Page 152 of Maybe You

Patiently.

It’s good practice, I think.

He might not show.

I sent him one single message to ask him to come here.

One last message.

He might not have gotten it.

I’ve cycled through all the possibilities in my head over and over again. I’ve come to terms with every outcome, so by now, I’m calm. Not angry anymore. Not drowning in a sea of desperation. Treading water again, I suppose is the right way to describe what’s going on inside me.

It’s late. And hot. The air is muggy, the day’s heat trapped in concrete and wafting out now that night has fallen all around me.

He might not show.

But I think he will.

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. New York is never quiet. Cars honk in the distance. Occasionally people pass by. Sirens blare somewhere. There’s life everywhere. It’s one of the reasons I like it here so much. Chaotic, dirty, grimy, occasionally smelly, but also alive and thriving.

It’s home.

I keep my eyes closed even though there are footsteps approaching now. I analyze the sounds his feet make. Hurried? Hesitant? Annoyed?

And then there’s silence.

I open my eyes. They greedily move up from his feet. Calves. Thighs. Stomach. Chest. Shoulders. Neck. Face.

Sutton.

My Sutton.

He sits down next to me on the steps, elbows on knees, eyes on me, equally greedy.

This is Sutton, who loves Wren.

This is Wren, who loves Sutton.

It should be so easy.

But it’s not. Not anymore.

A part of me misses the easy.

But this right here? It might not be easy, but it’s real. So in the grand scheme of things, it’s better.

Not easy.

But real.

We’re both silent for a long time, in our own little world in the middle of millions of people.

I wish I could keep him.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he says back, eyes still on me. I don’t think he even blinks.

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