All We Do Is Say Goodbye--HAC 2000

All We Do Is Say Goodbye

"Taylor, you need to stop being so nice to me." Cuddled up against him on the worn, dark green family-room couch that is literally the only thought in my mind.

A look of extreme concentration momentarily twists Taylor’s angel face into a playful grimace, and his voice is horror-movie-sidekick thick when he replies: "You want I should be a creep, boss?"

He smells like candy canes, and as Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks find each other on the TV before us, I wish for the thousandth time that I could just melt into him. "Please."

For a long time, this yearly tradition of watching Sleepless in Seattle has been one of my favorite reasons to look forward to the holidays. And right now, sharing eye-crossingly sweet frosting fresh from Mrs. Hanson’s kitchen with my eye-crossingly sweet boyfriend of eight years, I can’t quite define my emotions. I love it; I love him, so near, so close when I’m accustomed to him being so far. But there’s something else, too, some other dark thought in the back of my mind that I can’t quite capture, and it drives me to sidle even closer, desperate for any kind of contact with the flesh that I can miss so much it makes me cry.

The Hanson Christmas tree stands in one corner of the cluttered room, somehow not quite straight. All of the ornaments on it are handmade with paper and string, a yearly custom with Taylor’s family, and from where we’re sprawled I can see my contribution: twenty finely cut white paper snowflakes, lacey dreams illuminated only by the twinkling of the strands of tiny white lights that are threaded again and again around the big, sweet smelling douglass fur. "The Yankees suck?" Taylor hazards after a moment, tightening his arm around my shoulder.

"Hey! That was so uncalled for!" If he had been heard saying that in the neighborhood where I grew up, he would have suddenly found himself pinned under 40 chubby Italian men eager to change his mind. And I probably would have been related to only 32 or 33 of them, even. I reach out to pinch Taylor hard just below the ribs, marveling at just how firm he’s gotten over the past few months on the road.

"I guess I’m not so good at being a creep." I love the way he feels against me, so strong and warm, and as he runs a single finger down my bare arm, I find myself shivering. "Are you cold, baby?" His raspy whisper curls around me, as do his arms, and Taylor pulls me sideways onto his lap, softly guiding my head to rest against his chest.

"Nah." I doubt if my answer can be heard over Rosie O’Donell barking out: "That’s your problem! You don’t want to be in love, you want to be in love in a movie!" in my favorite scene in cinema history, but it doesn’t matter. It seems somehow improbable that Taylor shouldn’t know exactly how I feel, pulled tight against his steady, even breaths.

"So why do you want me to stop being nice, anyway?" He asks, combing his fingers gently through my ratty-feeling hair.

"So when I look at you I can think, ‘gee. What a jerk. Thank God I’m going back to school next week and won’t have to deal with him anymore.’" Upstairs I can hear the quiet, homey noises of Taylor’s parents moving around, the nearly lost clicking of lights being turned off and the faint sound of doors being locked for the night.

He laughs a little and I rise and fall with his chest, like riding the rythmic surge of a merry-go-round. My hands are locked at the nape of his neck, and his hair feels satiny soft against my skin. "As opposed to looking at me and thinking…?"

I’m silent for a long time, too long, and Taylor leans down to peer into my face illuminated only by the blurry, television cast light. "I almost dread seeing you now." I’m sure it’s not physically possible to get any closer to him than I am, but I try desperately, nestling in his arms and closing my eyes tight.

"Why?" Taylor queries in the dark, and I can fairly feel his eyes on me, fairly see his normally smooth forehead furrowed with concern.

"Because whenever I see you now all I can think of is that I have to go. And how much I’m going to miss you." He tightens against me, and I can hear a catch in his breathing, like he’s hurt and doesn’t quite dare to breathe in for fear of finding a bigger wound than expected.

"We’ve only got such little time let together, Izzy. Let’s try not to be sad, okay? Next Tuesday will come and you’ll get on the plane to winter training just like you have for the past three years, and we’ll survive it just like we always have." Taylor’s voice is too light, too careless, and when I finally look at him I can see that the tears glistening his watercolor blue eyes reflect the sparkle of the Christmas tree lights.

"Don’t cry, girlie man." I’m half-giggling, half sobbing as he smiles at me, bringing his forehead down to rest warm against mine so that his face is out of focus, just a blur of perfect, renaissance beauty.

"You’re the one who got me going, thank you very much." Taylor’s a weeper. Isn’t that funny? I never would have thought it when I first met him, but outgoing, always funny, always happy Taylor Hanson cries at the drop of a hat. I love it about him, and I especially love that he only feels comfortable admitting it to me.

"Don’t turn this into another Cineplex affair, okay? I don’t think I can handle the embarrassment."

"Will I never live that down?" Taylor groans, tucking my hair behind my ears and slipping his hands down to rest hot against my neck.

"Most likely not. Borrowing tissue from your girlfriend in the middle of a crowded theater in order to drown your sobs is generally considered fodder for lifelong teasing." This is what I’ll miss the most, I think. These peaceful moments when it’s the two us, all alone watching TV or playing cards or just stretching out together on my bed and listening to marathons of our favorite cds.

"You could quit the swim team, Izzy, and stay a little longer." He sounds a little desperate, but before the words fully leave his mouth he’s apologizing. "Damnit! I know I suck for even thinking that. But it’s just…"

"I know," I soothe him with a gentle brush of my lips against his. He tastes like his mom’s chocolate fudge frosting, and we’re both quiet for a long time before I continue. "It’s just because of the tour this year that we’re so freaked out. It feels like I’ve barely seen you at all." My voice breaks a little, despite my best efforts, and I play with the collar of his sweatshirt, desperate to distract myself from the hysteria I feel brewing. It really has been different this year, with Taylor and his brothers on the road all summer and me too busy saving up for tuition bills to go visit during the tour. Really, the only time we’ve had together has been this past month of Christmas break, and the memory of what it feels like to be without Taylor is all too fresh. I used to think people were silly when they called their husband or wife their better half, but as Taylor and I have grown up together I find myself understanding what they meant more and more. He’s been at my side ever since my family relocated from Brooklyn to Tulsa when I was twelve, and when I’m at NYU without him I feel hollow, empty, dizzy, alone.

"I should have lobbied harder to shorten the tour," Taylor’s slowly chasing the demons of our future away with his touch, his sympathy, and his closeness.

"You most certainly should not have. How could you live without the road?" That’s the one thing about him that separates us, I guess. His music is this vast, untouchable part of him that I dream about, that I think is too precious for any interference.

"But how can I live without you?" He asks in a way that makes it very clear it’s not a rhetorical question, tugging me against him in a seamless embrace, the rest of the world forgotten.

"It will be okay, Tay. Just like it always is."

When next Taylor spoke so much time had passed that Sleepless in Seattle had almost completely regained my attention. "Is it worth it?" I didn’t have to ask what he was talking about, because it’s a question I’ve asked myself a hundred thousand times since we’ve been together. I want all of these things--an education back in New York; someone I love who can always be close enough to touch; an end to the searing pain of missing someone like I would miss breath, like I would miss light, like I would miss life--and Taylor is the exact opposite of every one of them. But there’s no way that could ever change the fact that without him the world is black and white, that without him I’m half a human being too weak to survive.

"It seems like all we do is say goodbye. And that sucks so much, Taylor," I don’t mean to whimper as I speak, but I can’t stop the tremor from taking over. A few heartbeats worth of control regained, I find my voice again: "But I guess if we never said goodbye, we wouldn’t ever get to say hello, either."

"Come on. I’m tired." I don’t have any option in the matter as Taylor stands, lofts me into his arms and flicks off the TV on his way to the stairs up to his room.

"Will you sing me to sleep?" I whisper, looping my hands through his hair and burrowing against the firmness of his chest.

"Don’t I always?"