Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 5

front of an ice cream shop and look up at the row of red-brick tenements on the other side of the street, all of them with fire escapes painted dark schoolyard green, and there's something weird and festive about that, Christmas colors like a memory against the late winter sun.
    Sam walks down the street. He waves, so I know he sees me. He's wearing his leather jacket over a pair of warm-up pants, and there's a duffel thrown over his shoulder, so he's coming from rehearsal. When he gets to me, he sits on the bench and throws his arm over the back, not touching me but close.
    "Hi," I say.
    He nods. He says, "I miss you."
    My first instinct is to make a joke about how I haven't gone anywhere, but I feel what he's saying deep in my gut. "Yeah," I say.
    He looks at the buildings across the street, the weird crosshatch of green fire escapes and red brick, and he says, "Tyler, the actor playing Enoch, he's been driving me nuts. I think he feigned incompetence to get close to me. He also offered to put me in touch with a casting director who got him a small part in a movie. And I started thinking that maybe I should be trying to get more parts, maybe I should be trying to do more, maybe there's more out there for me than a part in a Broadway revival. But there isn't. It's... I'm playing the lead in a Broadway musical! That's it, that's the dream! I've got it! But it's nothing, because I feel you pulling away from me, and I feel a strain between us lately, and it has me looking to fill the void with other things, but at the end of the day, all I really want is you. And I'm worried that I'm not what you want anymore."
    And there it was.
    "Sam. How can you...?" But I trail off because I know what he's talking about. I know how he can say that. I take a deep breath. If we're confessing things, I suppose it's time for mine. "I knew something was wrong, but I couldn't figure out what. For I while, I thought you were cheating on me."
    "Jess. How can you …?" He shakes his head and laugh ruefully.
    I keep going. "I know you would never do it. I know that. But I'm worried. I'm worried I won't be able to work much longer because everyone will want someone younger and hotter. I'm worried I'm not good enough. I'm worried I'm not worthy of you, of New York, of this life that we've chosen. I'm worried about everything and I feel so totally lost all the time lately."
    "You're good enough," he says.
    "You're what I want. Always. You're my first and only."
    "Let's go home."
    I read somewhere that our building had once housed six different families, crammed onto four floors. The building is now divided into eight apartments, one of which is our cozy one bedroom. Just the two of us share a still-crowded space, and I sometimes try to imagine what it would be like if I had extended family and kids living here, too. I can't picture it. Probably because when Sam is there, he fills the space.
    We're both in the living room, looking at each other. Just sort of standing there. We're on the edge of something.
    "It's harder than I thought it would be," he says.
    "What is?"
    "This." He gestures around the room. "Remember how it was supposed to be so easy. How we'd sit in my room in Ohio and plan out what would happen when we came here. We were sure to succeed and live in the glamorous penthouse and have all the fame and fortune we desired."
    "I remember."
    "But even when we didn't get that, it was okay, because we had each other. We faced the world with our heads high, and we held hands, and everything was okay because we knew it would get better. And it did. Our dreams are coming true. But this success, it feels hollow, because this thing with us is not as strong as it used to be. I want to fix it."
    He's right. I feel guilty suddenly for doubting him, for briefly letting myself be tempted by Matt's friendship, for thinking that my relationship with Sam is failing somehow. Maybe it is, but it will only really fail if we let it. "I want that, too," I say.
    Suddenly, I'm in his arms. It strikes me that this is safe and familiar, everything from the way he smells to the way his body feels under my hands when I hug him back to the softness of his well-worn tee-shirt. I wonder how I could have been letting this go, how I could have been holding onto some resentment toward Sam, how I could have thought for even a second that he was capable of cheating. This is Sam .
    "I don't think I want to be a model anymore," I say. "I'm thinking about getting a real