Jessica Martinez - The Vow

“Can I watch you go through?” I ask. My voice is solid. I’m not going to cry.

“Yeah. What do you think my chances are of getting felt up by that big dude with the wand?”

“I don’t know. You’re kind of cute. Maybe if you show a little leg.”

He laughs, but it’s nervous and distracted, barely a laugh at all. He’s not thinking about security.

We’re not walking anymore. We’re standing still, and my heart is in my throat. I want to freeze time, and I want this over. Either. Just not this.

“So,” he says.

“So.”

He lifts his arms, and I walk in to him, wrapping my arms around his body, squeezing so hard I don’t know how I’m not killing him. I might be killing myself. All the skin and muscle and bone of him are too solid, and I can’t absorb him into my body. My arms ache, and when I can’t squeeze any longer, I relax and just let him hold me. I’m soaking in a lifetime of Mo in just one hug, and I can feel a part of myself soaking into him too. It’s more than his smell and the texture of his skin. I’m collecting his thoughts—no, our thoughts. I have to take them all, our glances and our words and our memories too, because it’s almost too late.

It is too late.

He lets go and turns around without saying good-bye. I feel something crazy, a scream working its way up me, but not a scream because I don’t open my mouth. My heart is squeezing itself to death.

He turns around and gives me his smile of beautiful white teeth. “I love you,” he calls.

“I love you, too,” I call back.

That’s our end. I can’t watch him now, not without crying. I can’t stand here and see him show his passport and take off his shoes and shuffle through the line with all the other passengers like I thought I could. Like someone anonymous. I turn around and walk step after step after step toward the airport exit. Away from Mo. Into the after.

Thank you to all the attorneys in my life (and there are many) who helped me wade through the immigration issues for this book. I now understand even less why you all choose to do what you do. But whatever. To each his own. I owe a special thanks to Michael Martinez for going above and beyond his brother-in-law duties by reading the entire manuscript. Mike, that ruled of you. Your knowledge and suggestions were invaluable. Next time I get your name for Christmas I’m going to buy you something awesome, or maybe just less lame than last time.

And to the attorney in my life whose expertise would have been most helpful, but who refused to answer any questions or discuss any issues, thanks for eventually being okay with me writing this book. I owe you.

Thanks also to the editorial team at Simon Pulse, whose patience and creativity was astounding: Anica Rissi, Liesa Abrams, Michael Strother, and everyone else who pored over the manuscript and brainstormed ideas to make things work. I recall at one point during my Dream Act crisis, Anica promised to get on the phone with President Obama if we couldn’t make all the pieces fit. I don’t doubt she would have.

And of course, thanks to Mandy Hubbard, agent extraordinaire, queen of pep talks and sanity checks and smoothing things over. Every writer should be so lucky.

The final and biggest thank-you goes to my children. You are a constant reminder of what’s most important.