Chapter 1 – The Present
This is not a love story, though it’s about love. The many illusions and delusions, the glittery facades and mutations, the nicks and flaws, when you’re convinced with every fiber of your being that you’re in the midst of it. But that excitement in the pit of your stomach, it isn’t truly love, is it? It’s more often longing or loneliness or hope. Or a simple case of lust.
The myth of love. We build up this ideal image to which we stubbornly cling. It has to be true or life isn’t worth living. We know in our hungry hearts that a grand passion awaits us, that it hides in mere mortals, that we must recognize that diamond in the rough, that toad waiting for our kiss.
We search for that perfect person who will fulfill our every wish and desire granting us all that is possible. Yes, we ardently believe, but it more often cruelly taunts us, rarely bursting out of its cocoon into a glorious butterfly fluttering in our hearts.
What we do for the dream of love. The deceptions we accept, the humiliations we endure, the lies we tell ourselves. Reality is mostly bitter or sometimes we find someone who comforts us with their affection. For a while. But is it what we dreamed of and aspired to? Is it the transcendent experience that fills our hearts, lights the darkness, and warms our souls?
No, this is not a love story. This is about my search to find it.
~~~
I’m at the LAX airport with my head tilted back in an uncomfortable gray plastic sculpted chair pondering the huge ductwork snaking around the cavernous ceiling. I admire the intricacy of it and marvel at the skills some innately possess. If only I were gifted enough to invent something useful or create something beautiful that would shift the world. Having a consuming sense of purpose would temper the emptiness and yearning that sometimes afflict my days, but I’m just an average person. Filler on this planet as most of us are. Drag on this spinning globe.
I’ve closed my tablet and stuck it in my carry-on shoulder bag. The warm yellow puddle of sunlight spilling through the window while I was reading had made me sleepy, and I can’t stop yawning as I wait for my flight back home to northern California from Los Angeles. I adjust the tortoiseshell frames on my nose and tuck my dark hair behind my ears as I stand to stretch my stiff back and legs.
A frazzled mother endeavors to corral two small children who whiz by. I smile at her with sympathy. My kids are adults now, thank goodness. It hadn’t been easy being a single mother. I remember how rambunctious my kids had been often draining me of energy and patience. I dig in my bag and pull out my last power bar. I hold it out to her as she herds the kids by me, and she smiles and gratefully accepts it. I watch as she seats the kids and breaks the bar in half.
My stomach lets out a rolling growl reminding me that I won’t be home for hours. There’s a newsstand across the way past the relentless flowing mass of travelers toting suitcases and hurrying to their destinations. Everyone is always in a hurry. Time is forever ahead of us mocking us as it zips into the past. The days melt together and suddenly years have gone by. Where did the last year go? The last decade? And now time drags as I wait for my flight and my stomach growls.
Heaving the strap of my heavy bag onto my shoulder, I weave my way through the gaps of rushing people into the narrow confines of the newsstand. With mild interest, I browse the rows of magazines and displays of mugs, T-shirts, and neck pillows in the claustrophobic space bumping and apologizing as I go. A packet of mixed nuts will tide me over until I get back home.
I squeeze past a guy pulling a small suitcase and bounce into a carousel displaying postcards. Scenes of sundrenched beaches and curved palm trees tilt closer as I reach to steady the metal display and stagger backward into someone coming the other way.
“Excuse me,” I mumble.
How embarrassing to be so clumsy. Graceful I am not. At least I didn’t knock over the carousel. That would’ve been worse. I can see myself on my hands and knees scooping up postcards. I just need to get my packet of nuts and get back to my seat in the waiting area if someone hasn’t taken it.
“Vera?” says a male voice.
I look up. It takes a few seconds for my brain to register who is standing in before me like an apparition from the past.
“Brad?”
My heart gives a little lurch, and I wonder if I’m dreaming. I had never expected to see him again. Not after the way things had ended. Not after I’d moved away. Funny. I hadn’t thought about him much in a long time, and I used to think about him all the time. Sometimes I still did. A song or movie would trigger fleeting memories, or I’d lay in bed in the darkness and my mind would go to that desolate place of regrets and what ifs. Why hadn’t I done things differently? I’d handled everything all wrong. At one time, we’d been happy together. He was happy too. I know it. But I’d gone and blown it. I can feel myself revert back to that insecure person I’d been in his calm presence. Opposites we were.
He looks the same, though a little heavier, a little older, and without his mustache. I stare for a moment at his upper lip. He has the same light brown tousled hair that curls up by his collar and the same blue-blue eyes that transfix me. I remember that irresistible cleft in his chin, the dazzling smile, and those expressive eyebrows. Now smile wrinkles fan out from the corners of his eyes and make him even more appealing. He’s dressed in light gray slacks and a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his forearms like he’s serious about getting busy. He clutches a black briefcase. How does he always manage to look so put together and professional?
Of course, I’m wearing loose, light gray sweatpants and a Rosie the Riveter T-shirt that proclaims, “We Can Do It!” A plum colored hoodie is tied around my waist, and I’m sporting purple sneakers with pink shoelaces. I dress for comfort when I travel, not that I travel much. I also like to be comfortable when I run to the grocery store or go anywhere nowadays. There was a time when I wouldn’t have left the house so disheveled, but, somehow, I’ve morphed into an unkempt hermit. I feel invisible anyway. No one ever notices me anymore. Not like when I was younger and attracted male attention that I had no clue how to manage. If I could go back, I still wouldn’t know how to react any better.
Brad pulls me toward him away from the errant postcard rack and out of the way of a throng pulsing toward the checkout. He’s only inches taller than me, and I find myself gazing into his mesmerizing eyes.
“What are you doing here in L.A.?” he asks.
“I had to go to a training seminar for work. What are you doing here? Do you live here now?”
“No. I still live down in San Diego, but I had a meeting with clients here. Are you on your way back? I could give you a lift.”
Alone in a car in close proximity with Brad for a few hours. I waver for a millisecond. As tempting as that is, I shake my head.
“No thanks. My flight’s leaving soon. I live up north now.”
I can’t stop staring at the flash of his white teeth when he speaks. He must’ve had them whitened.
“That’s right. You moved away.” He nods and studies me. “Your hair’s shorter.”
“I cut it.”
I self-consciously flip it over my shoulder but it falls forward again. Gray hairs have started to thread through the dark, straight hair that falls just past my shoulders. I should’ve colored it. My thick hair had been at my shoulder blades when we’d been together years ago. He’d called it my mane and had often encouraged me to cut it saying it was too wild, but I had liked the sensuous feel of it on my shoulders, upper arms and brushing down my back.