And what if, in two years, we discover we aren't successful as partners? I don't want to give up my great apartment, move across town, and end up looking for another place.
If we break up, find another apartment and I'll pay your rent for a year.
Why are you suddenly ready and willing, and spending? Why?
Because I want us to be together all the time.
I took his hand then looked away, because I didn't know what to say and my eyes were dripping. Finally. This time, he meant it. Time was no longer an issue because we were on the same calendar page and dangling from the same clock hand. I was sure of this and threw myself full-speed ahead into renovation plans.
We interviewed contractors and drew up layouts. I clipped pictures from magazines, wandered through design stores and Home Depot, and collected the paint chips he did not wish to see. And then, as we were getting ready to sign a contract with the building contractor, William said—
Maybe we should wait....This is a little fast....Maybe we don't have to do this right away....
On...off...light...dark...on...off.
And I lost it. I gritted my teeth, threw my hands up and wept.
Fine. Let's not do this. It was a crazy idea and I'm sick to death of getting my hopes up. You have ice-cold feet...keep 'em, I'm done.
I had lost it...and then the country lost it. Planes fell from the sky, buildings collapsed and, like so many others, we cried, lit candles and watched the endless stories on television. On the dining room table, our folders of house plans sat abandoned. Our conversations were silenced by news announcers and people far more lost than us.
I made spaghetti and mashed potatoes. Comfort food. We ate ice cream and drank wine. Comfort, comfort. We were mixed up, tumbling and raw from this terrible reality. William would pick me up at my apartment after work and we'd drive to his house. Along the roadside, flags rippled and candles sat lit on porches.
We're going ahead, William suddenly announced.
I ignored him and watched other houses out the car window, wondering about the families in them. Were they eating spaghetti every night too?
We're going ahead, he said again. We don't have time to fuck around waiting for things to be perfect. Call the contractor and let's get to work.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I'm not even sure why; I was just so full. I shrugged, surrendered and floated into a new chapter. My body was limp and my mind limper.
I suspect the whole country measured time differently after 9/11. People compared the attack to Pearl Harbor and the assassinations of President Kennedy, Reverend King and Robert Kennedy. Already, a sense of before and after was setting in — as well as a serious reconsideration of how we used our time.
We proceeded with the renovation, signing paperwork with the contractor. I painted the living room myself, relieved to get away from the television and images of a burning New York City burnished into my brain.
And then William received a promotion at work. His boss took another show, leaving the project in William's hands. The director made him a full-time editor, and he was ready for the opportunity. William's editorial ambitions had begun to come true.
The studio planned to test the movie near their offices...in New York City. The entire filmmaking team would fly out to attend the screening.
And so, the day before a construction crew started work on our house, William and I flew to New York.
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