It was after eleven. I had fully expected to kiss my husband at midnight right here at Susie’s.
But Miranda was getting us up and hustling us out, saying, “Hurry, hurry.”
We paid up and pushed our way through the raucous bar crowd and out to Jackson Street, where a limo was parked at the curb.
Brady opened the rear door—and there was my dear friend in the back seat, holding a crutch and wearing a huge smile.
“The mayor has had some seats cordoned off for us,” he said. “Let’s go, let’s go.”
We all piled in and took off on a fifteen-minute drive through our city, still lit up for the holidays. When we disembarked at Rincon Park, Brady and Conklin helped Jacobi out of the car and blocked for him. Joe put his arm around Jacobi’s back and said, “Lean on me, Chief. Put all your weight on me.”
We found our reserved-for-SFPD block on the seating walls. We had a primo view of the bay, the ferry terminal, and the bridge decked out in swags of lights.
This was San Francisco in her party dress.
Thousands of people had collected on the Embarcadero to watch flowers blooming in the sky. We had just gotten settled into our seats when the first fireworks were launched from barges off Pier 14. Music was synced to the display, and the crowd cheered with each new explosion.
When the ten-second countdown to midnight came over the sound system, my husband grabbed me. Nearly squeezing the breath out of me, he showed me without words how afraid he’d been for me and how he couldn’t bear to lose me.
For the next twenty minutes the sky crackled with rockets and pyrotechnics, all reflected in the water below and capped off with a brilliant grand finale.
My husband and I kissed in the New Year.
I told him, “I love you, Joe. I love you so much.”
“I’m so lucky, Blondie. Do I say it enough? I love you, too.”
“You say it a lot.”
He kissed me again.
And then I cried. The feeling had been building, and it came out in full waterworks with heaving sobs. Joe held on to me until I was laughing again.
My best and dearest friends were all around us, hugging one another, kissing their partners, and I noticed that I wasn’t the only one with wet cheeks. I’d never seen Brady cry.
At Jacobi’s urging, we huddled, rugby-style, to wish one another the best of everything. We girlfriends pressed cheeks and ruffled one another’s hair before settling back into the arms of our men.
This was it. The best New Year’s Eve of my life.
I felt ready for whatever the New Year would bring.