t h i r t y
*
two years later
Even on Christmas Day, the city that never sleeps lives up to its name. Even with two inches of snow on the ground, business seems to continue as usual: the roads are filled with iconic yellow taxis and grumpy drivers; the pavements are filled with fast-walking natives and dawdling tourists, on their way to catch a show or go ice skating or grab Chinese food and a hot drink.
But up here, on the blowy observation deck at the top of the Rockefeller Center, I feel a million miles away from the commotion of New York City. The wind is whipping through my hair, turning it into a wild windmill as I try to tame it to enjoy the view of Manhattan from eight hundred and fifty feet up. It's the epitome of breath-taking.
Casper takes a bobble off his wrist and stands behind me, scooping my hair into a manageable ponytail that he twists into a bun and secures with the hair tie.
"Don't want to get sued when your hair takes someone's eye out," he says, looping his arm through my elbow. Together, we gaze at the south end of the island, the icy, snow-filled clouds just high enough that we can see the One World Observatory where the twin towers last stood more than two decades ago.
I lean in closer to Casper, resting my head on his shoulder. He rests his head on mine and moves his arm so it's draped around me, his fingers splayed over my waist.
The past two years have been leading up to this moment. One hundred and three weeks since I gave him that five pound note; fifty-two weeks since we spent last Christmas at home, not quite enough saved to make the trip worthwhile; one week since we landed at Newark Liberty International Airport to kickstart a fortnight in New York City.
We didn't want to be scrimping and saving while we're here, having to carefully pick which tourist traps to fall into: we wanted to do them all, from gimmicky restaurants and as many Broadway shows as possible, to all of the city's best views and a horse and carriage ride around Central Park. The only thing we were stingy about was the flight â the cheapest seats in economy, only splashing out to make sure we'd be next to each other â and it's worth it. Our hotel's incredible, a huge room on the twenty-first floor, overlooking the park, and almost every meal has been a dream.
And now, to celebrate the biggest day of the year â the twenty-fifth of December; my twenty-seventh birthday; Casper's twenty-eighth â we're watching over the city dressed in snow, a surprise white Christmas. It's absolutely freezing up here, closer to the clouds, but I don't care that my cheeks are raw and red and stinging.
"This was a really good idea," I say to Casper. "The whole trip, I mean. Kudos to you. You got me out of the country for Christmas."
"I was pretty determined," he says. "Honestly, I didn't think I'd ever succeed, so this is ... wow. This is pretty fucking amazing."
"Definitely a success. As if we're in America. I still can't believe it!" I feel on top of the world, standing up here with my boyfriend, Manhattan sprawled out below us like a puzzle, roads and buildings slotting together on a grid that makes more sense than any other city I've visited.
I've never so much as left the UK, let alone travelled three thousand miles across the Atlantic ocean for two weeks in the USA. I've never even flown down to London from Scotland, or taken the Eurostar to Paris â my travelling experience is pitiful, and mostly limited to within fifty miles of my house. But now I'm in the Big Apple, and I'm overwhelmed.
When the wind picks up and the snow returns, soft flakes fluttering down on us, we head back inside at long last and take the lift down to the ground floor, rejoining reality when we step outside into the thrum of a chaotic city.
We walk hand in hand to the plaza, where I well up at the sight of the enormous Christmas tree that looms over the ice skating rink, thirty metres high. I can hardly see the tree for the lights, branches bowing under the weight of strings of fairy lights and a massive glowing star right at the top. It's a spectacular sight, one that I never thought I'd ever get to see in person.
Casper takes a selfie of the two of us with the tree behind us, the lights a blurry halo, and he presses his lips to my cheek for a second picture as he says, "Happy birthday, Beth."
"Happy birthday, Cas," I say in response, still amused by the fact that we share this day.
He waves over a fellow tourist, holding out his phone, and asks for a photo of the two of us. The man eagerly obliges, snapping several photos of us from multiple angles, a right little amateur photographer. He beams when we give him the all clear â they're really good photos, actually. Casper and me, cheeks pressed together, our bodies an indistinct blur of black coats and scarves.
"We'll come back here later, once it's dark. It'll be even more impressive, and we can skate," he says with a grin. "We all know how amazing I am at skating. Such a natural on the ice."
I frown at him and say, "I don't know if that's a good idea. I'd really rather not have to deal with insurance companies and American hospitals if you end up breaking your legs when you attempt a spin."
"No spins, I promise." He loops his little finger through mine, two layers of thick gloves separating skin from skin.
"What do you want to do today? It's your birthday as much as it is mine. Big one, too."
"Twenty-eight's a big one?" He raises his eyebrows at me. I can't tear my gaze from his, twinkling lights reflected in dark irises. "I don't buy it."
"I'm sure somewhere in the world, there's some reason for twenty-eight to be a big deal, so we're going to celebrate like it is. You survived the curse of twenty-seven!"
He gives me a dry look and snorts a laugh. "Pretty sure that only applies to singers."
"I've heard you sing in the shower." I pat his chest and say, "You've got a good set of lungs on you, Mr Boutayeb. Pretty good set of lips, too."
"All the better to kiss you with." He leans in close, so slowly that he manages to build anticipation from only a metre away, and I close my eyes as we kiss in front of the Rockefeller Christmas tree.
When Casper steps back, my glasses are fogged up. He laughs. "You can't handle how hot I am, baby."
"Good thing you're hot; I'm pretty chilly. We should huddle for warmth."
His eyebrows dance as he says, "I know something we could do to keep warm."
*
No, we don't go back to our hotel room. We hop on the Coney Island-bound F train at 6th Avenue and 48th street, the subway hot and stuffy and surprisingly busy. At West 4th Street, we switch to the Euclid Avenue-bound C train, and ten minutes later we emerge from the underground at the Brooklyn side of the Brooklyn Bridge.
"I've always wanted to walk across the bridge," Casper says, tightening his grip on my hand as we follow his phone's directions to the steps. They're not well signposted, nor are they obvious even when we find them and head up to the pedestrian walkway that will carry us back to the heart of downtown Manhattan.
It's a shame it's snowing. Not because it obscures the view â if anything, it makes it even more beautiful â but because the flakes stick to my glasses in a rainy blur, and my vision without my glasses is utter shit. I can't take them off, and I can't stop the snow from getting in the way.
"Probably should've brought an umbrella," Casper says, chuckling when he notices my predicament.
The universe hears him. A gust of wind bites our cheeks, and thrusts an abandoned umbrella in our direction. No-one around seems to be running after it. Everyone's avoiding its path, or not seeming to notice it at all, and when I grab it, no-one yells at me for stealing their brolly; the policeman in the strange little buggy parked on the side of the walkway doesn't care.
"Problem solved," I say, grappling with the spokes until the umbrella's no longer inside out and it goes some way to protecting my eyesight. After a couple of minutes, with the aid of a dry layer of t-shirt under my coat and jumper, I can see clearly once more.
The Statue of Liberty is just about visible from here, across the misty East River and past the south end of the city, the green symbol of freedom a blurry dot stretching out of Ellis Island. Clutching the umbrella between my arm and my ribs, I grip my phone in both hands and lean against the railing to take pictures.
I can't get enough of the aesthetic, the city rising in the distance, beyond the bridge. I can't see the top of the One World Trade Center anymore, the clouds sinking lower and spreading a hazy mist over us, but I can spot its gleaming, angular sides that lock together like four enormous stretched-out triangles.
"Worth the hype," Casper says. We're walking slowly, stopping every minute or so for a new angle, a new photo. When we reach the middle, where the walkway opens up and there are several photo sessions happening, we find a quiet corner of the railing with the city in the background.
One of my favourite things about him, something I only learnt this week after more than two years together, is that he is never afraid to approach a stranger and ask them for photos, willingly handing his phone over to anyone who looks remotely trustworthy. After a life spent behind the camera, now I'm in almost every shot, and the pictures keep turning out better than I thought.
This time, he passes his phone to a mother, who spends several seconds trying to take a picture before her teenage son laughs and rolls his eyes and takes over. Casper cuddles me close, trying out a few different poses as the teen photographer snaps away.
"Looking good, guys!" he calls. American, I figure, based on his accent. Makes sense. Every American I've met this week has been more open and welcome and enthusiastic than ninety percent of the Brits I've met in my whole life. For the last photo, Casper kisses me and the kid laughs again, still snapping. I blush, but there's no use being embarrassed. My boyfriend certainly isn't.
"Thank you," he says when the kid shows us the photos. "These are fab! You've got a bright future ahead of you as a tourist photographer. Thanks for this!"
"No problem. Merry Christmas, guys!"
"Merry Christmas!" Casper and I chorus. There's an infectious spirit today. Even Cas hasn't complained once about it being Christmas, or about the blatant commercialism of the holiday, or about the ridiculousness of a thirty-metre tree.
He chose this trip, knowing full well that Christmas in New York is a whole experience in itself. He knew going in that the city goes all out for this season, that a holiday here would mean the opposite of avoiding Christmas. It means doing it bigger and better, being surrounded on all sides by festivities.
"What time is it back home?" I ask as we continue on our way, the end of the bridge in sight.
"About six, I think? We're five hours behind."
If it's six at home, that means my whole family is probably still together in my parents house, missing Casper and me but joined by the two latest additions to the family: Juneau's boyfriend of ten months, and Ben and India's two-month-old son. It's been a big year for the Kings.
It's been a big year for the Boutayebs, too. Over summer, after months of talking about it, Casper and I had lunch with his parents after he hadn't spoken to them for more than a year. I expected it to be worse than it was. In the end, the worst thing was that it was a bit stilted, a bit awkward. But nothing terrible. They didn't hate me, at least.
Since then, Cas has seen them several more times. They're building bridges, slow and steady. In that first meeting, with me, his parents apologised for being shit to him. They even apologised for their homophobia, and while I could tell his dad was a bit uncomfortable, his mum nodded along when he reiterated that just because he has a girlfriend, that doesn't mean he's magically straight. He even slipped in a few bi puns, though I don't think his parents realised.
"How about we find some lunch on the other side, and you can call your family?" Casper asks.
It's like he read my mind.
*
The sun sets at four thirty-four.
By five o'clock, the sky is dark.
And that's when the city comes to life. There's probably no real change, seeing as it's Christmas Day and I imagine most people who celebrate are tucked up in their homes and hotels, but the lights shine brighter against the night sky and I'm filled with a sense of wonder.
I'm in love with this city.
I never thought I'd say that. I've always thought of New York as somewhere too big and too busy and too dirty, a chaotic stress of a city, and for the first couple of days, I stuck to that belief, but now my opinion has gone and done a one-eighty.
I love it here. I don't want to leave. There's so much I haven't seen yet, and only a week in which to see it.
"Maybe we should do this every two or three years," I say out of nowhere, as we're getting jostled in Times Square. Which, misleadingly, seems to be more of a triangle.
"What? Come here?" Casper stops instantly. "Oh my god, am I hearing right? You would sacrifice every third family Christmas for New York?"
"Maybe." I let a coy smile play on my lips. He looks like a dog about to go on a much-wanted walk, all eager and bright-eyed. "I don't know what the future holds, but I can't imagine we'll be done with this city by the time we leave."
"One hundred percent. Oh my god, I'm so going to start planning our next trip as soon as we're home."
"It'll be awkward if we end up breaking up before then," I say. He just laughs.
"We're not breaking up," he says, squeezing my hand. My heart fizzes at the ease and warmth with which he says that, so casually confident that I want to grab him right here, in the middle of the busiest part of this busy city, and kiss him like there's no tomorrow. But I settle for squeezing his hand back, and vowing to put a smile on his face once we're back in our hotel room.
That won't be for a while yet, though. We have supper reservations at eight o'clock, though he won't tell me where, and before that, we're heading back to Rockefeller Plaza to skate. My feet ache to be on the ice, to pull on a pair of skates and glide, and hopefully not end up flat on my back in tourist central.
"Guess what," I murmur as we stroll up 7th Avenue and Casper leads us down West 48th St. He's pretty useful with directions, memorising them once we know our way so we don't look like stupid tourists, holding everyone up in the middle of Times Square.
"Don't tell me you need a wee," he says. "Even if there are public loos around here, I bet they're literal shitholes."
"I don't need a wee," I say, though now that he mentions it, my bladder wakes up and starts to wonder if it's full.
"Then I'm all out of guesses."
I roll my eyes at him. "You've ruined it now. I was going to say that I am crazy in love with you, but now the moment's tarnished by bladder talk."
He laughs, our hands swinging between us. "I'm crazy in love with you too, Beth. Two years, huh? We're doing pretty good."
"I never had any doubts."
Casper snorts. "I call bullshit."
"No! Why?" I almost yank my hand out of his at the insinuation that he thinks there was ever a point I was ready to pack in the towel.
"It bodes well for me that you don't seem to remember when I had food poisoning and you witnessed me throwing up in the bathroom bin while experiencing explosive diarrhoea."
"Oh." I sigh and shake my head. "Dark times. But hardly break-up-worthy. Though I did tell you to avoid that tuna sandwich. Your obstinance really got hit by karma for that."
He lifts my gloved hand and kisses the back. "Not many people in the world would be so unbothered about having to deal with that. You're a real one, Miss King."
Thankfully the ice rink is only two blocks away, so the talk of gross bodily functions doesn't last much longer before we're back in the bustling square at the foot of the Rockefeller Center and its magnificent tree. It's so much more beautiful now, bathed in night and artificial light, and there's something so romantic about the people skating around on the ice beneath the glow.
Once we've exchanged shoes for skates, Casper is reduced to a wobbly-kneed bunny, clutching onto me like his life depends on it the moment we hit the ice.
"This was a terrible idea," he says, four seconds later. He's made it about one metre onto the ice and his fingers are shaking. I take both of his hands in mine and hold his gaze.
"You've got this, Cas. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity â ice skating in the middle of New York City, under the watchful eye of the most impressive Christmas tree I've ever seen." I pull him closer, slow and gentle, and he almost falls when he leans too far forward and presses his spikes into the ice.
"Humans were not made to glide on frozen water," he says, but he rolls back his shoulders and tries to straighten a bit, as his grip on me tightens.
"We just need to get in the rhythm. Hold onto me." I spin around so my back's to him, and I reach back to take his hands and plant them on my hips. "We'll go slowly."
"We'll fall and lose our fingers to a stupidly talented six-year-old."
"You might," I scoff.
"You'd feel so bad if I fell and you skated off like a pro, and I lose half a hand."
"It's not going to happen!" I call over my shoulder, placing my hands over his as I skate forward. He's a bit unsure behind me, but he doesn't have to do much except hold on, and perhaps match my gait as his confidence grows.
We make it round the entire rink. It takes a while, but we make it. When we're back at the start, I swivel to face Casper again. He's almost smiling.
"Not too bad, huh?"
"Not too bad," he echoes. In all fairness to him, it's been two years since we last skated, and that was his first time. This is basically his first time all over again.
"You look sexy."
He guffaws. "I look like a newborn giraffe."
"...a sexy one."
Laughing, he says, "Shut up, Beth, and show me how to skate. Let's do this shit." He lets go of one hand and makes his way to my side. "Tomorrow, we're doing something I'm good at."
"Like..."
"We're going to ... make coffee. And bang. Lattes and love-making, my top two skills."
I wink at him. "Sounds like a fucking perfect day."
"More like a perfect fucking day."
He's too amused by his own joke, and it's almost his downfall, when he loses his balance and it's only because I'm holding onto him that he doesn't go skidding across the rink on his arse.
Twenty minutes later, we've got it down to a fine art. I've done several more laps than Casper, occasionally having to skate off alone so I don't fall over at his tedious pace, but now things are picking up speed and he has finally figured out how to move his feet to propel himself forward.
"Having fun yet?" I ask, resisting the urge to launch into a spin.
"I am ... still upright. That's something, right?"
"That's all it takes."
"I want to do a spin."
I raise my eyebrows at him. "You can barely even do half a lap."
"Rude. Let me try."
There aren't too many people in our immediate vicinity. The worst he can do is hurt himself. So I let go and I skate ahead a few metres to execute a lazy spin, and I stand with open arms as though I can catch him if he falls.
"Drumroll, please."
I drum out a beat on my thighs. A few people around us, skaters who have been keeping an eye on Casper's progress, join in. He flaps his arms to big up the crowd, increasing the number of people who are about to see him fall over, and I can't not laugh. I love him so much. Especially when he's being dumb.
"Wait, I gotta catch my first perfect spin on film, and you've got to catch me," he says as he loads up his camera and passes it to one of the amused standers-by. "Can you video this?"
The woman agrees, standing still on the ice with ease, and she starts to film. A few people clap and Casper's grin grows as he carefully inches backwards, giving himself space to glide into a spin. I'm caught between whooping and wincing.
He sets off. He spins. He loses his balance, wobbling a bit, and just when it seems he's about to recover and swoop into my arms, he crashes down onto his knees. But he raises his arms like he just performed a winning move at the Olympics, and I cheer.
The woman filming us laughs. Casper throws a smile and a wink at the camera, and I hesitate when I give him my hands to pull him up. For a split second, I expect him to pull me down too. But he doesn't. He gets up, one knee at a time, and ... that's where he stops.
He's on one knee, holding my hands.
That's all it takes for my eyes to fill with tears. If this is a joke, it's a horrible one, but somehow I don't think it is, because he's glassy-eyed too and the woman is still filming us, and everyone who was watching his failed spin is staring.
"I don't have a ring," Casper says, "because I know you don't like them. But a ring is just a symbol, right? And what's a better symbol of you and me than this?"
He pulls a circle of tinsel out of his pocket, just big enough to sit around my wrist. There's a huge lump in my throat, blocking words and breath.
"Marry me, Bethlehem King, if you reckon you can put up with me for the rest of our lives."
My heart is hammering so hard and my mind is spinning, and I don't even care that everyone's watching us because of course I know what I'm going to say; I know Casper would never have asked if he wasn't sure of my answer.
"Of course," I manage to blurt out. He slips the tinsel over my hand, a sparkly silver Christmas bracelet, and I pull him into a hug when he gets to his feet. "Oh my god, did you plan that?"
"Sort of," he says, as everyone around us cheers and claps, probably relieved that this public proposal didn't end in rejection. "I planned to land on one knee. I'm not coordinated enough for that, though."
"It was fucking perfect," I say, my tears freeing themselves at last as I kiss him, our lips blocks of ice. "And you even got it on film."
"I figured your family would want to be part of the moment," he says, and before he can say anything else, the woman with his phone skates over and hands it back.
It's not his camera on the screen. It's my family on a video call. Three thousand miles away and five hours in the future, my sisters screaming their excitement and my mum weeping, my dad wearing a proud, watery smile.
My hand flies up to my mouth, suppressing a whimper of surprise and joy and an overwhelming flood of pure emotion when I see their happy faces. I'm lost for words. Casper, however, has plenty. He wraps his arms around me, his chin on my shoulder, and grins at the screen.
"Hi, guys! I hope I have your approval!"
There's an indistinct cry from all of them, a jumble of words and noises that sound pretty affirmative, and I can't form any words except, "I love you, I love you, I love you."
My sisters and parents cry out, "We love you too!"
At the same time, Casper's breath warms my ear when he whispers, "I love you more."
*
I have a new happy place. I think that now, whenever I feel low, I will cast my mind back to the most magical moment of my life: skating in New York with my boyfriend in the middle of the Empire State, getting engaged with a piece of tinsel in front of the most awe-inspiring Christmas tree, on Christmas Day.
"Best. Birthday. Ever," I murmur to Casper when we make it back to our hotel after a long and incredible supper. I can't stop looking at the shimmering tinsel around my wrist, so much better than a ring.
"Snap," he says, shutting the door with his hip and throwing himself onto our queen-size bed. I lie down next to him and he rolls on top of me, his hands around my wrists as he kisses me.
"How long were you planning that?"
"Proposing? Or that specific proposal? Very different answers," he says with a laugh. I hook one leg over his and kiss him deeper. "I knew I was gonna propose on this trip, like, as soon as we booked it."
Months ago, I think. We finally figured out dates and our itinerary over the summer and got things booked in August. Four whole months, he's been planning to propose.
"The ice rink proposal was a bit off the cuff, I have to admit," he says, his knees digging into the mattress either side of my thighs. His thumb traces over the tinsel. "I've had this in my pocket for five days, just waiting for the right moment."
"It was perfect. I love you so fucking much. I can't believe you called my family. And they answered."
He grins. He kisses the tip of my nose. "I texted India on the way to the rink, asked if she was still up. She said everyone was, so I told her to keep them all awake and to answer when I called."
"What if they'd all been asleep?"
He purses his lips. "We might have had to go skating again tomorrow. But also ... it was meant to be, that it was today."
"Mmm. You kind of aced it."
"Kind of? Did you see that spin? I finessed that shit!"
I laugh and roll him off me, and we lapse into a moment of silence, needing nothing more than to appreciate each other. Casper's lying next to me, his eyes fixed on mine, his hand over my heart.
"I'm still a bit lost for words," I say, "but I am so in love with you, Cas."
There are so many words flying around in my head but I can't put them in any sort of order, too blown away to make myself coherent. It's one thing to talk about the future, to idly plan years down the line; it's something else entirely to make that commitment official. I feel like I'm swimming in a pool of bliss, like my brain's taken a holiday and all I can do is stare into my fiancé's eyes.
He stares right back, lacing his fingers with mine and rubbing his thumbs in circles over the backs of my hands.
"Merry Christmas," he says, his words as soft as a lullaby. "And happy birthday, Beth. I can't wait to marry you."
*
this chapter ended up being twice as long as i intended it to be; it's so hard to wrap up a story all neatly in a final chapter, especially when that chapter involves new york city and a proposal!
thank you to everyone who has stuck by me with this story, as long as it's taken me to finish. i'm so ready to move on to a new project now (and step away from christmas at last!) and I CAN'T WAIT to start posting "girl meets girl" - a F/F canadian college/uni romance featuring paisley king!
i hope you enjoyed this chapter, and i hope to see you on my future works!
- lydia x