A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (19 page)

I don’t hesitate. I hit reply and rapidly type:
Please keep looking. Love, Alex.

There. I did it.

Now I just need to see Dylan again.

“Amir, listen, I need to go see Alex. Do you know where her — what’s her host student’s name? Rebekah?”

“She just lives a couple of blocks away, but you can’t just—”

“I can. I have to see her.”

It’s already getting dark—nightfall has been coming earlier and earlier. And it’s chilly outside, more than it has been this entire trip, and more than I expected it to ever be. I always pictured the Middle East as just heat and sand. Amir doesn’t look happy.

“I have homework to do. But I can walk you over there. You’ll have to find your way back.”

“Great!” I say.

I throw on a sweatshirt, which I need because my jacket is really too light for the temperature outside. Who knew? Five minutes later I’m walking beside Amir on the Jerusalem sidewalk. Heavy traffic goes by us, commuters on their way home from work,
headlights on, brains turned off
, horns honking and tires occasionally screeching. It looks frustrating, really. I’m glad I’m on foot.

We turn down a side street, then Amir points out the door. I trot up the three steps to a large townhouse constructed of the same tan stone as everything else in the city. One thing Jerusalem has no shortage of is rocks.

I knock on the door. Suddenly anxious, I slide my hands into my jacket pockets. What if she won’t forgive me? I was kind of an asshole, and that’s not even considering that it was her family I was talking about. She’s got every right to be mad. And we’ve never had a fight before. I don’t know what she’s like in a fight. Is she vengeful? Is she going to write me off? This is agonizing. Especially because we’ve hardly got any time left at all. I don’t want to waste it fighting.

I didn’t mean to snap at her with that comment about not going home to a millionaire family. We’ve talked enough about her home life that I know it’s no picnic. Her father’s always gone and her mother’s crazy. At least my mom got it together and has been there for me.
Really
been there for me, even when it was incredibly tough on her.

A man opens the door. He’s in his early forties, I think, and wearing an army uniform, the sleeves rolled up revealing powerful arms. His black, tightly curled hair is cut short, and he looks like he needs to shave.

He looks at me with a sour face, then says something in Hebrew.

I shuffle on my feet a little bit, cough, then say, “I don’t speak Hebrew… I was looking for Alex?”

The soldier rolls his eyes. Then he turns away and closes the door in my face. I’m left standing on the steps, wondering if he’s just gone away for good, or is he going to go get her, or do I have the wrong house?

A long minute later the door yanks open again. It’s her.

“Dylan,” she says.

“Alex… um… can we talk a minute?”

She nods, but doesn’t say any words.

I step back, forgetting I’m standing on the top of a set of stairs. For just a second I feel that sickening empty feeling—you know the one, when you put your foot down and
there’s nothing there
—then I begin to fall backwards. I try to put my foot behind me, my stomach suddenly twisting, and throw my foot back trying to catch something while my arms do a crazy windmill motion as I lose my balance and stumble back down the three stairs to the sidewalk.

I twist and land—somehow—almost on my knees, crouched way down.

“Well, that was… dignified…” I say.

Alex giggles. But she stays standing at the top of the stairs.

I stand up, feeling myself flush. I have to crane my neck to face her.. “I—Alex…”

She arches one eyebrow. What does that mean?

I falter for a second, then I start to speak again. “Alex… listen… I’m sorry about yesterday.”

Her eyes water just slightly, but she blinks them, forces it back. Then she says, “Why did you say it?”

“About Crank? I … I just didn’t know. I didn’t know about his past, I didn’t know he was family to you.”

“Would it have made a difference?” A furrow appears between her eyebrows as she asks the question.

I nod. “Yeah. I mean… I just… I made assumptions… I was wrong.”

She sighs. “What about me?”

I swallow and look down. “Alex, I’m sorry. It just—look—I was an asshole.”

“Why?” she cries out.

Because I’m afraid. Because I love you. Because I’m afraid of losing you. Because I’m an idiot.
I swallow, then choke out, “Saying goodbye to you is going to hurt worse than anything. Ever.”

Tears roll down her face. She moves down the steps—much more gracefully than I had—then comes close. She puts a hand on my face and whispers, “Me too.”

I open my mouth.
I love you
, I say. Except I don’t. My terrified throat closes on the words and snuffs them out.

I wake up on the morning of December 6 with a deep sense of dread. Today is our last full day in Jerusalem—tomorrow we’ll be bussing back to Tel Aviv for two days of wrap up meetings and I don’t know what all. Then we fly back to the United States.

Amir wants to talk this morning, but I’m just not in a space to do it. I want to be a better guest, and be friendly and witty and diplomatic. Instead, I sit out on the porch silently drinking my coffee and smoking a cigarette. Eventually he gives up trying to talk and just sits down.

After a few minutes he tries one more time. “What’s gotten into you, Dylan?”

I sigh. “Going home,” I say.

He grunts knowingly. “You don’t live near Alex, do you?”

I grunt. Then I say, “Take your entire country. Turn it lengthwise, then lay it out from end to end. Do that ten times over. That’s how far.”

He nods. Then he says, “My older brother had a long distance relationship like that. Really long distance.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nods. “They met when we were vacationing in Greece. She’s from Paris.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s a long way.”
Longer,
probably, than it is from Atlanta to San Francisco. “What happened?”

“He ended up going to college in Paris. He proposed to her in the Louvre—they’ve been married five years now.”

I feel a smile growing on my face.
I can’t imagine any sort of dramatic proposal scene—that’s not my style. But on some level, the thought of proposing to Alex makes me very happy.

Idiot. You haven’t even told her you love her.

“Thanks, Amir. That’s good to hear.”

A few minutes later we’re gathering our things to leave. Usually when we’re going to be on tour buses all day I’ll take my guitar along, but today the group is only going a short distance. We’ll be touring the Old City on foot, so they advised us to dress warm and not carry much.

Amir and I walk to the high school. As we walk he treats me to a monologue of the state of the Israeli music scene. He goes on about punk and semi-punk bands who are all heavily influenced by the Clash, the B52s, Dirty Rotten Imbeciles, Morbid Obesity, Mooke, Shabek Samech. I’ve never heard of any of them except the Clash and Morbid Obesity. Amir feels very strongly about Morbid Obesity, and tells me that I’d made a tremendous mistake the other night.

“Really, Dylan, if I had been your girlfriend when you said that stuff, I wouldn’t have taken you back.”

I chuckle a little.
A moment later we arrive at the high school. Amir waves and heads off to class—I join the small group of Americans in the courtyard.

Alex is already here—she sees me and smiles, then walks over and wraps her arms around me, leaning her forehead against my chest.

I take a deep, longing breath. She feels so warm. I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of strawberry from her hair and lilies from her perfume. Every time we kiss I die a little. What will I do without her? Over the last few days, my focus has narrowed in on that upcoming separation. With that thought, I grip her even
tighter
, my arms around her waist.

She moves with the same instinct, her arms over my shoulders. She leans her head back, her eyes half closed. I can feel her breath, hot against my skin. I lean forward and our lips touch. Her mouth opens, ours tongues touching greedily, and I suck at her lip. She gives a soft moan.

“You guys should get a room,” Mike says as he walks by. He claps me on the shoulder, harder than is necessary.

It’s enough to pull me back to the surface. I pull back from Alex just enough to look in her green eyes, searching the depths of them as if might find answers to life’s questions in her.

“You look beautiful this morning,” I say. The words come out rough.

Her cheeks flash bright red. But she isn’t really fazed. In a nonchalant tone, she says, “You look acceptable.”

I grin. “I’m relieved to hear you think so.”

She grabs the sides of my face and aggressively plans a kiss right on my face. Then she steps back.

The sudden distance between us is jarring, but tempered by the fact that she immediately grips one of my hands. We turn and walk together toward the rest of the group.

“Dylan and Alex, I’m so glad the two of you could join us.” I can’t tell if Mrs. Simpson is being sarcastic or not.
Her attitude toward me and Alex has become more tolerant in the last few days—I suspect because she won’t have to put up with us much longer.
But moments later she gets down to business. A guide from the tourist bureau or something like that is going to be here in a moment and will walk us over to the Old City. From there, we’ll be on a guided tour.

She lays down the rules. No wandering off alone. We’ll be allowed to shop or get something in the area overlooking the Western Wall during lunchtime. Otherwise, we have to stay with the group at all times. If we’re approached by shopkeepers (“and you will be,” interjects the guy from the tourist bureau) then simply say no-thank you and keep going.

When she wraps up, he says, “Before we go, I must make a few more comments. It’s unlikely that anything should happen while you are in the city. But if it does—if there is any kind of altercation or violence—stay together as a group and seek the assistance of the nearest policeman or soldier.
Do not
go on your own.”

Alex looks troubled, as do many of the students. “Is it that dangerous?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Statistically, it’s probably far safer than cities in America. But the streets of Jerusalem were laid out three thousand years ago. It’s extremely easy for you to get lost. Should that happen, you must ask for assistance getting back to the plaza in front of the Western Wall. That is where we shall meet.”

Five minutes later we move out as a group. Alex and I trail along behind the rest of the group—not far behind, but in the back of the crowd—holding hands and walking together. It’s only a few blocks from the school to Jaffa Gate. But before we reach the gate, we’re walking down a long, long sidewalk, the high walls of the city towering over us. Tan stone, fifty feet high and topped with battlements, the outer wall of the Old City is fascinating. I’ve never travelled
anywhere before, and this place is utterly alien, but also incredibly fascinating. Alex seems to be feeling some of the same emotions, the grip of her hands growing stronger. We’re moving faster now, trying to hear the guide from the tourist bureau as he begins to detail the history of the walls—some of which have been standing here since Jesus’s time or earlier.

And then we are there, walking through the massive gate with its pointed stone arches. Around us, a melange of tourists, soldiers, Arabs, Jews, more. Two men in black suits with wide-brimmed black hats, long full beards and locks of hair growing in curls in front of their ears—Hasidic Jews—enter the gates in front of us. Our guide stops and faces us, telling a story about the recapture of the city by Israel during the 1967 war. I’ve heard a great deal about this particular war since I arrived in Israel—far more than I ever wanted to, to be honest.

Once inside the walls, we’re faced with a seemingly-chaotic scene, a broad plaza with dozens of people in every direction. It takes me a few moments to make sense of the scene. On the left are several buildings,with shops, the Tourism Bureau, money changers, and a coffee shop. To the right is a limited amount of parking, no more than a dozen Mercedes Benz taxis backed up against the thousand-year-old-wal
l. As we move forward, we crowd around the guide. My eyes are on the signs, written in multiple languages. The St. Michel Cafeteria. Versavee Bistro Bar & Cafe. The Franciscan Book Shop. A street sign in three languages points to Greek Catholic Patriarchate Street. The Franciscan Corner (no idea what is inside the building) next to a wide open clothing store next to a shop advertising stamps, film and tattoos. In large black letters, the SWEDISH CHRISTIAN STUDY CENTER is one floor above Petra Souvenirs and Money Changers.

Quickly, though, our guide leads us to a narrow street—by street, I mean an alley, maybe twelve feet wide, moving slightly downhill with occasional steps. No cars move on this street—it’s strictly pedestrian only. On both sides, we’re crowded by dozens of shops selling everything from tourist goods to brass candlesticks. Men stand inside or just at the front of each
shop—the shops are
tiny, few of them with even enough space to sit down. Awnings block out most of the sky, and the tourists are
everywhere.
But not just tourists. Soldiers. Children. It’s hard to tell whether the tourists are here for the city or if the city is here for the tourists. After all, Jerusalem has been a place of pilgrimage for centuries.

“Keep moving, keep moving,” our guide says. It’s hard to listen. I’m craning my neck everywhere, and Alex has taken out her camera and is shooting pictures of everything. And seriously, she’s lived in China and Russia and God only knows where else. If
she
finds this fascinating and a little magical, then it must really be.