The Longing Read online

  “Nice try, but you only know that because I told you about it. This is what I mean, Syd.” He regarded her with a scrutinizing expression. “Are you from Krypton or something? Are you a superhero with no knowledge of how humans actually work? Are you an alien?”

  Sydney laughed. “Do you really think, if I were a superhero, that I’d be working here?” Sydney gestured at the bright fluorescent lights of Martin’s, at the mannequins in stiff poses, at the expensive clothes that rested on racks and shelves, waiting to be purchased by harried, overstressed soccer moms.

  “No,” Thom agreed, still watching her shrewdly. “But maybe it’s part of your master plan.”

  “If I get a master plan, I promise I’ll let you in on it,” Sydney sighed, finally satisfied with the way she’d folded the shirt, setting it on top of the pile.

  “Anyway.” Thom drew out the word and began to swing his legs in midair, like a kid. He was older than Sydney, but he certainly acted younger.

  And he was certainly happier.

  “So, you were thinking super hard before I came over here.” Thom patted the stack of folded shirts. “Anything awesome going on in the life of Syd?”

  Sydney paused in folding another shirt, just for a nanosecond, but it was long enough for Thom to detect that something was amiss. A smug smile came over the man’s face, and he leaned forward eagerly. “Is it a girl?”

  Sydney looked up, horror dawning upon her so quickly that there wasn’t enough time to mask her reaction. She tried to, but she could see a cloud pass over Thom’s expression. He leaned back on his hands, shaking his head.

  “Syd… It’s okay. The hating-yourself-for-being-gay thing… That's kind of outdated.” He angled his head. “I mean, what do you think of me? I’m gay. Do you think I’m bad?”

  “No, no, of course not,” said Sydney in a rush, though—deep in her mind—she couldn’t help but have this immediate, fatalistic thought: Yes. We’re both going to hell.

  She took a deep breath and pushed that thought away from her being, shoving it off of an imaginary boat, like it was a person she wanted to drown. She tried, instead, to think about how hell wasn’t even real, about how she wasn’t going to burn, even if They had told her so.

  This wasn’t Before.

  She was safe now.

  “See, you get kinda…funny when I talk about stuff like that.” Several expressions flickered across Thom’s face before he settled on sympathy and kindness—which was why Sydney liked him so much.

  He stood up and opened his arms, offering a hug to Sydney.

  She stepped into his embrace and held him tightly. “Thank you, Thom. Someday, I’ll tell you. I just… I have to figure out stuff for myself first. I still don’t know…” She trailed off as they backed away from each other, both wearing solemn frowns. “I still don’t know what to think of me.”

  Thom paused, then nodded, then sighed, rocking back on his heels as he shoved his slim hands into his pants pockets. “Sorry, I don’t mean to push you. I’m just really curious. I mean, all gay people have their sad stories, right?”

  She pressed her mouth into a thin, hard line. “God. I hope not,” she murmured.

  Though she knew it was probably true.

  “Anyway, all this doom and gloom…” He waved his hand as if he were wiping cobwebs out of the air. “What I really came over to talk to you about was our next gaming night.” He beamed. “We've got to set a date.”

  Sydney nodded, grateful (perhaps a little too grateful) for the subject change. “Mario Kart again?”

  He snorted with laughter. “I mean, I’ll kick your ass, but—sure, if you want.”

  When Thom ambled away, having been summoned by a customer, Sydney went back to folding shirts, licking her dry lips distractedly.

  That had been another close one. It wasn't as if Thom didn’t already know that she was…different. She should just tell him the truth.

  But that would him make the first person, besides the police, who she'd told.

  And… Well, she didn’t know how to tell him.

  She’d hardly known how to tell the cops. With broken words, she’d managed to piece together the life she had left.

  The world she had escaped from.

  And she didn’t want to think about it or talk about it ever again—even though she couldn’t evade the memories that crowded her head, threatening her, making her feel so afraid.

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. But the tension in her shoulders, in her arms and legs, in all of her body…remained.

  That night, as she exited the bus on her street, she paused for a moment and looked up at the stars. They were, of course, hard to see in Pittsburgh. She wasn’t in the city proper, not really, but a couple of blocks removed still meant that there was light pollution. There was so much of it, in fact, that sometimes she had a hard time finding the moon when it wasn’t full.

  But the moon was close to full tonight. And as she stood on the corner, the Hamilton rising before her, she breathed in the night air, fogged, of course, by exhaust and the smells of the city, but still, in essence, cool and crisp.

  Normally, she hurried home from the bus stop. She knew that Max had gone a good, long while without relieving himself, and she wanted to take him outside as quickly as possible.

  But tonight, she was feeling wistful, she supposed. So she stopped and stared up, counting stars.

  And she thought about last night.

  And the woman from 718B.

  Caroline.

  Sydney felt her chest constrict, felt the tightness of longing race through her…

  Because she heard it again.

  The singing.

  She’d almost forgotten, in the midst of the terror of nearly losing Max, in the midst of all of the indescribable feelings she experienced when she looked at Caroline, that, before all of that had happened, there had been someone singing in her apartment building.

  It was crude to call it mere singing. No. The woman had been wholly consumed by the music, and she delivered it to the rest of the world like an offering of love. That’s what Sydney heard last night. An offering of love. Something so beautiful, so sublime, she’d half-wondered if she’d dreamed it.

  But she hadn’t, couldn't have, because here it was again, and—if possible—it was even lovelier than Sydney remembered.

  She stood on the corner, close to her building, and she listened. Tonight, the woman was singing something in Latin. It was religious in nature: there were some words in the vocals that Sydney knew meant god or grace. But the religiosity of the song was eclipsed by the passion behind the voice.

  The woman was singing this song as if it meant something to her. Some secret passion that transcended the language barrier.

  It was sublime.

  Sydney had never heard anything like it, had never heard a song sung like this, and it moved her to tears. Actual tears, she realized, as she reached up, surprised by the wetness on her face. Her fingertips came away with warm salt glimmering on them. Sydney was weeping at the beauty of the song, and this startled her.

  It was hard, of course, but Sydney usually tried not feel much of anything at all. She’d felt too much once, and those feelings had been used against her, so she did the only thing she could think to do: She locked away everything that made her feel in the deepest, darkest place within her.

  So it shocked Sydney that this woman made her feel something, but what shocked her more was that the woman made her feel something…good.

  Standing there on the pavement in the dark, for the first time in a very long time, longer than Sydney could actually remember, she felt light. She looked up at the stars, and she breathed out into the stillness. The sounds of the city still moved on around her. Cars drove by. There was honking in the distance. Someone’s television was on too loud. A dog barked across the street.

  But through it all came the sound of beauty, came that voice. And it pierced the humdrum melody of the mundane, aimed straight into Sydney
’s heart.

  She felt something new and fragile; she almost didn’t recognize it within herself.

  It was wonder.

  Sydney began to walk toward her building quickly, her flats clipping against the sidewalk. She didn’t know what she wanted exactly, other than to hear the singing closer, louder, without other city sounds obscuring its perfection. By the time she drew even with the Hamilton's door, her heart was in her throat. She’d been drawn on by the music, by the bewitching melody and that perfect singer’s voice. Now she closed her eyes, her hands clasped over her chest, and she listened with all her being…

  And suddenly—without warning—the voice gave way to silence.

  It was like a knife to Sydney’s heart. There had been beauty one moment, and the next, a void. She went numb, because to go numb meant that you were able to avoid the harshness of pain.

  She stared up at the Hamilton incredulously, and sighed, and waited—hoping against hope that the singer would start up again, that she’d continue the song. But after a long while, Sydney began to feel strange, standing in front of her building, staring up at it as if it would deliver something wonderful to her. Self-conscious, she rocked back on her heels.

  And then she went inside.

  The dark hallways of the Hamilton left much to be desired. Sydney had recently watched The Shining, and all she could think about when she walked down the halls at night was that scene with the twins.

  They wouldn't be out of place in the Hamilton, with its shuddering overhead lights. The hotel in The Shining had, at least, looked grand; here, the carpeting was splotched with years of grunge and stains. There was one large coppery stain near the entryway that Sydney believed was blood.

  As she walked down the corridor toward her apartment, she passed no one, saw no one.

  That is, until she fit the key into her lock.

  Sometimes, she half-wondered if Mrs. Williams had a chair positioned by her apartment door, perhaps scrolling through Facebook on her phone while listening for any hint of footsteps in the hallway. Then Mrs. Williams would throw open her door, grabbing her purse and chortling about how she’d just been about to step outside, and she'd trap Sydney into talking about the latest pyramid scheme she’d fallen for, or about the “Lord” and his many blessings—for half an hour or so.

  This was an uncharitable thought, Sydney knew, but it might have been true. Because when Sydney fit her key into her apartment’s lock, the apartment door across from hers flew open. And there was Mrs. Williams, in yoga pants and a t-shirt that proclaimed she was “hashtag blessed.”

  Mrs. Williams was pretty in the straightest possible way, and Mr. Williams was handsome—also in the straightest possible way. Together, in Sydney’s mind, they represented the Ultimate Straight Couple. They were very religious, and they loved to talk about that fact, and they planned on having seventeen (give or take a few) children.

  When Sydney saw Mrs. Williams, she had a hard time not succumbing to the urge to flee before Mrs. Williams regaled her with all of the ways that Jesus could change her life.

  Jesus had changed Sydney’s life, of course. Though Sydney doubted—if he’d ever actually existed—that Jesus would have wanted to be used in quite that way...

  Mrs. Williams stood beside her with a beatific glow on her perfectly made-up face.

  “Honey, I just wanted to lend you a book. I know you’re new around here,” she said, babbling excitedly as she pressed a hardcover into Sydney’s hands. Sydney had to accept the book, or it would drop to the floor between them.

  Sometimes Sydney wondered if her good manners made life a little less bearable, because if she didn't have manners, she would have let the book drop. She’d ignore Mrs. Williams and let herself into her apartment and shut the door in Mrs. Williams’ stunned face.

  But this was something she couldn't do. Proper behavior had been hammered into her from the youngest age. So Sydney smiled falteringly and accepted the book, staring down at it glumly.

  A Bible.

  “Anyway, I know you’re new,” Mrs. Williams continued as Sydney stared at the book, as the roaring in her ears began, “and I wanted to invite you to my church. Oh, honey, it’s just the most wonderful place. We’re all family there, and I know you said your family is dead, poor dear, so I thought...”

  Sydney had told Mrs. Williams that her family was dead because—unlike most people—Mrs. Williams had pressed and pressed and pressed her about her past until she’d finally had to say something. Just to make Mrs. Williams stop asking questions. Not that the lie had made her stop, but it had made her stop prying about her family, which was, in and of itself, a blessing. With or without the hashtag.

  Sydney blinked as Mrs. Williams kept talking, hardly hearing her words. Because Mrs. Williams had invited her to church, and that was something she could not do.

  She drew in a deep breath, and finally, Sydney found her voice. “No, thank you, Mrs. Williams,” Sydney said, and—going a step further—she handed the Bible back to the woman. “I appreciate the offer,” she lied, “but I’m not a big fan of…organized religion.”

  Mrs. Williams couldn’t have looked more surprised. If Sydney had been in a better mood, or if she had felt less trapped, she might have thought it was a little bit funny, the way Mrs. Williams’ mouth turned into a cartoonish “O.”

  “Honey, please take it. It's a gift. I insist.” Mrs. Williams, recovering quickly, pushed the Bible back into Sydney’s hands.

  And because Sydney was exhausted, and that show of resistance had used up the last reserves of her strength, she accepted the book—which bothered her a great deal.

  “Thank you,” Sydney murmured quietly, gazing down at the tome in her hands, her teeth gritted.

  “I know you want to come to Jesus, honey,” said Mrs. Williams, reaching out and curling her bright red nails around Sydney’s shoulders. “Do you want me to do the saving prayer on you? Right here and now? Oh, I feel the Lord working through my fingers, even as we talk—”

  “No, that’s all right,” said Sydney, bumping her door open and ducking inside. “I’m sorry,” she managed, grabbing the leash off of the wall and dropping the Bible onto the little table by the door. She clipped the leash to Max's collar, and then she closed the door behind her, letting the big dog drag her down the hallway, toward the door leading to the courtyard. “Max really has to go. Thanks for the book!”

  And then she was outside. And the heavy weight that had pressed down on her heart began to, ever so slightly, lift.

  To other people, perhaps Mrs. Williams would come across as a perfectly average, perfectly nice lady. But the problem was that perfectly average, perfectly nice ladies were responsible for a large amount of Sydney’s past. Before. The time when everything went dark and bad and she almost lost all of herself. It took a perfectly average, perfectly nice lady to believe that what she was doing was for someone else’s greater good, that a little bit of pain and hardship in the present would amount to wonderful things in the future…

  Sydney ran her fingers through her hair. Her hands were shaking. She’d thought too much about Before, was cornered by Mrs. Williams, and now she might have a panic attack, and her medication was inside…

  To distract herself, Sydney tried to concentrate on Max; she inspected the closed gate of the courtyard before letting him off of his leash. Just for good measure, she sat down on the slate right in front of the gate, leaning back.

  Sydney's therapist had said that deep breathing was helpful in the moments leading up to a panic attack, and even during them. If she could breathe with her belly, he’d promised, it would lessen the strength of the attack. So Sydney tried to breathe.

  She tried not to think about what had happened to her Before.

  She tried not to think about women like Mrs. Williams, women giving her sad, kind eyes, though their actions were never kind.

  She closed her own eyes tightly, and she wrapped her arms around her middle, and she began to dive inward, int
o the panic…

  And then, out of the stillness of the night, it began again.

  The singing.

  Sydney heard it. It pierced the shadows that were strangling her, pierced them like lightning, an arrow of pure and shining light, and the darkness was, somehow, impossibly, chased away.

  The tightness that was all of Sydney’s being began, by degrees, to relax, as she listened, as she tilted her head up toward the sound and did nothing but listen.

  The woman was singing about amazing grace, how sweet that sound, that saved a soul like me…

  These weren’t the lyrics that Sydney remembered, but she liked them a little better. Not that she was really listening to the lyrics. Those were noticed only marginally, in the background of the intense feeling that arose from the music, rippling over her, a balm of healing that soothed her aching, wounded places.

  That pure, perfect voice was singing each note with a sweetness of sound that almost made Sydney gasp. She had felt, before the singing started, that she might explode from the tension inside of her. And now the pain was receding, sinking into the ground.

  Sydney took a deep breath.

  “Amazing Grace,” if only one verse is sung, is not a very long song. And the woman, after singing that one verse, stopped, letting the silence rush back in.

  Still, one verse was all it took. One moment, every atom within Sydney had been consumed by darkness, and the next, she was comforted by the voice of a stranger.

  Sydney lifted her chin, looked at the few stars the city lights allowed, peeking at her through the heavy boughs of the cherry tree. For a precious heartbeat of stillness, she felt at peace.

  Chapter 3

  Saturday was Sydney’s day off that week, which meant that it was the day she had to do the dreaded grocery shopping. Sydney hated grocery shopping, hated trying to stick to her budget, hated the crowds and how tight the aisles were. She could think of a million things she’d rather be doing, but she couldn’t afford grocery delivery, so she set off for the store.

  It was an abnormally cool day compared to the vicious heat that had characterized that summer, so Sydney walked, her hands deep in her jeans pockets. As she stared at the sunshine filtering through the neighborhood’s trees, as she inhaled deep breaths of air that smelled like freshly cut grass, she found her mind was blank; she wasn't thinking about anything in particular.