It’s been over a year. I really do think I’ve given it more than the “old college try,” as my dear old dad would have said.

Turns out that Lindsay’s vision of success for me was simply not to be.

I wanted it to be. I really did. And I know Brian wanted it to be real for me too.

It’s why he chose to let me go. Let me spread my wings and fly.

In some ways, it felt like he was letting me go because he thought he had to. Like he was pushing me out of the nest.

Maybe I wasn’t ready. Maybe I’d left before my feathers were fully developed.

Or maybe I simply wasn’t meant to leave the nest at all.

Trying to create without my muse has been difficult, to say the least. Just looking at Brian -- being with Brian -- always inspired me, even if I wasn’t drawing his near-perfect form.

I’ve tried to keep going though. To produce. To showcase my work whenever and wherever I can, be it at a restaurant or a coffee shop or an independent gallery tucked away in an alley. If they’re willing to hang my art on the wall with a price tag on it, I will let them do just that.

But making a living from my art has turned out to be even harder than I thought it would be. There’s no way I can even come close to paying my rent with what little I’m making selling paintings here and there. Particularly since no one knows my name, so no one is willing to pay the big bucks for my work.

Lindsay keeps assuring me it will come, but how long will it take? How much longer can I wait? How much longer should I wait?

I’m lonely.

I miss Brian.

I wonder if he misses me.

We kept in touch for a while -- calling regularly, even trying to plan visits, although it seemed like something would always come up and our plans would end up falling through.

I pretended not to notice how sad Brian sounded when we talked. He’d try to sound like his normal, sarcastic self, but I knew him well enough to hear what he wasn’t saying. What he was trying to hide.

And the times he didn’t sound sad, he sounded distracted. Detached. Like he always had whenever he was trying to shut himself safely away behind his walls.

It had taken me years to work my way beyond those walls. For Brian to open up to me. To tell me he loved me, first with actions, and then with words.

Now, I feel like I’m stuck on the outside again.

The phone calls gradually tapered off over time -- one missed call, and then another, until days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months with little or no contact. Lately, I haven’t even gotten a single email from him. Not even so much as a dick joke or a funny picture Michael had forwarded him. And when I try to call, he never picks up.

Not on his cell. Not at the loft. Not at the office.

Not at 10 a.m. Not at noon. Not after dinner. Not at midnight.

I wonder how he is.

I wonder what he’s up to.

I wish he’d just pick up the phone.

I talk to Michael sometimes, mostly about Rage, but occasionally Brian comes up. Michael won’t say much. I never figured he would -- after all, it would be just like Brian to threaten to never speak to Michael again if he said something to me that Brian didn’t want known.

What I do know is that Brian is living in the house in West Virginia, alone. I wonder if he’s even going to Babylon anymore. Or Woody’s. If he’s still tricking. (Probably. He wouldn’t be Brian if he wasn’t.)

I know that Mel and Linds sent Gus down there to spend two weeks with Brian back in June, and that Gus had the time of his life. I’m pretty sure Brian did too. It was one of the only times we talked that he actually sounded happy.

I’d already been hearing from Brian less and less at that point, and it wasn’t long after that, that the calls stopped completely. And Brian stopped answering the phone.

Now, it’s almost Christmas, and I’m tired of being here in the city by myself. Tired of struggling to pay my bills with my meager earnings waiting tables at a diner that’s usually full of cheap-ass tourists who hardly tip.

I’m tired of just scraping by. Feeling uninspired. Like nothing is ever going to change.

So I’m packing my things, and I’m coming home.

As I sit among the stacks of boxes in my tiny bedroom in the shoebox of an apartment that I’ve been sharing with Daphne’s friend, I’m thinking of Brian. Wondering what he’s doing right now.

It’s 5 p.m. on a weekday, so I figure he’s probably still at Kinnetik. Maybe wrapping up his workday, maybe not. He always was a bit of a workaholic. Or maybe just a control-freak perfectionist who would rather do something himself than let someone else even so much as try to live up to his expectations.

I think about calling him. Letting him know I’m coming home. I wonder if he’d be glad to hear from me. Or if my call would only be an inconvenience -- an interruption in his day.

I’m not sure I could take the latter, even as remote as the possibility seems, so I don’t call at all.

He probably wouldn’t have answered, anyway.

Mom is renting a van and coming to pick me up tomorrow. I’ll live with her in her townhouse for a while until I figure out what to do with myself. How to navigate what feels like a walk of shame, returning to Pittsburgh without living up to the lofty expectations that were set for me when I left. Without achieving the dreams that Brian wanted me to be able to achieve.

Will he be happy to see me? Or will he be as disappointed in me as I am in myself?

I’ve spent the last year and a half without the love of my life, trying unsuccessfully to live my dream. It’s hard not to be disappointed. Hard to look at the bright side and say, “at least you tried.”

I spend the rest of the evening packing the last of my clothes and the last of my art supplies, before falling into bed and dreaming of Brian. Just like I always do.

I wish I’d never left. But I did. And I have to make peace with the results of that, whatever they are. However uncertain they may be.

Mom picks me up as planned. We pack the boxes into the back of the van. And we drive west.

I watch the city that was supposed to be the setting where my dreams would come true fading off into the distance in the rear-view mirror. What had once seemed to be all glitz and glamour and promise, now a dull, grey reminder of what a huge mistake I’d made.

I should have married Brian. We should be living together in that mansion in West Virginia.

I could have kept painting in Pittsburgh. I could have made myself a studio in the house in West Virginia. I could have woken up this morning beside Brian. In our bed. In our house.

I could have been doing that for the past year and a half.

I’m nervous about seeing him again. I know I’ll have to -- after all, we have the same friends. Really, they’re family.

What will I say? What will he say?

Will it be just like old times? Or will things be weird? Different?

Will we be able to get back what we once had?

I want to.

Will Brian want to?

Or have I used up all of my second chances?

We unpack my boxes, stacking most of them in the garage at mom’s townhouse. I figure all I’ll need is a couple of boxes of clothes, since this is supposed to be temporary. Right now, I don’t feel much like painting anyhow.

Mom tells me that Debbie is expecting me to come by the diner in the morning. I shudder to think of what she’d do if I didn’t show up, so I figure I’d better. I wonder if Brian will be there.

I spend a long time standing outside the door to the place where I spent the better part of four years working off and on. Trying to figure out what I’ll say if Brian is there. I don’t see his Corvette, but I know his office isn’t far from here and sometimes he walks down for a cup of coffee or a lemon bar, or his turkey sandwich on wheat, no mayo.

I take a deep breath and pull the door open, hearing the familiar jingle of the bell as I walk in. The diner smells the same as it always has -- like grease and french fries and meat sizzling on a hot griddle. It’s decorated exactly the same as it was every year at this time -- with garland and tiny, colored lights strung along the walls and huge ornaments hanging from the ceiling tiles. Deb has always been the one who did the decorating, although she leaves out many of the more tacky elements that she saves for her own home. Not that any of the decor in the diner has ever been particularly tasteful.

I barely have a chance to step inside before I hear a familiar voice cry out, “Sunshine!” Mere seconds later, I’m enveloped in a hug so tight I can’t breathe. Debbie kisses my cheek, leaving a bright red lipstick print behind, I’m sure.

“I’m so glad you’re home!” she says. “We’ve missed you so much!”

“I’ve missed you all too,” I reply. I mean that. But I leave out the part about how I was hoping that my return to Pittsburgh would be a triumphant one, after I’d “conquered New York,” in the words of one influential cunt who writes for ArtForum magazine. Apparently, however, New York hadn’t wanted to be conquered.

“You’d better be planning on coming to my house on Christmas Eve,” Debbie says, in her familiar no-nonsense tone that tells you that you’d be risking your life to try and argue.

I hadn’t been planning to, but I know I don’t have a choice.

Debbie feeds me what feels like half of the food in the diner and talks my ear off about all manner of things except one very obvious thing -- Brian. Maybe he threatened her too, although I can’t see it being as effective with her as it would be with Michael. So I ask about him.

“Oh, he doesn’t come around much anymore,” she says. “I hardly ever see him. I can barely get him to come to Sunday dinner once a month. The rest of the time, he says he’s busy with work. He’s working too damn much, if you ask me. Needs to be taking care of himself. He’s not getting any younger. You’d think having cancer would have been a wake up call that he needed to change a few things in his life, but I guess not.”

“Wait, he’s not…” I can’t bring myself to finish that sentence. Is Brian sick again? Is that why he stopped calling?

“Oh, no, no, Sunshine...he’s fine.” Debbie puts my fears to rest. Sort of. “At least, as far as I know. Took him long enough to fucking tell me last time.”

Yeah, me too, I think to myself, remembering how I found out about his cancer by overhearing an answering machine message, then the torturous few days I spent trying to pretend I didn’t know, until Michael gave it away and Brian threw me out and I had to insert myself back into his life and refuse to leave. I remember how hard it was to get him to admit that he needed help. That he didn’t really want to be alone, the way he said he did.

Brian hides anything he perceives to be weakness, no matter what the cost to him. He doesn’t want to admit to needing anybody.

Was that the reason he’d stopped calling? Was he missing me too much?

Had he been pretending to be okay, and he just couldn’t pretend anymore?

I leave the diner wondering how I’ll even begin to approach Brian when I do see him. It sounds like he’s cut himself off from everyone. Including me.

And even though I don’t truly know the reason why, I feel responsible.

I spend the next few days avoiding Liberty Avenue, as a way of avoiding Brian and anyone else associated with him. Simply because I don’t know what I’ll say if I do run into him. Emmett has left me a few voicemails, but I haven’t called him back.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous about the prospect of running into Brian. What I’m afraid of. I shouldn’t have anything to fear -- it should be a jubilant homecoming. A reunion. I love him -- I should be happy about seeing him again. But there’s a feeling of trepidation I just can’t shake.

When Christmas Eve comes, my nerves nearly get the best of me. But I think of what Debbie will do if I don’t show up, and I go anyway.

Mom drops me off, pulling up to the curb behind Brian’s Corvette on the street in front of Debbie’s house. So much for hoping he might not show up. Or that I’d have a few minutes to get my bearings with the rest of the family before he got there.

It’s now or never.

The dingy, grey snow that has melted and refrozen on the sidewalk crunches beneath my shoes as I make my way toward the front door of Debbie’s house.

I raise my hand to knock on the door, but I don’t get a chance to actually knock before the door swings open in front of me, revealing Emmett.

“Oh, baby, it’s so good to see you!” he exclaims. “Come in, come in. I’ll be right back -- I was just going to get a few more things out of my car.”

With that, Emmett rushes past and leaves me standing in the open doorway, staring inside.

“Sunshine!” I hear Debbie call from the kitchen. “You made it! Don’t just stand there, come on in. And close the damn door! I’m not heating the outside, you know.”

I step inside and close the door behind me. As I take off my coat, I can see Brian out of the corner of my eye, on the couch with Gus. They’re both laughing. It sounds like Gus is telling Brian a knock-knock joke. Brian tickles Gus and makes him giggle even more. Then, Brian’s eyes catch mine.

I can’t quite read his expression. Is it surprise? Longing? Maybe a touch of sadness in there too?

Gus’s giggles fade as Brian’s hands stop mid-tickle, but before he can ask Brian why he stopped, he sees me and comes flying off the couch and throws himself at me, wrapping himself around my leg.

I’m still looking at Brian, who is smiling ever-so-slightly. He looks great. As delicious as ever, in his jeans and his suede boots and a button-up shirt, unbuttoned halfway to reveal a t-shirt underneath, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His hair is a little bit longer than I remember. I can tell he didn’t shave today, but the stubble on his chin and his upper lip only increases his sex appeal.

Several seconds pass before Gus lets go of my leg. Brian is looking at me like he doesn’t quite know what to say. He pulls his lips into his mouth in that way he does that makes him almost look shy. His eyes are bright and every bit as beautiful as I remember them.

“Hi,” I say, just wanting to break the awkward silence.

“Hi,” he says back. His voice is quiet.

“It’s been a while.”

“Yeah. It has.”

Gus has run off into the kitchen, where he has his hands in a bowl of flour that’s probably about to become cookies for Santa Claus. Debbie and Lindsay are helping him -- cracking the eggs and unwrapping the butter while Gus pours sugar into the bowl.

Emmett says, “Pardon me, sweetie,” as he edges around me, his arms full of food containers.

Everyone else is standing in pairs and trios near the kitchen, holding glasses of eggnog or steaming mugs of what I assume to be hot cocoa. Maybe a spiced cider. It doesn’t matter. I’m only stalling by trying to figure it out.

I step into the living room, feeling my gut twist uncomfortably with anxiety. I’m still not sure what to say to Brian, and his currently still-unreadable expression isn’t helping me figure it out. I sit down next to him, keeping a foot or so of space between us. A buffer. Against what, I’m not sure.

He breaks the silence this time.

“So, how’ve you been?”

I don’t even know how to answer this question. Not so great, really, I think to myself. But my WASP upbringing takes over and I answer, “Good.”

“That’s good. I’m glad. Taking the art world by storm yet?”

What I want to say is, I wish, but what I blurt out is, “Why’d you stop calling?”

He looks down at the floor and sticks his tongue in his cheek but says nothing. Even though he’s not looking at me, I can still see the sadness in his eyes. It takes him a while to speak, and when he does, I have a hard time hearing him over Gus’ shrieks of joy coming from the kitchen and Debbie and Lindsay’s laughter.

“I just couldn’t think about it anymore,” he says. “How much I missed you. I felt so empty. And every time I talked to you, it was like the hole was getting deeper. It hurt. I needed it to stop. And I know I probably hurt you in the process. I wouldn’t blame you if you hate me.”

“I could never hate you. I just wondered if you were okay.”

He shrugs and looks away. This tells me everything I needed to know. He wasn’t okay. I wasn’t either, but Brian left me no choice. He made the decision for both of us.

“You wouldn’t answer my calls,” I say.

“I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry’s bullshit.”

He winces. “Taught you well, didn’t I?”

“I learned from the master.”

“So how are the clubs in New York?”

“I wouldn’t know. I can’t really afford to go out.”

“I’m sure you could find someone to buy you a drink, with that ass of yours.”

“I don’t want anyone to buy me a drink.” I want you, I add silently to myself.

We sit without speaking for a long time. The silence in the living room feels oppressive, and the distance between our bodies might as well be a mile, because that’s exactly what it feels like. As if there’s no way it could possibly be bridged, because it’s just too far.

“I sold the loft,” he says suddenly.

“Oh?” I reply, surprised to hear this. I want to ask why, but I don’t. I wonder if the reason might be because there were too many memories there.

“I’m not that person anymore,” he says softly. He pauses and inhales, slowly and deeply, before adding, almost too quietly to be heard, “You changed me.”

I’m not sure what to do with this information. All of this time, I’ve been assuming that Brian was probably still engaging in all of his old pain management strategies. Drinking, drugs, and fucking. I’m wondering what it even means that he’s “not that person” anymore.

“What person is that?” I ask. Because I need to know.

“The person who only believed in fucking, and not love. No excuses, no apologies, no regrets.”

“Do you regret letting me go?”

“No. You needed to go. I was only holding you back.”

“No, you weren’t. If it hadn’t been for you…” I can’t decide how to finish that sentence. I wouldn’t still be an artist? I wouldn’t be the person I am today? I wouldn’t be alive?

Brian nods, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking, but I can tell he doesn’t quite believe it. That’s just Brian, though. For a man who usually exudes all the confidence in the world, sometimes he’s nothing but a big bundle of inadequacy and self-doubt. Thanks a lot, Joan and Jack. You fucked your son up good.

“I miss you,” I say, scooting my body over just an inch or two, beginning to close the distance between us.

Brian looks at me, and I can see in his eyes how much he’s missed me too.

“We can’t do this,” he says, shaking his head and turning away from me. “I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t…” he lets his voice trail off, breathing in and out before he finishes the sentence. “I can’t let you go again.”

“You don’t have to,” I say, taking his hands in mine. I can’t keep this to myself anymore. “I’m coming home. New York just… It wasn’t working out.”

“Where’s home?” His eyes are studying mine. Searching. For what, I’m not sure.

“West Virginia, if you’ll have me.”

His eyes are soft. Kind. The side of Brian so few of us know. The side that kissed me and fucked me on the floor of our country manor after I finally said yes to his marriage proposal.

“Why would I not? I bought it for my prince.”

I close the rest of the distance between us in a second, practically throwing my body over Brian’s as our lips meet, our tongues twisting together in a kiss that I never want to end. But I know there will be many more where that came from.

That kiss says everything we both need to say.

We’ve never really needed words anyhow. Why would we need them now?

Brian and I spend the rest of the evening attached at the hip, and absolutely no one in Debbie’s house is the slightest bit surprised. In fact, most of them look relieved. It makes me wonder what has really happened to Brian over these last several months, but I don’t ask. I don’t need to know. It’s in the past.

All we have left is our future. Together.

I ride back to West Virginia with Brian that night. To our home.

We pull into the circular driveway, and even in the darkness I can see the greenery decorating the windows, accented by the flicker of battery-powered candles in the windowsills.

“You decorated?” I say.

“I remember how much you loved Christmas,” he says. “It made me think of you.”

We climb out of the Corvette, and all I can think about is how quickly can I get upstairs and get Brian into bed. But he stops just a few feet inside the door, and we stand in the dimly lit foyer. He casts his eyes upward, making me look up too. I see a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling above our heads, and I feel his hands on either side of my face as he kisses me, hard. Hungrily. Desperately.

I can feel his erection pressing into me as our bodies grind together. He moves me against the wall, our lips moving in concert and our tongues pushing against each other.

Somehow, we make it upstairs without ever letting our mouths separate. We shed our clothing as quickly as possible, our hands all over each other -- groping, gripping, and grabbing -- as we fall into bed together. Our bed. In our home.

The way Brian fucks me shows me exactly how much he’s missed me, and reminds me how much I’ve missed him. I’ve missed this. But it’s more than just sex. It’s love.

The motion of our bodies together -- the gentle rocking of Brian’s hips against my ass, the feel of his hands on my skin. The taste of his lips on mine as we hug each other close after we come.

It’s like we’ve never been separated at all.

Maybe Brian was right.

It was only time.