THE PLANE SPEEDS down the runway as if it might never stop and then screeches to an abrupt halt. We taxi for a bit before parking at the gate. When the lights turn on, passengers begin to remove their luggage from overhead bins and line up in the aisle to disembark.
I drank two cups of black coffee during the flight and desperately need to use the restroom. An image suddenly flashes through my mind of being pinned inside an airport bathroom stall by whoever sent me the threatening text.
I still don’t know whether they’re on the plane or not. If they are, they will undoubtedly follow me off. And I only have one goal now—to make it to Paul’s car safely.
I look around, calculating what to do. I decide to follow the mother of the unruly toddler a few rows behind me. I bet she’ll need to make a pit stop with him, and if someone’s following me it’ll be more challenging for them to be inconspicuous around a three-year-old and a young mom.
I remain seated until she and her son make their way into the aisle and then get up and follow them off the plane. Sure enough, she ducks into the first bathroom she passes, pulling the little boy by his hand, who doesn’t want to go inside but relents.
I follow them in and use the stall right next to them. When I finish, I look underneath the divider and see their feet. The boy is whining and protesting using the toilet, until he finally does, and they exit.
We stand side-by-side at a row of sinks. The boy doesn’t want his hands washed and throws another fit, legs and arms everywhere like a belligerent octopus. The mother looks at me apologetically.
“It was a long flight,” she says.
“It was,” I agree.
He won’t comply, so she takes out a small bottle of antibacterial hand sanitizer and squirts a dab of the liquid onto the top of his pointer finger. He starts dabbing the gel on the side of the sink like it’s finger paint until she takes his hand and walks him out of the bathroom.
I follow them to an escalator and stand on the step right behind them as it leads us to the baggage claim area. I don’t have any luggage other than my carry-on, so once I’m downstairs, I scan for the exit and run outside the terminal, searching for Paul’s blue Prius with the license plate number Eddie gave me.
He immediately pulls up, and I breathe a sigh of relief for the first time since I got the threatening text on the plane.
“Beatrice,” he says, rolling down his window.
“That’s me,” I say, quickly jumping into the passenger side.
“It’s so nice to meet you finally,” he says.
He has a clean-cut haircut and a warm smile. I couldn’t be happier to see him. “Same,” I say. “Thanks so much for picking me up.”
“Of course,” he says. “How was your flight?”
I debate whether to tell him about the text and opt not to because there’s no doubt in my mind that if I tell him, he’ll tell Eddie, and the two of them would put the kibosh on what I need to do now that I’m finally in New York.
“It was fine,” I say. “I should text Eddie that you picked me up.”
“Good idea,” he says.
I take out my phone:
I’m with Paul heading back to his place.
Thank you for arranging this. Love you.
He immediately texts me back:
Tell him I say hi.
Be in touch soon, and stay safe.
Love you.
“Eddie says hi,” I tell Paul.
He nods. “When was the last time you were in New York?”
“Eddie didn’t tell you?” I say.
He shakes his head.
“I’ve never been.”
“Really?” he says, genuinely surprised.
It is surprising, at forty-one years old, having been born and raised in Los Angeles, to have never visited New York City.
“I’m not sure how much Eddie has told you about my background beyond what’s recently happened with my mom,” I say. I tell him how Mom went to NYU and how, decades later, she was mugged at the reunion and told me to stay away from NYC. I explain that now I’m here to search for her medical records from that incident to see if there’s any information that might connect me to her if she’s still alive.
“And I thought my background was out there,” Paul says. He tells me about being a closeted gay boy growing up in North Carolina who was bullied in high school and nervous about going to college.
“I remember how scared I was when I first got to the University of Michigan and met Eddie. I was worried about having a straight male roommate who might bully me if he found out I was gay. But I hit the jackpot. He didn’t care. He accepted me for who I was. Do you know that he invited me to go home with him to LA during the holiday breaks, so I wouldn’t have to return to North Carolina and possibly run into the kids I grew up with who tortured me?”
Eddie never told me this, which is consistent with who he is, because doing good by others isn’t something he talks about. It’s just something he does.
“No, I didn’t,” I say.
“I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to repay him,” he says.
This is why I’m sitting in this car, why Paul and his husband are opening their home to me, despite the precarious place I find myself in.
We drive over a large bridge. “This is the Triborough Bridge,” Paul tells me.
“What part of the city do you live in?” I ask.
“NYU faculty housing in the Village through Anthony’s job.”
“How’s he been?” I ask.
“Thankfully, better,” he says.
“How’s your dad doing?” I say.
“He made it through surgery with flying colors. I’m so relieved. I can’t wait to see him this weekend,” he says.
We continue driving. When we reach the iconic arch in Washington Square Park, I know we’re in the Village. The only picture mom ever showed me of her time in New York City was the one of her graduating from NYU, clad in a purple cap and gown, standing in front of that arch.
I look out the car window and see young students zigzagging through the park with backpacks on their shoulders and books in their hands. Their faces are bright and round with hopes about the marks they want to make on the world.
I think about how Mom was once one of them, arriving here as an eighteen-year-old with big dreams, until something bad happened—the something that Pearl said she was relieved to leave behind.
Paul parks his car on a tree-lined street. He gets out and walks toward a small reddish brownstone. It’s autumn in New York. I follow him, stepping and crunching on small mounds of dry red, orange, and brown leaves that have fallen on the ground.
We reach the brownstone, walk up to the second floor and enter a stylish modern apartment with views of adjacent rooftop gardens. The place is decorated with artwork and several framed pictures of an adorable Labradoodle dog.
“You guys have a dog?” I ask.
“Had,” he says.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He leads me to a second bedroom.
“This is our guest bedroom and my office. You can sleep here,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m leaving now, so I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I wish I could go with you, but I’ve got a Zoom work call in about fifteen minutes that I can’t miss, and Anthony is at work already.”
“No worries. You guys are doing more than enough by welcoming me into your home. I’m very grateful,” I say.
“I’m glad I can help Eddie out. He asked me to put this tracker on your phone, so I know where you are at all times.” He holds up a square-looking tile. “You should also program my phone number in your phone, so you can reach me anytime if you need to.”
“Eddie and I use the Life360 app to track each other, if that’s easier,” I say.
“This is better,” he says, holding up the tile. “It’ll work even if you lose your signal.”
“Okay,” I say, handing him my phone.
He attaches the tracker, hands me my phone, and I program his number into it.
I suddenly feel scared about heading into the city alone, and once again, I’m tempted to tell him about the threatening text I received on the plane.
She’s running out of time.
If I tell him, he won’t want me to go anywhere, and I need to go. At least he’ll know where I am at all times.
“Eddie also wanted me to make sure to give you breakfast before you left,” he says. “I already ate on the plane,” I lie. “But I’ll come back for lunch if you’re free.”
“Sounds great,” he says.
My phone vibrates—a text from Eddie. Actually, from Sarah on Eddie’s phone.
It’s Sarah. I’m going to school. I miss you Beans.
I miss you too, I text her back.
More than she knows.