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“Good. Maybe it’ll give her incentive to find a girlfriend.”

Brooklyn giggles.

“On that subject, you don’t have any lesbian friends named London who might be open to dating a mouthy forty-something lesbian, do you?”

“Why? Are you bored with Brooklyn?”

“Never. I like crossing that bridge.”

“Ah, so Ali wants me to set her up,” Brooklyn surmises.

“She might have mentioned it.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint. I don’t have any friends named London.”

“Damn.”

“I do have a friend named Holland.”

“Does she have an accent?”

“Like a Jersey trucker,” Brooklyn tells me.

“Perfect!”

We both laugh.

“Carter?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Understanding,” Brooklyn says.

“I love you, Brooklyn. No matter what either of us chooses, that will never change.” It won’t. It simply is.

“I love you too, even if you are named after a peanut farmer.”

“You love peanuts. And you love me in a pair of overalls.” That’s a story for another time.

“True enough,” she admits.

I close my eyes and let myself fall away. I can’t say that I’ve overcome all my fears. I know that one day Brooklyn or I might make a choice that takes us in separate directions. I hope that day never comes. If it does, I hope it’s a long time from now. Brooklyn resembles her namesake in many ways. She’s always evolving and changing. She’s colorful and she’s enigmatic. Most of all, she’s the bridge in my life from a place where fear ruled to a new world where possibility lights my way. She’s the bridge from my past to my future. Funny. Maybe the past repeats itself after all. I look down at her and smile. I would cross into Brooklyn willingly every day. I hope she lets me. “Welcome home, Brooklyn.” I feel her grip tighten. “Welcome home.”