Page 3 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

It was everything I had imagined America to be. Without the fireworks and mascots. Though I imagined if I stood there and waited long enough, I would see them.

However, it wasn’t fireworks that eventually grabbed my attention. The red that caught my eye was not sparks or flames or a thunderous burst in the sky. It was a stylishly cut mop of hair in the crowd that drew my gaze.

When I imagined reuniting with Peter for the first time since our one perfect night in Montreal, it hadn’t involved time stopping. So, I was surprised that everyone around me seemed to freeze as Peter’s head turned in slow motion. Then our eyes locked across the distance between us and my feet began to move of their own accord. As though moving underwater, I approached Peter, my overnight bag over my shoulder and my suitcase whirring behind me on its wheels. Peter’s eyes stayed on mine as a tentative smile came to his face.

Coming to stand before him, leaving enough room so as to not seem too forward, I let my suitcase come to a stop and gently lowered my overnight bag to rest atop it. I stared into Peter’s eyes, unsure of what to say or do next. Two years of our lives had culminated in this moment. Everything around us was a petrified silence as we looked at each other, nervous smiles on our faces. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Peter brought his hand up from his side.

“I wanted your first American souvenir to be from me,” he said, holding out his hand. “I couldn’t find a plane. Maybe they were sold out? But this has wings.”

Effort was made to pry my eyes from Peter’s, but finally, they landed on the object in his hand. A small black plastic bat with an attached keychain lay in his palm. On its belly was “USA” in red, white, and blue. What an odd thing. Resolutely, I decided that bats were one of my favorite animals, though I had never thought much about them until that moment.

It was a perfect first souvenir.

“Thank you,” I replied automatically as I gingerly took it from him.

For a few moments, I examined the gift, wondering how it could be more perfect. Then, realizing we were standing in silence, I slipped the gift into my pocket and let my eyes wander back up to Peter’s.

“It is perfect,” I said.

Peter smiled. Again, we stared.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello.”

More silence. The world around us was still frozen and the silence was so thick I could have sworn I could hear my own heart thundering in my chest.

“I don’t know what to say,” Peter said. “I didn’t think I would be nervous to see you again. But here you are. Finally. And I’m nervous. I’ve been thinking about this day—every day—for two years, and—”

What came over me I still don’t understand to this day. I stepped forward, my hands found Peter’s face, and I leaned down to cover his mouth with mine. Peter jerked in shock, and for a moment I was concerned I had misunderstood the intention of our visit. When his arms wrapped around me and his body melted into mine, I leaned into the kiss desperately, feeding at his mouth. Peter’s hands clutched at my back as he returned my kiss as passionately. Only the second kiss I’d ever had—and the first I’d ever given.

I finally saw my American fireworks.

Everything around us came back to life and the sounds of the airport rushed to my ears as I slowly, yet reluctantly, pulled back from our kiss. Peter’s eyes opened incrementally as my hands slid from his face and I smiled at him. Peter gave a shuddering exhale as a wide grin overtook his face.

A dreamy sigh escaped his lips.

“Welcome to America, Enzo.”

It’s Not a House, It’s a Home

Peter’s car was a hurdle I had not expected to have to overcome so early in my visit to America. As we had exited the airport Peter insisted on pulling my suitcase while I carried my overnight bag so that we each had a free hand. Because he immediately laced his fingers through mine as he led me out of the airport to the parking lot. The ease with which we held hands and conversed effortlessly on our way to his car both delighted and unnerved me.

For two years, Peter and I had exchanged texts, emails, the occasional phone call, and even actual physical letters. Having kept in touch almost daily, it should not have surprised me that conversation came easily. However, conversing via the written word makes one feel less self-conscious than having to look someone in the eyes and speak one’s mind. I found that, with Peter, as it had been in Montreal on our one perfect night together, everything was easy. I did not feel self-conscious at all. Until he opened the passenger door of his car for me with a flourish and smile.

The gesture, opening the car door grandly for me, was an attempt at chivalry on his part, not an obnoxious display to illustrate his wealth. Regardless, his car was the nicest car I’d ever been invited to ride in that I could remember. Leather seats that were deep, wide, and luxuriously comfortable, proved that “bigger is better” in America. The lights and knobs and buttons on the consoles and doors and dashboard dismayed me.

Don’t touch anything, Enzo.

While Peter busied himself stowing my luggage in the hatchback of the vehicle, I fastened my seatbelt and took a deep breath. Peter knew that I was not of extraordinary means. He didn’t expect such things from me, so it was not required of me to be familiar with all of the knobs and buttons in his car. Asking questions if I didn’t know what something was would not elicit derision from him. Peter would never made me feel lesser than due to our contrasting socioeconomic statuses.

At that moment, I made a promise to myself that I would not spend two weeks—or any time after two weeks—worrying about what Peter thought of my socioeconomic status. Peter had invited me to America to visit him for that time period. All of me. As I was. Worrying about something so arbitrary was a waste of time and energy. Instead, I decided that focusing on the adventure of going to America was the road I’d travel.

The hatchback closed as Peter’s phone rang—a simple ringtone fitting a grown man. Not a pop song or a funny little noise or something that would wake the dead within ten kilometers of the car. A typical ringtone. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the hatchback click shut and Peter bring his phone to his ear through the back window. He stood there, smiling and greeting the caller, so I turned my face back to the windshield to avoid being nosy.

The concrete parking garage was dank and dark, even for a bright and cheerful summer day. So deeply swallowed up within its industrial belly, the sunlight didn’t reach our parking spot. I wasn’t sure if it felt womb-like or claustrophobic. However, I knew that I didn’t want my first thoughts of America to be the airport hustle and bustle and the industrial dark gray concrete walls and sickly blue lights of the parking garage. Mentally, I tried to block out the sights of the parking structure as well as the hollow mechanical noises of cars coming and going. The sounds of airplanes going off somehow managed to reverberate through the car.

I was hungry and thirsty. On the airplane, I’d only been offered small snacks and water or soda to drink. Of course, I’d indulged in a soda since it was an item I often felt was too extravagant to have regularly. Nerves had played subtly in the lowest places in my body, so I hadn’t been able to snack on the plane. Though I’d had breakfast in the inky black hours of early morning before catching my flight—a simple breakfast of buttered toast and poached eggs—it hadn’t stayed with me. I needed food. I thought to open the compartments of Peter’s car and search to see if he had anything available, but I felt it wasn’t my place to snoop. My angry belly would have to get over itself.