Nathaniel Jean's Senior Year

Epilogue

I couldn't pull my eyes away.

      From the people, hundreds of them, bustling in the streets below me. Every shape, size, and color imaginable. From the buildings I looked down on, and the ones I had to lift my chin to see the tops of. From the lights—so many of them that not a single star could be seen in the night sky. From the cars, the sidewalks, the everything.

     My hands were pressed against the glass; my nose, too, because no matter how close I got, I felt as though I wasn't close enough to see it all. I wanted to see it all.

     I nearly jumped at the sensation of arms sliding around my sides from behind, a chin resting on my shoulder blade.

"Pretty crazy, huh?" Lucas chuckled, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "It's all there."

"I feel like it's not real," I said, my voice coming out distant. "Eighteen years of dreaming, right there."

"Is it as good as you imagined?"

I felt myself smile—one of those smiles that you absolutely can't control, but it's okay because you would never want to. "Of course it is," I whispered. "It's just like the pictures—the physical ones and the ones in my head. But the feeling is totally different."

"Yeah?" Lucas mused, and I could feel him smiling, too, against my back. "What's the feeling?"

I turned around to face him and put my arms around his neck, took a good moment to just stand there and look at him and relish in the fact that he was mine, and that uncontrollable smile got bigger. "It feels like victory," I said. "Like . . . Like I'm not just surviving anymore. I'm actually winning. It feels weird."

"Are you . . . crying?" Lucas asked, trying and failing to suppress a chuckle. "Since when are you the emotional type, Jean?"

"Fuck off," I laughed, looking up at the ceiling and blinking tears out of my eyes as my cheeks turned pink. "I can't help it, I'm happy."

Lucas leaned forward to rest his head on my chest and hugged me close. "I know," he said. "I'm happy, too."

Happy. We were really, really happy. War was over, and the struggle of battle made the triumph so much sweeter.

We were unlimited. Not in concrete concepts, of course—money and time were not infinite, and we would learn that time and time again in the years to come. But more abstract ideas—the mushy ones, like love and joy and freedom—were ours for the taking. The American big city was a complete contrast from the American small town. The American big city didn't care who I was or what I did.

A rush of excitement came over me, just as uncontrollable as my smile, because we were free at last, and despite having just spent hours driving, I was full of a sudden, incredible energy. I grabbed Lucas around the waist and, with a triumphant whoop, spun around with him in my arms, pulling his entire body with me. His yelp turned into a giggle, and pretty soon we were both in hysterics, laughing and crying even though there wasn't anything real to laugh about; after all we'd gone through, we deserved some laughter.

    Ecstatic. That's what we were.

He leaned up to kiss me—our first kiss in New York City—still chuckling against my lips, and I felt every butterfly, every chill, every spark imaginable.

I think I really could have stood there all day, kissing him in our new, wonderful home, but my eyes itched for another look.

The apartment was small and partially furnished—Lucas insisted on spending the extra money for furnishings because he "refused to spend our first day in New York sleeping on the floor like peasants"—and littered all over with boxes and bags of our things. One bedroom, one bathroom, a living room, a kitchen, and a dining area—all that we needed. I absolutely loved it, because it was ours, and it was here.