When Carlos and I get together—which is sometimes every few weeks and sometimes every few months—we do it here, at the downtown Hilton where I’ve been taking reservations for the last five years. It’s easy for me to score a good room at the last minute. I book it with the employee discount and we hole up with a bag of weed and a few bottles of wine. This weekend, we’re in the Ambassador Suite on the 22nd floor.

When you work in hotels, they lose most of their glamour. You hear the stories in the break room and you swear you’ll bring your own sheets next time and you’ll spray everything down with Lysol before you touch it. Carlos and I joke about everyone who’s been in the room before us. It’s like when we used to rent porn movies and feel this strange mix of disgust and camaraderie toward all the people who’d already watched them.

It’s only midnight and Carlos has already been asleep for an hour, his legs sprawled like open scissors across the bed, the snake tattooed on his shoulder rising with each breath. But I can’t sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, it feels like my heart is going to gnaw its way through my chest. This happens sometimes. More lately. If we were still married, I’d wake him up and without my needing to ask, he’d hold me and we’d ride whatever this is out together. But we’re not married anymore, which is, after all, part of the point. We play by different rules now.

After I clocked out tonight, I walked across the hotel lobby and stepped through the closing doors of an empty glass elevator. I stared down at the atrium as the elevator rocketed up. Carlos had called me when he’d gotten to the room a few hours earlier and I knew that when I pushed open the door, he’d be stretched out on the bed, channel surfing, sipping a beer from the minibar. Just like I knew that when he saw me, he would look, but not leap, up. This is how it is with us. We stick to the rules. No fighting. No talking about the past or the future. Keep it simple. Keep it easy.

The truth, though, is that we are both lonelier than we know, and this makes us dangerous. To each other, I mean. It’s not a hot, reckless danger. It’s something else, like what happens with sedatives or promises, things that calm you down and are way too easy to depend on, to want more of.

We’ve been divorced for nine months. It’s not, he says, that he stopped loving me. It’s just that we can’t be married anymore. When someone asks me what happened, I say that we spent the time we had together like a wad of cash. Some people get sixty, seventy years. Some people get one night when their lives collide and they both want each other enough to do something about it. We got five years, time when we belonged to each other, when the word possession was a good thing. It wasn’t about owning each other. It was about finding someone who feels like home.

“You know this isn’t normal,” Carlos will say once in a while, gesturing towards the hotel room and then the bed and then us. By his tone, it’s clear he’s telling, not asking, me this. Early on, Carlos convinced himself that I never really learned the difference between what’s normal and what’s just getting by, and that it was his responsibility to set me straight. He says he doesn’t blame me; he blames the way I grew up.

He grew up in El Paso with two parents and five sisters and his abuela and a hundred cousins and huge family dinners every Sunday and annual trips to Mexico City to visit his dad’s family. In the past few years, he’s read just enough self-help books and listened to just enough talk radio on his fifteen minute commute to decide that if I’d had a childhood more like his, we’d still be together.

Carlos used to like it when I told stories about my childhood. At parties he’d call me over to the knot of people he was talking to and insist that I tell a particular one. The Custody Bus was his favorite, the most reliable crowd pleaser. We had a routine. He’d feed me opening lines, play my straight man, laugh in all the right places.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss going home at the end of the night with someone who already knows my stories.


For two weeks in the spring of 1981, my father was a hero in Danville, Virginia.  In those fourteen days, he got a citation from the Mayor, ended up on the front page of the local paper, and, after staying over for three consecutive nights, got back together with my mother for a trial reconciliation.

He was an unlikely hero. A Virginia boy with a reed thin ponytail and a joint hanging off his chapped, bottom lip, he was always squinting at the world from behind the wheel of his souped-up Chevy Nova. He wore faded Levis with a twenty-eight inch waist and carried a maroon Velcro wallet, thin enough to be empty, in his front pocket. In addition to me and the Nova, he had two friends, no pets, a rusted out motorbike, and a power saw.

There was an epidemic of divorces in Danville that year and most of them were nasty. In my fourth grade class, half of the kids’ parents had split up and the other half was convinced their parents were about to. We regularly missed school to testify in court. The Guidance Counselor visited our classroom once a week to lead a divorce support group. She walked around the room tapping kids on the head and asking, What animal do you feel like at your mother’s house? What about when you go to Daddy’s? I sat at my desk, praying she wouldn’t stop at me and chewing on erasers until they turned to powder in my mouth. Next to me, my best friend Wolfy picked at a wart on his knee until it bled.

My parents were functional divorcees. If they crossed paths in town, they’d peck each other on the check and say hey. Sometimes my dad would just come over for a beer, tapping his can against the kitchen table until my mom reached out and grabbed his wrist. But even though they got along, I still ended up on the Custody Bus.

The bus was the brainchild of Judge Argus, who was presiding over all the divorce and custody cases in the county. Just looking at him, you could tell how much he hated his job, the pettiness of domestic life, the snarl of love undone, reconfigured, sob stories about working overtime, bounced checks, no-show babysitters, seduction, betrayal, the snotty kids sitting in his courtroom, choking on their Sears-bought dresses and clip-on-ties, watching wide-eyed as Mommy and Daddy flayed each other on the stand.

The idea behind the bus was simple enough. The court would enforce visitation agreements by providing transportation. Judge Argus made sure that every kid rode the bus for a probationary period, until his parents could demonstrate that they didn’t need court supervision to handle visitations.  It wasn’t hard for him to get it off the ground. An out-of-commission transport bus was salvaged from the State Prison in Richmond. It was driven by an ex-warden who was retired on disability and who owed Argus money on football bets. The Judge recruited a cadet from the Police Academy to be the Bus Monitor and put him on the county payroll. Each Friday afternoon, the bus would pick us up from school and deliver us to our non-custodial parent’s home or workplace. Sunday evenings, the bus would come back around and take us all home. 

Carlos never believed the part about the gambling debt. He did concede, however, that it made for a better story. It is possible that I’ve made up some of these details along the way. I do know for sure that there were about forty kids on the bus and that I sat next to Wolfy, in the third row from the back, and that the seats were hard and patched with duct tape and everything smelled funny, like vomit and metal that’s been gripped hard by sweaty palms.

When you grow up crazy, you either shut up about the past or learn to talk about it carefully. For a long time, I stayed quiet. And then I began to notice that people like stories about crazy, as long as you tell them well. You figure out which details to omit because they’re too shocking and which to include because they’re funny. You lie to maximize entertainment and minimize discomfort. Most importantly, you learn how to let your audience off the hook, how to make them forget that what they’re hearing actually happened to you.

The first time I told Carlos about the bus, we’d only been dating for a few weeks. We were both drunk, and I thought he’d laugh, the way other guys had. But instead, his eyes got sad. That was the first time he said, You know that’s not normal, don’t you? In response, I just shrugged. It wasn’t something I’d ever thought much about. When you’re a kid, you watch adults and all the arrangements they make, the laws they uphold, the ones they break, and you think, this is how the world works. But the way he reacted stuck with me.

At some point, Carlos announced that he liked the story after all. What this really meant, we both knew, was that he had decided he could love me. You’re such a brave boy, I would say to him, and in response he would grab my hips and pull me into his lap, nuzzling my neck, his hands working their way up my thighs. Even then I knew that as much as he loved me, I was also his project, someone with whom he could share the bounty of the healthy, civilized love he’d grown up with.

What all of this has to do with us now, I’m not sure. Holed up in a hotel room because we both happened to be free this weekend. Carlos dead asleep, me in the bathtub, adding butts to the ashtray balanced on top of the soap dish, soaking in water too hot for most people to touch, so much of the room still, as if we are somehow stopping time, as if we can fool ourselves into thinking that this is our life, that we’re from somewhere else, just in town for the weekend. That the reason we don’t talk about anything that matters is because we don’t need to. This quiet is nothing new; this is how it is every night at my apartment. But it’s different with him here, because silence isn’t our only option. It’s the choice we’re making.

Carlos was the one who urged me to track down Wolfy a few years ago. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t keep in touch with anyone from Danville. This from the man who still plays soccer once a week with his best friend from fourth grade and who’s been the best man in three of his friends’ weddings. When I finally got in touch with Wolfy, he was living in Chicago with his girlfriend. They’d just had a baby. He sent me a picture of the kid, his face squished up, pink mouth open in protest. It was good to talk to him—Carlos was right about that. But when I asked Wolfy about everything that happened with the Custody Bus, he just laughed and changed the subject. 

Wolfy’s parents met on the Dead circuit. He spent the first three years of his life at shows. They split up because his Mom had an affair with the guitarist in a local Stones cover band, the one who thought he was Keith Richards. Wolfy’s dad, AJ, was my dad’s best friend and, for awhile, he was known as the only black Deadhead in the South. But when Wolfy’s mom left him, he denounced the whole scene as a cult and forbade Wolfy from saying Jerry Garcia’s name. He stopped wearing patchouli, bought a leather jacket, and started listening to R&B. When he put us to bed on weekend nights, he would read Wolfy and me articles about the Black Panthers and excerpts from Soul on Ice.

After their respective divorces, my dad and AJ moved into a one-story cinderblock house behind the Safeway. On weekends, my dad slept until noon and when he’d finally get up, he’d have rotten, sour breath and head right for the shower, where he’d get lost in the steam and sing Dead songs to piss off AJ. He’d walk out of the bathroom with a beach towel wrapped around his waist, his skin pink from the heat, and he’d crack open a can of Coke and eat a few dry handfuls of Captain Crunch. Then, the day could begin.

During the week, my mom dragged my ass out of bed every morning at 6:00 and deposited me at the kitchen table. I’d wake up to find myself nose to nose with a bowl of soggy cornflakes, hearing my mom quiz me on spelling words as she packed bologna sandwiches and a couple of Oreos into wrinkled brown bags for our lunches. She called us “The Girls,” saying it like we were a team of superheroes instead of a skinny nine year old with glasses and an overworked CNA about to spend her day taking care of a woman with Alzheimer’s who thought that it was 1953 and my mom was her husband.

There are other stories I could tell about those years—like the day my mom got busted for giving pot to one of her patients or about the time in high school when Wolfy and I got caught having sex in the freezer of the Shoney’s where I was an assistant salad chef. But The Custody Bus was always the one Carlos liked best. I’ve never asked him why. People hear what they need to in stories. As far as my mom is concerned, everything that happened that year was just further evidence of what was wrong with my father. But Carlos hears something else, something, probably, that appeals to his vision of the world as a place in which it is still possible to protect those you love.


“Which little pisser’s running his mouth?” the bus driver used to say as he glared into his oversized rear view mirror and scanned our faces. When he  talked, it sounded like he was choking on his tongue. The bus rumbled down the street on its diesel engine and we swerved dangerously close to an idling cement mixer. Wolfy looked at me and crossed his eyes. I giggled. The Bus Monitor glared at me and shifted his weight in a way that made his gun look bigger. We shut up.

The Monitor treated us like security threats. When we got on and off the bus, he’d search our bags and always kept a hand on his gun. The whole thing was a nightmare. But Wolfy was the only one who seemed to grasp the injustice of it. One time, right after AJ had read us a story about Rosa Parks, Wolfy staged a sit in on the bus steps. He refused to move and started singing “We Shall Overcome” until the Monitor grabbed him by the collar and escorted him to a seat. After that he had to sit alone in the front row for two weeks.

Wolfy deserved a better sidekick than me. While he was up front, I just sat in the back and stared out the window, my forehead bumping against the glass, watching the houses we passed by, imagining what it would be like to have my own bedroom. The forces at work in the world seemed vast, beyond comprehension. It was easier to think about the race car bed that my dad had promised me.

Wolfy and I were dropped off together at the garage where our fathers worked. They talked constantly about opening up a specialty shop where they’d only work on Corvettes, Mustangs, and TransAms. Their dream was to break into NASCAR. My dad wanted to be a driver, AJ his pit crew chief. The local track, which we visited every Friday of the racing season, was one of the few places where my Dad seemed fully alive, like the smoke had finally cleared from his brain and, in the wattage of those lights, he could actually see the world.

After the races, they’d take us to Catahoulas, the bar of choice for anyone under forty. While our fathers played pool, Wolfy and I would sit at the bar and practice our party tricks. Wolfy could blow a long rope of snot in and out of his nose, and I could wiggle all my loose teeth with my tongue so that they bled. 

My parents met at Catahoulas when they were eighteen. Under different conditions, my mom wouldn’t have looked twice at my father. But the bar was his habitat. He shone there, a wizard at the pool table, quick to lay down cash for a round of drinks and quarters for the jukebox. I can see her at the bar, sipping a piña colada, watching him from behind the veil of her bangs, taking note as he chugged another Bud and tapped his pool stick on the cracked cement floor, to the beat of yet another song by Zeppelin or The Who.

When my mom got pregnant six months later, he wanted her to get an abortion. This was 1971, and he went so far as to find the name of a doctor in Richmond. They broke up for the second trimester. Then one night, he showed up at her parents’ house with a ring. Two weeks later, they were married at the Baptist church my mom grew up in, their parents and extended families looking on with strained cheer.

My dad avoided the draft because he was underweight. At that point, his career path was directed by a simple strategy: getting hired at businesses that were likely to shut down soon, getting laid off, and collecting unemployment. He found one address on the east side of town that was incapable of supporting a business for more than six months. In two year’s time, it housed a pizza place, a Chinese restaurant, and a Mexican place.  One restaurant would sell all of its inventory to the next tenants, so the place had colored maps of Italy in the bathrooms, Chinese lanterns over each table, and nothing but salsa and meringue in the jukebox. During the first year they were married, my dad delivered pizza for two months, picked up two months of unemployment, got hired as busboy for the Chinese place for three months, and then went on unemployment again.

They waited eight years to split up. More and more often, my dad stayed home when my mom and I went out. Then he stopped being home at dinner, and then he stopped sleeping there. He came by one night with AJ’s truck and loaded up a few boxes of his clothes and records. I watched him from under the kitchen table and even when he crawled under there with me, I wouldn’t talk to him.

It must have been harder than that, messier, rougher. But I don’t remember any fights or screaming, and my mom still won’t go into any of the details. It was as if, at roughly the same time, they both understood their love had run its course. Words like eternal and permanent weren’t part of their vocabulary.

It’s not like I didn’t think about all this as I walked into the courtroom nine months ago, done up in fake pearls and that ugly, navy dress my lawyer had advised me to wear. I saw Carlos sitting shoulder to shoulder with his lawyer, his mother and two of his sisters right behind him in the front row, and something inside of me turned to ash. But I felt other things too, and the truth is that part of me was relieved.

Divorce is like this legacy you carry around with you, something you know, deep down, that it’s not even worth trying to escape. When Carlos and I were together, I used to look at our life—everything from his putting away money each month for when we had kids to the consistently good sex to the dinners with other couples where we’d go home feeling like the lucky ones—and I would think, so, this is how you do it, then. This is how love works. And I’d say to myself, I can pull this off.

But no matter how good things seemed, I could never entirely shake the feeling that we might explode at any minute. Nothing could convince me otherwise. When we actually split up, it was like I could stop being terrified and finally just accept what I’d always known: once love begins, it’s just waiting to end.


I was wiggling my three loose teeth for Wolfy when his mother knocked on the door of the Custody Bus. We were stopped at a red light, just a few blocks from the garage. The bus was already half-empty. The driver recognized Wolfy’s mom and pushed the door open with a whoosh. She climbed up the steps, making room for a woman I recognized as Wolfy’s aunt. They were both wearing gray sweatsuits, the kind you can buy at discount stores, and big plastic sunglasses. The smell of incense immediately filled the bus. 

“We’ve been trying to track ya’ll down. I forgot to pack Wolfy’s inhaler. Lemme me just give it to him real quick,” his mother called up to the driver.

Next to me, Wolfy turned the color of redwood. He didn’t have asthma.

The driver hesitated. This was against protocol. But the women were already in the bus, lugging huge shopping bags with them.

“I’ll get it to him,” the Bus Monitor said, extending his hand towards her. He was standing in the middle of the aisle, blocking her view, but she kept ducking down and then jumping up, trying to find Wolfy among all of our faces.

“Wolfy! Come here, honey.” Her voice sounded strange, like she was high on something she wasn’t used to taking.

Wolfy stepped into the aisle and inched his way forward like he was walking the plank. When he got to the front of the bus, his mother bent down and whispered something in his ear and then nudged him, more forcefully than she needed to, into a front row seat. I couldn’t see what happened next, but suddenly the Bus Monitor doubled over and grabbed his crotch and Wolfy’s aunt was holding an unsheathed, ten inch hunting knife in the air. His mom reached into her shopping bag and whipped out a power drill. She turned it on and pointed it in the direction of the driver. The light turned green, but we didn’t move. The power drill inched closer and closer to the driver’s face and Wolfy’s mother ordered him out of his seat. Her sister was waving the tip of the knife in a big circle, like a satellite orbiting the monitor’s head.

“You’re shit outta luck, buddy,” Wolfy’s aunt said, flashing a weird grin. Watching her, you would’ve never guessed that she worked as a bank teller in Richmond and lived alone with two cats and a gerbil. During the trial six months later, she sat on the stand and wept as her lawyer piloted an early, crude version of the PMS defense.

The light turned red again and they used the time to handcuff the two men together and shove them into the front seat across from Wolfy. They didn’t resist. They sat there like the rest of us. Wolfy’s mom got behind the wheel and floored it.  His aunt stood guard over the driver and monitor and every so often she’d look up and smile cheerfully at us. I think she expected we’d cry and wet our pants. But the bus was dead quiet.

AJ and my dad were in front of the garage, gliding chamois cloths over the hood of a brand new red Camaro. They looked up as the bus approached, waiting for it to slow down, ready to catch our eyes in the window. But the bus didn’t stop As it careened by, they must have caught a glimpse of AJ’s ex behind the wheel.  I can’t imagine that it took them long to figure out what they needed to do. They were men who had spent long, hot afternoons dreaming about an opportunity like this.

I can hear AJ urging my dad on, cranking up the radio, bouncing in his seat like a kid. And I can see my dad nodding confidently and leaning closer to the wheel, sweat beading on his forehead as he becomes the man he’s always imagined.

I waited for sirens, but none came. Dust circled the bus like a protective shield, pine trees racing by in a dizzying blur. The engine sounded like it was about to explode and Wolfy’s mother was bent, nearly doubled over the steering wheel. She had it up to ninety and was humming, making this buzzing noise, like a cicada. The bus jerked violently as we rounded a corner. Some kid finally screamed. I hit my mouth on the seat in front of me and watched as three bloody teeth landed in my lap.

Later, we’d be told that this was when the bus skidded off the two lane road, snapped a rusty barbed wire fence, got its fuel tank punctured by a fence post, and crashed into an abandoned barn. We’d learn that Wolfy’s mother lost consciousness before the impact and that, upon impact, his aunt stabbed herself in the thigh, missing her femoral artery by two centimeters. But in those moments, it was just a slow, blind terror, bodies sliding around the bus, the crimson of fresh blood and the dazzling shower of shattering glass, the sounds of tearing metal, someone crying, someone else cursing.

A few hundred yards back, the Camaro skidded to a stop on the side of the road and our fathers sprinted towards us. I grabbed my teeth and turned towards the rear door. None of the kids had been badly hurt and we all began lining up single file, facing the back of the bus like little automatons. My dad caught each of us as we jumped off the ledge of the door, easing us onto the hard-packed red dirt and telling us to find a buddy and run to the Camaro. AJ was working the other end of the bus, wedging open the door and dragging Wolfy and his ex-wife and sister-in-law away from the flames.

My dad and I were on the front page of the paper the next day. In the picture, he had his arm around me and we were staring at the charred, smoky hull of the bus. His face was dripping with sweat and covered in soot. He looked like the kind of man who would do anything to keep you safe.

The hijacking didn’t make sense. After all, Wolfy’s mom had primary custody and she was going to get him back that Sunday. But she was, I guess, trying to say something else. Not just, this is my kid, leave us alone, but something bigger about all that was at stake for her. Love that you fight for has a voltage all its own. 

My parents’ trial reconciliation began the night of the highjacking and lasted for two weeks, enough time for us to settle back into a routine and take a day trip to Virginia Beach. My mom and I spent most of the day sitting on the wet sand, letting the waves rush up over our legs. The surf was rough, and since my mom didn’t know how to swim and I could only doggy paddle, we were scared to get in past our knees. My dad lay out on a faded Budweiser towel, his undershirt balled up over his eyes because he had forgotten his sunglasses, his pale legs sticking out of cut off jeans.  Wisps of light blond hair ran down the center of his chest like a dividing line. He refused to put on anything but baby oil and over the course of the day we watched him turn brighter shades of pink.

Every hour or so, he’d prop up on his elbow and whistle at us. I’d turn around and wave. My mom would look at him and shake her head and smile like we had all the time in the world. We drove back late that night, stopping at Dairy Queen for dinner. I fell asleep to the sound of them laughing, the red glow of their cigarettes lighting the front of the car.

My dad took off again the next day. He called from the garage and told my mom he was moving back in with AJ.  He had decided, in the vast privacy of his silence, that he wasn’t cut out for marriage, for a life like the one we were angling toward. And my mom didn’t fight for him. She knew that the ride was over.


This isn’t how I used to tell the story at parties. Then, it was just the stuff about Wolfy’s sit in and the bus getting hijacked and all the press coverage. These are the parts that people like. This is how it works, isn’t it? You give people a version of the world, a version of yourself, that they want to see. Just like how tomorrow morning, when we’re sitting there in bed eating room service waffles, I won’t mention to Carlos that I spent half the night in the tub like this, wanting to be alone and also wanting him to wake up and find me.


My dad left Danville when I was eleven and moved, in quick succession, to Atlanta, Daytona Beach, and finally Charlotte, where he got his first job on a pit crew. First he stopped visiting. A few years later, the calls and postcards stopped too. For a while, I used to fantasize about his kidnapping me. I wanted him to be an outlaw, to want me as badly as Wolfy’s mom wanted him.  That was before I knew that he had never asked for full custody and a long, long time before I really understood what this meant.

It’s been almost twenty years since I’ve heard from him. Sometimes, I forget that he’s not dead. It’s hard to miss someone for that long. It wears you out and, let’s be honest, it lets you off the hook. All that time you spend wishing, shuttling back and forth between remembering and imagining—it’s just another way to keep your distance from real life.

When Carlos left me, I cried so much that I got dehydrated. No shit. They had to give me an IV at the emergency room and even when I was sitting there, channel surfing and watching the bag of saline slowly empty, I couldn’t stop crying. They wanted to keep me overnight because they thought I was a suicide risk.

I cheated. With a guy named Rick. He’s on the maintenance staff here at the hotel. I never loved him. It was Carlos I loved. But I wanted Rick, and he wanted me. When it started I swore that it would be just once. But it wasn’t. We’d sneak into empty rooms at lunch and the sex was better than it had any right to be. It lasted for two months before Carlos found out. We made it through two appointments with a therapist and, at his mother's insistence, one session with a priest before he left me. This is the plainest way to say it, to cut through the long-winded bullshit.

Maybe it is just getting by, this arrangement we have: just a weekend at a time, every few weeks, only at the hotel. It’s so tempting to convince yourself that everything can be reinvented, even two people. When I’m with Carlos, I force myself not to think about getting back together. Sometimes, all I want to say to is, come back to me. But he won’t. And I know this. There’s no way to explain what it feels like to be on the other side of something I’ve always been terrified of and to know I’m still breathing. That, even if he can’t, I’m capable of forgiving myself.


Mostly, we stay in bed. During sex, Carlos likes me to straddle his thighs and take his dick in my hand like it’s a gear shift. Rev me up, he’ll say, and I’ll sit there, pushing my foot against his armpit like it’s the clutch, going from first to second to third as he starts to moan and gets this sweet, blissed out look on his face. And I’ll say you know this ain’t normal, baby? and he’ll laugh and right then, it feels good to be with him, to know that he’s still willing to act like such an ass in front of me.

Tonight, as it started to get dark, we walked over to the window and watched the sun set, the way it crashed through the city’s skyline like a cheap backdrop. I’m scared of heights and kept my distance from the window, but Carlos knelt down on the thick carpet and pressed his body and open palms against the warm glass.

Standing there, I didn’t look down. Instead, I watched Carlos, his head bent like he was praying, staring out at the city like he was ready to take flight, and I knew that even though his face was close enough to touch, he was far away from me.  Looking at him, I wondered what it would feel like to be someone different, someone who, when she hears the word love, thinks first of what it can become.

I saw my mother, still waking up at 6:00 every morning to fix breakfast for her husband and get ready for another day of caring for strangers. I saw the man my father has become spending day after day at the race track, hustling to change a tire, to fill the tank, watching as his driver circles the track, feeling, for the first time in his life, devoted enough to something to stay with it.

I saw how we are.

How, even when we hold each other, we still strain toward a different place, driven by the blind spots of desire and need. I saw how easy it is, if we are not careful, to let go.




Jasmine Beach-Ferrara is from North Carolina and currently lives with her partner in Boston, MA. She is a student at Harvard Divinity School and teaches writing at Emerson College and Grub Street. Her writing has appeared in American Short Fiction, Harvard Review, Democratic Strategist, The Advocate and other publications.








Back to Freight Stories No. 4

 

Jasmine Beach-Ferrara

Custody Bus