Please Don't Say You Love Me

“In other news, New York’s most eligible bachelor, Dominic Adams, was spotted shopping for engagement rings. Rumor has it he has met “the one” and is ready to put down roots...” I grab the remote and switch off the nightly news, getting up off the couch I curse when I trip over my rickety coffee table. The old cuckoo clock in my kitchen chimes and I blanch when I realize the time. I jump over the back of the couch and sprint into my bedroom to get dressed. Without thinking I toss on my favorite ripped-up jeans and an oversized black hoodie. I step in front of the mirror and think back to the last story on the news. Newscasters these days must be bored if that is the quality of the story they are broadcasting on local television. Who cares if some rich socialite buys a stupid ring? It would have been much more scandalous if one of those rich, posh idiots were to come out of the closet. I chuckle to myself as I pull my curly blonde hair into a topknot. New York’s obsession with the rich and famous is something I will never understand. They are people just like everyone else. I sigh and snap the latches of my suitcase closed. I take a quick scan over the worn-wood floors and ratty, second-hand couch of my apartment with amusement. My apartment may not be much with its perpetually broken stove and Gus the mouse. He isn’t such a bad roommate to be honest except he likes to steal my cereal. I pull my checklist from my pocket and start going through it. Everything seems to be in order. My bag is packed, my carry-on is prepped, my itinerary is printed, and I’ve got my passport in my pocket. Scratch that. I flinch when I realize my passport is not in my pocket. In a panic, I scramble back towards the disaster that is my bedroom and wince at the state of my bed. My lumpy mattress has been a pain in my back since I was a teenager, but I can’t afford to throw it out. Tripping over a pair of stray jeans on the ground, I start to tear through the pile of clothes on my bed. I grab a pair of Superman boxers and shake my head before tossing them aside. A feeling of relief floods over me when I see my newly printed passport resting on my grandmother’s worn comforter. I take it in my hand and weave my way through my recently crated mess to the living room. I hear the slight scuttle of Gus and see his tiny head poke out of the c***k in the wall. “Bye, Gus! I’ll see you in two weeks!” I yell as I grab my keys and lug my bags down the four flights of stairs. My building has an elevator, but I have never trusted to use it. The thing looks like it was installed in the 1920s and probably hasn’t been maintained since. I take a deep breath and step onto the New York sidewalk. New York is simply my favorite place on earth. Moving here five years ago with my stepmother Joyce was the best decision I’ve ever made. Joyce and I left our small midwestern town when I turned eighteen. She decided that since I had graduated, we needed to escape. She was tired of everyone staring at me and ridiculing me behind my back for being gay. Now I’m twenty-three and trying to make my way in the world as an artist. While money isn’t great, I am happy I can live on my terms. The lights of the little fashion boutique next door sparkle as I take in the feel of the crisp, fall air on my face. Nighttime in New York is by far the best time of the day. Everything about the city seems to sing, from the romantic hum of people walking hand in hand for dinner, or a stroll through the park. The best part must be the mashup of languages you hear as you walk by the small family-run restaurants between subway stops. Most importantly, I love the diversity of the city’s architecture. On a clear night, the entire city shines like thousands of sparkling diamonds. Ebbing and flowing into each other until they merge in one amazing breathtaking sight. I often spend hours on the roof of my building working desperately to capture the city's various vibrancies onto my canvas. I wave down a taxi and load my bag into the trunk. My body is singing with nervous excitement. The driver speeds through traffic, his horn blasting as he weaves in and out of the intricate dance that is New York driving. As someone who has never driven a car, I can’t help but marvel at the efficiency and ease with which the driver moves through traffic. I check my phone and smile when I see a text from Joyce wishing me a safe flight. I am still in awe that I’m going on a trip. I can still remember the conversation with Joyce just over a month ago when she gave me the news. “Jeremy, darling,” Joyce delightfully announces, “I have the most amazing news for you!” Intrigued, I tilt my head and squirt a large splotch of paint onto my pallet. My hair is pulled up from my face and I’m pretty sure I have a large splotch of red paint on my cheek, but I don’t care. I wipe my hands on my jeans and flip the phone to the speaker setting it beside me before I hum to Joyce. I will be honest; I’m terrified of what is about to come out of her mouth. Every time she has “good news,” it ends up being another scam she has been roped into that I need to rescue her from. You would think by now she should be able to see a scam at face value but no she’s too naive for her good. “Now that you have made a name for yourself, it’s time to go to Paris. I’ll arrange everything for you.” Joyce prattles on as she starts to list off all the ideas she can think of. “I have booked you for two weeks in Paris.” I smile – after all, it’s the thought that counts. “Joyce, thank you, really, but I’m not in a place in my life I can afford to go on vacation to Paris. I mean, I just sold my first piece less than a month ago. I also still have my shifts at the coffee shop; I really can’t afford to splurge right now.” Joyce chuckles and I hear shuffling noises, but her voice sounds much crisper through my phone. “Oh my God, Jeremy! You need to lighten up. How is it I’m the parent and you act more like an old woman than I do? I promise you don’t have to pay for your flight or hotel- I’ll cover that. All you have to do is get a passport and cover food expenses.” I sigh and look up at the paint peeling off the ceiling. I need to scrape that off and redo it. I hear Joyce call my name and roll my eyes. “Joyce, how can you even afford something like this?” I ask but I know her way too well. If she had money, it would have been long gone eons ago. I’ve been living with the woman since I was four years old. Joyce may not be my biological mother but she’s the closest thing I’ve known to a parent. My deadbeat father took off when I was nine years old. He left for work one day and never came back. Joyce was forced to make the tough decision to raise me or put me in the system. Being as stubborn and strong as she is, she just shrugged her shoulders and tried to give me the best life she could on what little she could earn at the local diner. Watching her work double shifts every weekend to support my dream is what pushes me to succeed. I need to prove to her that the years she sacrificed raising me were worth it. “I got a deal from one of the girls at the salon. Her son was supposed to go on the trip, but he had to back out at the last moment. She sold it to me for 75% off. Did I mess up again?” Joyce's voice shakes as she speaks. I sigh and look towards the phone fondly. I feel bad for Joyce, I do. She is trying her best and I know that. “No, Joyce, you’re good. I’ll take the trip. It sounds like it will be a blast.” The sound of a horn snaps me back into reality as the taxi pulls up outside the airport. I shiver as I step into the cool air. Fall is approaching the city quickly I was only in the taxi for about a half-hour and the temperature has dropped twenty degrees. Fall in New York is a sight to behold. I enjoy the crunch of the falling leaves underfoot and the pungent aroma of hot apple cider permeating the streets from the hotdog trucks. I feel like everyone should experience it at least once in their lifetime. The best part of fall has to be the ability to curl up in a small café and watch people as they stroll along the streets. Bags in hand I enter the airport the smell of sweat, stress, and bitter coffee overwhelms me. I head towards TSA with my ticket and passport in hand. The process is pretty painless yet annoying when my clumsy ass trips on my face taking off my shoes. I wander to the large monitors to find my gate only to realize I’m late and my flight is already boarding. I take off running through the airport weaving through passengers at breakneck speed. I hear my name being called over the intercom as I round the last corner to my gate. I sail past people and I’m panting by the time I reach the unamused employee taking tickets. She studies my ticket for a moment before scanning it and pointing towards the door. I take a deep breath to compose myself and walk down the winding hallway towards the awaiting plane. I smile at the flight attendant who glances at my ticket before leading me to a plush seat at the front of the plane. Confused, I look down at my ticket and realize it’s for first class. Amazed, my blue eyes glitter as I take in the luxurious environment surrounding me. I settle into my seat as my body buzzes with nervous energy. I look to my left and notice that the seat next to me is empty and I am disappointed. I was hoping to have someone to talk to on the long flight. I look over the top of the seat and watch in fascination as the doors begin to close but at the last moment, a pounding is heard on the outside of the door and a final passenger sneaks onto the plane. The flight attendant glances at the stranger’s ticket and directs him to the open seat next to mine. I bite my lip as I watch this mysterious passenger walk towards me. The man’s black hair is thick and falls in waves over his forehead. A commanding aura surrounds the stranger which screams of money, power, and s*x. This is the type of man I would love to hold me. The stranger is dressed in a fitted designer suit that hugs his body just right. I realize I’ve hit the jackpot of all jackpots. Everything about this man seems to tick off my boxes. The way the veins in his hand flex as he buckles himself in, the seductive little mole next to his lips. My hands itch to draw this man- to take my pencil and discover all the dark secrets he is hiding. I continue to study his face with both the critical eye of an artist and the infatuation of an openly gay man. I mean, how can I not? He is gorgeous. I just wish I could see his eyes, but he keeps them hidden behind a pair of overly large, aviator-style sunglasses. I work up the courage to say hi to the mystery man only to grow annoyed when he puts in a pair of headphones. The universal symbol for ‘leave me the f**k alone.’ Defeated, I huff and stare out of the window, I cannot fulfill my childish curiosity about my mystery man. The plane starts to move away from the terminal, and I settle in for the endless flight.