THURSDAY
12 JUNE, 1997
DORIAN

               I hoist my rucksack up my shoulder as it starts to slip down. With the clamminess of my palms, I have to readjust my grip on my guitar case every few seconds. It wasn't nearly this hot in Oxford and I brought only one bottle of water with me, which I finished not long after I started walking from the bus stop outside Angela's Grocery. I don't even know if I'm going the right way; I dared to ask for directions only once.

Sweat rolls down my spine, sweltering under my backpack even after I took my jacket off. Cars drive past though I don't pay them attention until it stops and, dread already clutching to my neck, I look up.

I freeze. It's Isaiah's.

Without bothering to move to the curb, Isaiah opens the door and climbs out. Music spills onto the parched tarmac though it's not loud enough for me to identify (not I could anyway).

'Dorian?' His voice is unable to decide whether to be suspicious or elated. 'What you doing walking along the road?'

I hook my thumb under my backpack strap, afraid of what my hand might do if I let it be free, and tread closer so I can speak at a normal volume. 'Coming to see you, obviously.'

'Why ain't you say you was coming this morning? I'd've picked you up. Joke ting, you.'

'I didn't know,' I answer honestly. 'I wanted to walk so I could practice what to say.'

Isaiah rolls his eyes in that endearingly mocking way only he's capable of. Slamming the door, he strides closer but I stagger back.

'Don't!' Fear flickers in his gaze, quite different from the terror flittering in my own chest, and I hurry to continue. 'I need to tell you something and if you touch me, it'll get all scrambled, so don't. Yet.'

Nodding, he steps back to lean against the boot of his car, clearly unbothered by the dust that will dirty his jeans.

There's no denying that the countryside suits him. The ribbed tank top he's wearing (the kind he normally wears under shirts or jumpers) exposes his arms which have gained the kind of accidental muscle that comes with the lifestyle out here. Vitiligo is prominent against his tan; I can see even the specks on his throat with four yards between us. He has recently trimmed his locs and they frame his face perfectly. Gold jewellery dangles from his ears (two on each) and he wears his Star of David over his tank top, not hidden under it. Though his silhouette is still blurry with fatigue, his dark circles have faded at least a little. He even looks a little taller.

Despite regular phone calls, seven months apart were torture and I want nothing more than to touch him.

I place my guitar on the side of the road, swing my backpack off, and drop it at my feet too. 'Please don't interrupt me until I'm done.'

Isaiah complies though he draws his lip between his teeth. Is it a frown or a smile he's trying to suppress? A car passes and honks (because he still hasn't moved his Ford from the lane and we're standing in the middle of the road) but he doesn't even look up.

I've been drafting a script since the phone call this morning and have managed nothing. So, even with his cooperation, I have to fumble through the morass of my mind with only a broken compass and a torch that illuminates a mere three steps ahead of me.

I can't help that I turn to the apple orchard on my right. The trees are in full bloom, white and pink petals colouring the landscape as far as the eye can see. I wipe my palms on my jeans though they're clammy again within seconds.

'You asked me what my plan is. T-to be honest, I don't have a plan. I never made a plan beyond going to university. I never really thought I needed to make a plan; I thought it would just appear. People have always made plans for me — my parents, I mean. Or... you. I've always gone along with them. Life is easy that way. I'm supposed to move abroad to pursue music now — that's the consensus.'

I take a deep breath, shaking my hands at my side. 'But I've thought about it and I've decided: I love you. God willing, I want to be here with you. And before you say anything about my dreams, you need to let me finish.'

My focus cuts to him just in time to see him shut his mouth. Cheeks hollow, he sucks on the words that refuse to be swallowed.

'You're right.' I speak to the apples embroidered on his knees now. 'I did spend all my childhood dreaming about getting out of Suffolk, about getting out of England, because I was young and stupid and I thought that would fix everything. I thought I'd get out, be wiped clean of my fear, and be happy. Life would be easy, I'd feel light and know how to talk to people. I'd be able to go to the shops without being anxious and noises wouldn't bother me so much. I wouldn't care about what my mother thinks.

'But it didn't work. For five years, I lived in New York. New York. That is the city. And I was miserable. I was so lonely, and my fear and shame just grew.' I have to fight against the terror that twines in my throat from only mentioning it. 'Much bigger than I ever thought was possible.

'And I hate travelling. It's nothing but non-stop small talk and booking things and making phone calls. It's so overwhelming to be in a new place I know nothing about. How am I supposed to interact with people in a culture I've never observed? And what if I can't find kosher food? What if the tap water tastes bad? What if I can't drink the tap water and I have to buy bottled water that tastes like plastic? You're going to tell me water doesn't taste like anything, but it does. It does, Shay. I hate planes. Flying hurts my ears. The air is so dry; you know I hate it when my skin is itchy.

'I thought moving abroad was my dream, I thought getting into Oxford was my dream, I thought living in an art capital was my dream, but none of that made me happy.'

When my eyes climb up to his, it's not a perilous journey but as easy as the flow of the river not far from here. Can I hear the water purr or am I imagining it?

'I'm happy with you. I know I'm awkward, I sink scary deep into my music sometimes, and I fuss over ridiculous things like smells and what time of day I do things, but none of that feels stupid when I'm with you. You're the only person who's never judged me for that.

'And I know I'm a coward. I'm so scared, Shay. Honest to God, fear will kill me two seconds from now. But you make me want to be brave. You make me feel like I can fight it. I've been drowning for six years and the first time I felt like I might learn to breathe again was when I saw you.

'You make everything bearable. As long as I get to come home to you, and I'll play you my music and you'll read me poetry, I have everything. That's all I need — it's all I want. I want a gentle life with you. I want to go to the sea with you. I want to make art with you. I want to love you on purpose and not because we happen to live in the same town. That's my dream. Please. Please, let me love you.'

Isaiah is crying too. Aside from the harsh breaths he exhales through his mouth as if he has just run three miles, he's a statue. To speak, he has to break his jaw out of the clench it threatens to get stuck in. 'What about your music?'

'Aren't you listening? I can write music anywhere — anywhere as long as I'm with you. I wrote more music in the week I was here with you than I did in years.'

'Okay. But there ain't no jobs for you here.'

Shaking my head, I dry my eyes (let me dry yours). 'There are no jobs for me in the country. It doesn't matter to me as long as I get to come home and do the things that make me happy.'

Isaiah scoffs a laugh, not as much an expression of scepticism as it is an expulsion of it.

'And temple? It's important for you to go at least once a week.'

'It is important to me,' I confirm. 'Which is why I don't mind the drive.'

'Your parents go to Sha'are Sedek.'

'I'm tired of being afraid of them. Besides, we met at Sha'are Sedek. I won't let them take that from me.'

He licks his lips as fear creeps into his expression. 'You won't grow to resent me?'

'I could never resent you.'

I step over my backpack and though it only moves me half a yard closer, it's the crossing of a barrier that's equivalent to thousands of miles in a desert. I will cross any desert to reach you, however many times necessary.

'I could join an orchestra and travel the world and send you a postcard once a month. But I don't want to do that. And maybe that's wrong because I shouldn't sacrifice things for "a boy", but why would it be okay for me to sacrifice my joy for a career? It doesn't feel like sacrifice. I'm only alive when I'm with you. You're my best friend and my family and the person I'm in love with. Everything else is inconsequential. God willing, I can figure everything else out. But I won't compromise you.'

Isaiah stares at me for a moment. Then, with three strides, he crashes into me.

I almost fall over, managing to find my footing just in time to catch him into an embrace that lifts him off the ground. He buries his face in my neck and I return home.

This is our birth and it isn't a forced arrival into a world we didn't ask to be in. It isn't with handcuffs, we don't have chains around our ankles to drag around the weight of our mothers' shame or our fathers' reputations. It isn't as extensions of our families. We are born free and out of love — the love we already share and the love we vow to learn.

Our life will be kind.

When I eventually tire and place him on the ground, Isaiah slides away. Unable to summon his voice, he mouths at me. It means: I love you, I love you so much.

He lifts a hand to my hairline and traces his fingers along the furrow between two cornrows, jumping over my kippah to continue down to my neck. He pours out affection faster than tears. 'You braided your hair.'

'Yeah. Or, I mean, I didn't braid it myself. I don't know how to do that. I got it braided.'

He nods and it doesn't mean obviously, why are you so stupid but thank you for correcting me. 'It suits you.' His gaze returns to mine, lips parting to exhibit his tooth gap. 'I'm proud of you.'

I smile and pull him back into my arms. He's heavier in the hug than I'm used to, sturdier, and because I don't feel like I might snap him in half, I hold him tighter.

Isaiah clings to my shoulders. He presses so firmly against me that his voice muffles from the pressure on his lungs and it vibrates through my muscle in a way I'd find nauseating if it was anyone other than him. 'Move in with me?'

'Yes. That was the point.'

'I just wanna make sure. You allowed to change your mind.'

Another car honks as it has to switch lanes to pass and I flinch but Isaiah only pulls me closer. When we do eventually reluctantly peel apart, I step back to drink him in. I'm not sure what it is about the earrings I find so attractive but the sight makes me dizzy. His skin glows (though it might just be the tears) and his cheeks are fuller. As is his body.

Reading my mind, he folds his vest to display his stomach. 'I gained weight.'

It's still concave and his ribs stick out more than they should, but his hips have enough fat for it to roll over the elastic waistband of his boxers. The chains of his belly button piercing rest on a cushion like precious jewels.

'Aunties here be making sure I eat. I think I got like ten muddas now.'

With weak legs, I shrink the distance (I never want to be a single step away from you) and cup his face. Isaiah's hands follow mine to hold my wrists and my attention flicks to our friendship bracelets as they reunite for the first time in six years, five months, and twenty-nine days.

'I thought you lost this.'

'I be lying, though.'

He grins up at me and my attention is captured instead by his mouth. When I find his eyes to ask, Isaiah stands on his toes to answer, and I kiss him.