Page 64 of Rhett & Moses
The simple logic of his argument, combined with my own growing conviction, was persuasive. “You’re sure?” I asked again, needing to be certain. “This is a big step. I don’t want you to feel rushed.”
Moses laughed, the sound warm in the cool evening air. “Rhett, we’ve waited twenty years. I don’t think ‘rushed’ is a word that applies to us at this point.”
Put that way, it was hard to argue. “Alright,” I agreed, a smile spreading across my face as the decision solidified between us. “I’ll contact the real estate agent tomorrow. Start the process.”
“Good,” Moses said firmly. “And I’ll talk to Bronwyn about restructuring my schedule at the bar. If we’re really doing this, I need to start planning for more regular absences.”
The practical considerations: financing, scheduling, logistics, would need to be addressed, of course. But in that moment, standing by the harbor with the city lights reflecting on the water and Moses’s hand warm in mine, those details seemed manageable, even trivial compared to the significance of the decision we’d made.
We were putting down new roots, not in Gomillion, where our past had begun, not in Boston or Atlanta where we’d built separate lives, but in a place chosen together, designed to accommodate both our individual needs and our shared future.
The symbolism wasn’t lost on either of us as we made our way back to my apartment, hands linked, steps in sync. We were choosing each other, deliberately and with open eyes, no longer the afraid teenagers we’d once been but grown men who understood both the value and the challenge of what we were building.
Morning came too soon, bringing with it the inevitability of Moses’s departure. We moved through the rituals of breakfastand packing with a quietness that reflected our reluctance to separate again, even temporarily.
“One month,” Moses reminded me as we prepared to leave for the airport. “Then I’ll see you in Atlanta. And in the meantime, we’ll be working on the house.”
“Our house,” I corrected, the possessive pronoun still new and thrilling on my tongue.
“Our house,” he agreed, a smile lighting his features despite the impending separation.
The drive to the airport was subdued, both of us lost in our own thoughts, hands linked across the console as if to maintain connection for as long as possible. At the departures drop-off, I parked in a loading zone, ignoring the potential for a ticket; some moments were worth the risk.
“I’ll call as soon as I land,” Moses promised as we stood beside the car, his bag slung over his shoulder, the moment of parting unavoidable now.
“I’ll answer,” I assured him, attempting humor despite the tightness in my chest. “Even if I’m in a meeting. Especially if I’m in a meeting.”
Moses laughed, the sound cutting through the melancholy of the moment. “Don’t get fired on my account.”
“It’s my firm,” I reminded him. “I can’t be fired. Though my clients might have opinions about my professionalism.”
“Your clients adore you,” Moses countered. “As evidenced by last-minute reservations at impossible-to-book restaurants.”
The banter was a familiar defense mechanism for both of us, a way to navigate emotional moments with humor rather than succumbing to the full weight of feeling. But as the final boarding call for Moses’s flight echoed from the terminal speakers, even that buffer fell away.
I pulled him close, unconcerned with the busy flow of travelers around us. “I love you,” I said simply. “Travel safe.”
“I love you, too,” he replied, his arms tightening around me briefly before he stepped back. “One month.”
“One month,” I echoed, already counting the days.
I watched him walk into the terminal, staying until he disappeared from view before returning to my car. The drive back to my apartment was quieter, emptier without his presence beside me. But unlike our separation in Gomillion, this parting carried none of the uncertainty, none of the fear that had colored our previous goodbye.
We had a plan now, not just the immediate schedule of visits between Boston and Atlanta, but a larger vision for our shared future. The property in Carolina, once just a possibility I’d researched on a whim, had become a tangible goal, a physical manifestation of our commitment to building a life together.
Back in my apartment, I noticed the small traces Moses had left behind, a book on the coffee table, a borrowed sweater draped over a chair, his preferred brand of coffee in my kitchen. These weren’t the artifacts of absence that might have triggered melancholy, but rather promises of return, of continuity, of a story still unfolding.
I settled at my desk, opening my laptop to find an email already waiting from Moses, sent from the airport lounge:
Missing you already. But excited about what we’re building. Talk to you soon. Love, M.
I smiled as I typed my reply:
The feeling is mutual. On both counts. Just contacted the real estate agent about the property. First steps toward our new roots. Love, R.
As I sent the message, I felt a sense of rightness settle over me. The path ahead wasn’t entirely clear, there would be challenges, compromises, adjustments as we navigated the integration of our separate lives. But the destination was certain, the commitment unwavering.
After twenty years apart, we were finally moving in the same direction, no longer running from the past but building toward a future of our own design. New roots, new beginnings, built on the solid foundation of a connection that had withstood time, distance, and misunderstanding.
