’m always jealous of people who get to be new to New York, because they get to be amazed by it in a way that I’ll never be amazed by it. I know it’s an extraordinary place, but it’s always been ordinary to me, you know? And I worry that it’s like living at a high elevation—I’ve gotten used to breathing here, and every part of my body is tuned to living here. I don’t know anywhere else. I don’t know how to live anywhere else. But I guess it’s time for me to know somewhere else before this becomes the only place I ever know. There are all these kids who are struggling so hard to get to this city—I understand that so much. But I might need that in reverse.”
“Why?” Johan asks, letting a parade of bubbles out in my direction. It’s not a challenge; it’s curiosity.
I catch one of the bubbles on my wand. “Our whole lives, Ilsa and I have been living this story. It’s not a bad story. It’s a good story. But—it’s always the same story. And eighteen years old is way too young to have your story figured out. If you consider it written at eighteen, that means you haven’t been the one writing it—not that much of it, at least. I mean, look at you—you’re, what, a nineteen-hour flight from home? You’re living in a different part of the world and a different part of the day from all the people you grew up with.”
“I left the nest,” Johan says with a smile. There is one bubble still lingering between us.
“Yes—you left the nest. You might not have changed your character, but you definitely changed your story. And I—well, I need to do that, too. Don’t you think?”
He tries to blow more bubbles, but the soap pops in the ring. He dips his wand again and this time puts the orbs into orbit.
“You owe it to yourself to try,” he tells me. “And you may eventually owe it to yourself to fail. You’ll see. It can be very lonely, and the second-guessing can be alarmingly severe. I love it here, but I still spend about half my waking thoughts on some variation of wondering whether I made the wrong choice. That’s always going to be a part of it. But, like you said, I’d rather be exploring than be settled down at this point in my life. And there are so many things I’ve brought with me. My music. My studies. Dolly.”
“Your homosexual flair,” I say, sending some bubbles back his way. One of them catches in his hair before it disappears.
“Yes, my homosexual flair. Though I made sure to go somewhere that would give that flair enough oxygen to thrive.”
“It’s what Dolly would want.”
“Certainly.”
We’re not touching, but it feels like we could at any moment.
“I want to kiss you,” I admit. “But I also don’t want to kiss you, because I know that at some very definite point I would have to stop kissing you.”
“I feel the exact same way. If you were staying, I would at the very least get another date out of you. But you’re not staying. I think that much is clear. And I don’t want to be a regret factor in that decision.”
“Man,” I say. “Aren’t we mature?”
He laughs. “Absolutely.”
