I was prepared for anything. If there was someone in there with her, I would just deal with the situation as best I could. I had come prepared to win this woman’s heart, and if it meant I had to confront someone else to get my point across, that was just the cost of following my heart.

  She was already standing in the doorway looking very surprised when I reached the top of the stairs. Dressed only in a white ribbed tank top and a pair of tight jeans, she embraced me excitedly. For a moment all I could do was hold her, squeeze her, as if I was trying to absorb three years of lost warmth from her. She snuggled into my embrace and held on as if she shared my sentiment.

  “I missed you so much,” I said. “I had to see you.”

  “I missed you, too,” she responded.

  After what seemed like one beautiful, interminable moment, she released my body and took me by the hand, guiding me into her dimly lit apartment, the only lighting coming from night lights placed strategically throughout her apartment and a solitary lamp resting on a coffee table in her living room.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, still registering my presence in New York.

  “After our last conversation, I had to come here to let you know that I am real about how I feel.”

  “And you couldn’t have told me over the phone?”

  My eyebrow lifted involuntarily as if I had just been swatted across the face with a thin white glove. I replayed her question in my mind, searching desperately for some semblance of humor beyond the words, only to find that the words lay bare.

  “Did I miss something?” I asked.

  She stood up, and without answering my question, offered me a drink. I accepted a Smirnoff Ice, but a sip from the cool beverage did little in the way of easing my nervousness.

  “It’s really nice seeing you though,” she said.

  “Are you sure? I mean, I’m starting to think that maybe you didn’t want me to show up here like this.”

  “It’s just a surprise, that’s all.”

  “And obviously not a good one.”

  She looked at me carefully and took a swallow of her drink. “It’s a good one.”

  “So what’s wrong then?” I asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong. Well, not really wrong. It’s just that your being here is giving me all kinds of mixed emotions,” she responded.

  “What do you mean?”

  In the silence that followed my question, I could have died a million times. I tried to fix my gaze on her and will her to speak, but her patience wore me down. What little control I had over the conversation evaporated in the time it took her to open her mouth and speak again. This was clearly her show, and I was along for the ride.

  “A lot’s changed since the last time we were together,” she said slowly.

  “Are you seeing someone new or something?” I asked, fully aware that this was the greatest of the probabilities.

  She lowered her head, losing herself in the slight swaying of the Smirnoff bottle in her right hand. “No. I’m not involved with anyone—any more.”

  A strange feeling came over me as I digested the weight of her words. Clearly there was someone after me, but it seemed as though that experience had taken a toll on her. I wanted to ask about what had happened while I was away, but I knew that it was better to leave our pasts behind us if we were going to move forward.

  I reached over across the space between us on the sofa and rested my hand on her leg. She placed her hand over mine, and I half-expected her to remove it, but she didn’t.

  I carefully crafted my next words and began, “Hearing your voice again after all of this time has been one of the most beautiful and unexpected things to happen to me in quite some time.”

  At this comment, she smiled and rubbed her hand across mine. My skin tingled from her touch, itching and aching to be rubbed by her delicate, yet strong fingers.

  I continued, “I just wanted to know if we could be together again. Serena, I love you.”

  She lowered her head and turned away from me. Raising a hand, she brushed it across her eyes, leaving the traces of tears along her face and hand.

  In her silence, I felt prompted to ask how she felt. “Do you love me?”

  She turned to face me, and looking deeply into my eyes, she nodded her head. “Yes. I love you.”

  “Then what’s wrong? Did I upset you?”

  “No.”

  The word was so soft that I found myself leaning in to catch the syllable as it brushed across her lip. My lips touched hers, and we kissed each other briefly. As she stopped and leaned back, I edged forward, kissing her again. This time my tongue found its way through the space between her lips, and I felt her tongue meet mine.

  No sooner than the kiss began, it ended with her pushing her hands into my chest, moving me back to my side of the sofa.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked again, starting to become irritated by her lack of forthrightness.

  “A lot’s changed since the last time.”

  “Like what?”

  Her next words fell into the vacuum of silence in such a way that they were suspended in mid-air. “I’m HIV positive.”

  For a moment I didn’t even register her comment in my brain. I just stared at her in utter shock. Slowly the nature of the situation dawned over me as I found myself mumbling those three letters. Then I felt my own stomach plummet as I realized that she had to have contracted it from somewhere. Was it me? Was I HIV positive and didn’t know it?

  Reading my mind, she spoke again, breaking the silence that followed her initial comment. “I got it a little over a year after you left. I had been dating this guy named Torrance, and he found out that he had gotten it from an earlier relationship and didn’t know it and that I should get tested. Shortly after I found out that I was positive, he moved back to his hometown in Ohio. He wanted to be at home if he became sick.”

  She took another long sip from her Smirnoff Ice and continued. “I got so depressed I almost took a bottle of sleeping pills. I just wanted out. I really wanted out. But as I sat there writing my letter and getting ready to take my pills, I just realized that I wasn’t ready to die. Not like that. There were still things I wanted to do in life.

  “When you got back in contact with me, I had gotten used to living each day to the fullest. That’s why I opened up to you so quickly. That’s why I told you how I felt about you. I have never loved anyone the way that I love you, and I know that I will always love you, regardless of what happens to us.”

  “Man,” I sighed. I didn’t know what to think. My mind was in a deep haze, and as I sat on the sofa, it felt as though my body was completely numb.

  “I was going to tell you soon. We were just starting to get re-acquainted, and we hadn’t gotten to the point where I felt comfortable telling you that. I had no idea that you would pop up here on my doorstep. I would’ve never wanted you to find out this way.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, and I was surprised when my voice choked in my throat and my eyes became glassy. I realized that I didn’t really know what to say, so I reached out my arms to her and took her warmly into my embrace. I held on to her as if letting go would cause my body to collapse.

  “It’s OK,” she whispered repeatedly in my ear. “I’m going to be OK.”

  When I finally released her, my face felt like it had been lifted to the sky during an April shower. Tears collected along my jaw line, and she brushed them away with her hand. In my feeling of hopelessness, I failed to recognize the immediate irony of her gesture: I was the one who was crying this time, not her.

  “I love you,” I told her.

  “I know,” she responded.

  We sat in silence for a moment. I had not decided how long I would stay in New York when I arrived, and I didn’t know what to do at this point. We could go on being friends until we could be friends no more, and I could return to the safe confines of my own Californian existence, or I could stay in New York indefinitely as I planned my next move.

  “You’re welcome to stay the night,” she said.

  “Whoa! Are you kicking me out tomorrow?”

  I had already concluded that I would be staying the night with her, so when she couched the statement in those exact words, I knew that there was something more to it.

  “I’m not kicking you out. You know I wouldn’t do that. But I think you should get on back to California. I know that this is a lot to digest and that you probably need some time to yourself to take this all in.” She placed the empty Smirnoff bottle on the coffee table in front of the sofa.

  Although she had a point, I wrestled with her on leaving so soon. She told me that she had an audition for a play the next day and that she would be singing at a wedding the day after. In other words, there was no need for me to stick around.

  “What about us?” I asked. The question had been looming beyond the horizon the entire evening, and now it was out there, a living, breathing thing.

  “Can’t we just be happy in knowing that we love each other without needing to re-build a relationship around it?”

  “But I want you.”

  “Kyle, don’t you see? I’m HIV positive. This can’t work. It just can’t!”

  I dropped my head. “But I love you.”

  She stood up slowly from the sofa and looked me in my eyes. “You’re a sweet man,” she said, as she walked back to her bedroom and closed the door.

  Alone in the room, I reclined on the sofa and gazed up at the ceiling. The whole evening had been surreal. I could not believe that I had jumped on a plane so quickly to come to New York. I also could not believe that everything she told me was real, although I knew deep down that she had no reason to be dishonest with me.

  I closed my eyes, locked in thought, and found myself reflecting. I relived the moment that I saw Serena, as she stood singing on the stage of that Brooklyn poetry club. I remembered that first conversation, that first date, that first kiss. I relived dancing with her against the skyline of the city as her band members played beautifully in the background. I relived leaving her, and I relived that pain and anguish of not having her in my life any more. But here she was telling me that she was sick, and that she was not willing to chance another relationship with me. A dull ache spread throughout my body.

  I rose from the sofa and went to her bedroom door, knocking gently.

  “Come in,” she said so softly I could barely make out the words.

  I walked into the dark bedroom, removed my shoes, and lay down on the queen-sized bed next to her. My arm moved around her waist, and she laid her arm over mine.

  We didn’t speak, but I held her tightly until we both fell asleep.

  The next morning, Serena arose early and began to prepare to leave for her audition. I decided I would leave the apartment when she left for her errands.

  Standing in front of the brownstone that housed her apartment, I was at a loss for words. She placed her arms around my waist and leaned in to me, hugging me with all that her small frame could muster.

  “I’m coming back,” I said matter-of-factly.

  She just looked at me.

  “I want to be with you and be here for you.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said.

  “I know, but I want to. You’re the only one for me. And I don’t know how all of this is going to work out, but I’m willing to try.”

  She looked up at me, and I held her face, kissing her gently on the lips.

  “OK,” she said softly.

  “OK?”

  “OK.”

  She released me, and I walked with her to hail a cab.

  “Good luck on your audition,” I said.

  “Thank you. And you have a good flight.”

  I leaned over and kissed her again.

  “I’ll call you tonight when I make it back, and I’ll start looking for another flight to come back in a few weeks. I have to tie up a few things before I come back.”

  A smile spread across her beautiful face. “OK.”

  A cab pulled up to the curb down the street from the brownstone, and I opened the back door for her. As she set one foot into the cab, she turned back to face me.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said.

  “I’ll be back soon. I promise.”

  “OK.”

  The cab pulled off slowly, and I walked down the block to hail another cab to get to the airport.

  Shortly after my plane touched down in San Jose, I called Serena to let her know that I had arrived. After several rings, the voicemail came on prompting me to leave a message.

  “Hi, baby,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know that I made it back to San Jose. I’m about to catch a cab to the house. Give me a call when you get this message. I love you.”

  I hung up the phone, a smile spreading across my face. Although I tried to conceal them, my lips spread apart and my teeth came blazing through as if I were being asked to pose for a photograph on “Picture Day” in grade school.

  When I returned to my apartment, I unpacked my duffle bag and put on Chaka Khan’s “Through the Fire.” As the melodies and lyrics wafted, I found myself completely lost within the song. As cliché as it might have sounded, the song allowed me to imagine us running towards each other across beautiful green meadows punctuated by the yellows, reds, blues, and purples of a thousand flowers.

  I reclined on my bed, losing myself in the music as I stared at the ceiling. I hoped to be out of my apartment by the end of the month, and I could not wait to be next to Serena again. I wanted to hold her and let her know that we would fight this thing together, that I was prepared to be all that she needed me to be.

  As the night began to draw to an end, I picked up my cell phone to check for any messages I might have missed due to a momentary signal loss, which I knew was always a distinct possibility given the location of my apartment. The signal was strong, and there were no messages, so I called Serena again. The phone went straight to voicemail, so I left another message.

  Turning off the lights, I returned to my bed and lay down on my back, my cell phone resting on my chest set to vibrate when she called. I closed my eyes, and fatigue settled over me like a silk shroud. Within minutes, I drifted off to sleep.

  I awoke around three in the morning and immediately checked my phone. The signal was still strong, and there were no messages. I didn’t know why I had been so anxious to hear from her, but I felt as if seeing her had awakened something in me that had been dormant since I left New York. Patience was something that I no longer felt the urge to muster. My feelings were immediate, as was my need to express them.

  After reluctantly returning to my slumber, I awoke around noon to a still apartment, sunlight trickling through my partially opened blinds. After checking my phone, I decided to walk over to the gym and work out for a while to free my mind from the prison of worry over Serena calling.

  After an hour of pressing, pulling, and curling weights, my body stiffening with soreness, I returned to my apartment determined to not to focus on my phone not ringing. The day passed along quietly, and by the following morning, I decided to call her apartment again. When the voicemail came on, I immediately hung up the phone and dialed up the New York Police Department.

  After being shuffled through the switchboard, I was finally connected to someone who was able to send a patrolman around to check Serena’s apartment to make sure everything was all right. I left my number for someone to call in the event something turned up.

  An hour later my phone rang. After having sat quiet for two days, the ring startled me. I ran into my bedroom to retrieve the phone from the bed, quickly scanning the caller ID. When I saw that the number was a New York number, I held my breath hoping to hear Serena’s voice.

  “Hello, may I speak to Kyle Taylor? This is Officer Madeline O’Keiffe with the New York Police Department.”

  “Oh, hi. This is Kyle.”

  “Mr. Taylor, I just wanted to let you know that we dispatched a unit already in the neighborhood to the address you requested. A Miss Serena Daniels answered the door and appeared to be in no distress. We notified her that we had been asked to look in on her and see if everything was all right. She told us that she was fine.”

  “Oh. Thank you. I appreciate your checking it out.”

  “No problem, Mr. Taylor.”

  As I hung up the phone, I sat down wearily on the edge of my full-size bed. I couldn’t understand why Serena hadn’t called me. Maybe I was just being paranoid; after all, she had informed me of her busy schedule before she left for the audition. At least I knew that she might still be in her apartment since the police had just left. Also, she had to have known that I was the one who sent the police to her apartment. I picked up my cell phone and dialed her number again.

  The phone rang and rang until the voicemail picked up. Flustered, I left yet another message and hung up.

  For the next few days, I resigned myself to the fact that I would never hear from her again. Her words seemed so empty as I replayed our last moments together. I felt forced to confront the issue of whether or not I had misread the signals.

  It seemed clear that in the time between the moment she stepped in that cab and the moment I arrived in San Jose, something had changed. And whatever it was that had changed was haunting me with a silent vengefulness.

  In the end, I never returned to New York.

  I accepted a job offer with a small technology firm in the San Jose area after I finished my degree. It took me a while to get over Serena, and I felt as if I crashed much harder this time around. I don’t know if it’s because of love and the sensation of having found the person whom you believe is “the one.” It could very well have been that I felt that I had an obligation to somehow rescue her from something that no one could or maybe rescue her from the pain I imagined that she was experiencing. Then it occurred to me that it could have been me who had needed rescuing, not her. Maybe it was one or all of those things, but maybe, just maybe, it was that eerie sensation of there being no closure that propelled me to fall so low this time. It seemed next to impossible that I could move forward in my social life without having an understanding of what went wrong.

 

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