I will accept my punishment. Will let it weigh me down temporarily. Because our relationship can only go up from here.
Since leaving her house yesterday, I have made a new best friend. The porcelain throne in my suite and I have spent quite a bit of time together. I keep telling her I want to see other people, but she is a persistent bitch. As is my stomach, which has kept nothing down.
I press a loose fist to my mouth as I stand beside the bed. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. For the love of all that is holy, please do not let me throw up again. One—I don’t like it. I loathe it with a passion. Two—my body cannot handle much more of this. My head hurts from all the dry heaving. Lips are dry as fuck and starting to crack. Throat feels as if a carpenter scraped a layer of tissue off with sandpaper.
I take a few more deep, methodical breaths and am thankful when my stomach finally calms.
I resume packing my suitcase, but the whole act is robotic. Pull from hanger. Fold clothing into a shape other than a ball. Put in suitcase. Repeat. Shoes set inside. Brush. Toothpaste. Toothbrush. Razor. Hygiene products zipped in a bag.
After everything from the closet, dresser, and bathroom are packed up, I walk around the remainder of the room and do a small search. Inspect the kitchen area and small living space. When I get to the couch and table, I lift the cushions like I usually do when I travel. All it takes is one time losing something to develop weird habits like this. And when I hold the seat cushion up, something shiny catches my attention.
I reach for it and discover the shiny object is a hair clip. One that had been in Cora’s hair earlier and she took out when we got to my hotel room. She must have slipped it in her pocket and it fell out when we were watching television.
I turn the small clip over in my hand again and again, studying the intricate design. It’s nothing girly. Just a simple metal clip with a simple purpose. But it belongs to her.
Cora has never been a girly-girl. But she has never been a complete tomboy either. She resides somewhere in the middle and is absolutely perfect. A girl... A woman not afraid to sweat or get her hands dirty or belch around her friends. A woman who gives as good as she gets and isn’t afraid to speak her mind and sees the world as a piece of art. A stunning woman that still puts on a dash of makeup and occasionally wears dresses and fixes her hair with hair clips.
I stare at the clip—a mix of girly and punk rock and hard rock. One-hundred-percent Cora.
I tuck the clip in the pocket of my jeans in the suitcase. When I get home, I will add it to our box. A box that isn’t as full as it would have been if we had kept in contact over the years. If I had kept in contact with her.
Once my temporary life in Clearwater is packed up, I roll my suitcase to the elevator and press the down button. I step into the car and head for the ground floor. I walk past the front desk and give a courtesy wave on my way to the exit. This is it. After I walk out this door, I am headed back to California.
But not for long.
“Did you already schedule a ride, sir?” the valet asks.
“Yeah. They should be here soon.”
“Very well, sir. Have a safe trip home.” My body recoils a little at the word home.
“Thanks,” I tell him, not wanting to be impolite.
When I return to Cora, I will be home. We will be home once I fix my mess and we are together again. Because Cora is home. Always has been. Always will be. Nothing can change that.
The Uber driver picks me up and heads for the Tampa airport. He shoots the shit with me during the entire ride. More than once, I want to tell him I would prefer a quiet drive. But I don’t. It’s not this guy’s fault I am in a foul mood. It’s not his fault I left out important details of a favor I did for a friend. And it’s not his fault that my so-called friend took said favor and used it as a weapon, attempting to kill the best thing in my life for her own selfish reasons.
Unforgettable. Unforgivable.
When he pulls over at the airport drop-off, I thank the driver after he hands me my suitcase. The doors whoosh open and a wall of cool air hits me as I enter the airport. Weaving through the sea of bodies, I head to the baggage check area. Once I finish checking my luggage, I head upstairs to the gates and TSA checkpoint.
Thirty minutes later, I slip my shoes back on and walk toward the gate. I stop at one of the restaurants and order something small to eat. While I wait, I open the text history between me and Cora. Does this make me a glutton for punishment? Probably, but I don’t fucking care.
I have messaged her several times since she got in her car and drove away from me on the beach two nights ago. Most of them say the same thing. I’m sorry. How are you? I miss you. I love you.
But she never responds to a single one of them. Not that I really expect her to. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t do anything different.
Regardless of her lack of response, I type out another text to her. And I will type out many more between now and when I return. Because I will return.
Gavin: Just wanted to let you know I’m at the airport. When I get back to Cali, I’m fixing all this. All of it. Then I’ll be back. I love you. I miss you.
My food arrives and I eat it, not really tasting it. But I repeatedly tell my stomach to keep it down. At least until I land in Los Angeles.
Minutes later, the airport announcement over the intercom says my plane has started boarding. I file into the boarding line and shuffle onto the plane. Once in my seat, I put my earbuds in and shut my eyes. My stomach twists and my palms break out in sweat, but for very different reasons than when I left Los Angeles. This time, the panic forms out of fear.
Fear that I won’t be able to fix my mistakes when I land in California. Fear that I won’t be able to return to Cora like I desperately want to. And worst of all, fear that she won’t take me back when I do return to Florida. Because no matter what happens, I am coming back. Even if it means I have nothing.
The moment I deplane in California, I am a man on a mission. After I text Cora and let her know I landed safely, I bolt from the terminal and head for the baggage claim. As per usual, the airport is a madhouse.
When people bump me along the way, I am more vocal about my irritation than usual. “Fucking asshole” leaves my lips far more often than not. People need to learn some damn etiquette—like moving aside if you plan to text or check apps on your phone. For the love of God, show some fucking respect.
And the second I step foot outside the airport, for the first time in years, Los Angeles feels nothing like home. Like the very first time I arrived. If anything, now it feels like a cesspool of hungry and desperate people. A façade disguising itself as reality. And I have no desire to be a part of it.
I was brought here out of obligation, but why did I stay so long? This question has cycled through my head countless times over the last week. Haunted me every waking minute.
Why?
I have been financially secure for years. So why didn’t I leave then? Why didn’t I pack up everything I own and move back to Florida when I could have? Moving would have been easy. Too easy.
But I hadn’t moved for several reasons.
Until a week and a half ago, I hadn’t spoken with Cora in years. It wasn’t to intentionally hurt her. More like I thought I was doing the right thing when I couldn’t see me making it back to her. So, I was doing right by her. At least that is what I told myself. I was letting her go. Letting her move on and find love again.
Only I didn’t share that with her. I made the decision all on my own. Because I figured a clean break was the best way. For obvious reasons, I am an idiot. Live and learn, I suppose.
When I get in the Uber, I tell the driver I would like some quiet. I need time to think, to strategize. And I can’t do that while a bored driver shoots the shit with me. Thankfully, he respects my request.
After battling late-day traffic, the driver pulls into Mom’s driveway on the outskirts of Burbank. I thank the driver, grab my luggage and walk up to the hou
se. Mom’s house looks much the same as it did thirteen years ago when we moved to California. The only difference is the paint has faded slightly, the plants have been swapped for more colorful versions, and the tree in the front yard is a little taller and bushier.
Although I have adjusted to Mom living here, this house has still never felt like home. Just a layover until my path realigned.
Maybe I should have messaged Mom before just showing up on her doorstep. She will probably think me crazy. Question me endlessly. Popping up here is nowhere near my norm. Whatever. Perhaps I am going crazy. But if being crazy equals being happy, consider me certifiable.
I punch my code into the door lock and step inside. The moment I pass the threshold, the scent of curry and bell peppers and grilled chicken attacks my nose. A second later, my stomach growls in response. Obviously, the airport food didn’t hold me over long.
“Mom?” I call out.
“Gavin, is that you?”
Every time she asks that, it makes me laugh. Does she have other children I am unaware of? Better yet, is there another guy in her life that could be walking through the door? The latter never crossed my mind until now. I wouldn’t expect my mom to remain celibate after Dad passed, but she still wears her wedding jewelry. Wonder if I need to give her the okay to move on? If I need to tell her it is okay to find love again. That I am okay with her loving someone besides Dad.
Maybe another time.
“Yeah, Mom. Are you in the kitchen?” I ask as I walk in that direction. I figure I will ask a stupid question in return. With all the deliciousness floating through the air, she is either cooking or just sitting down to eat.
The second I round the corner and the kitchen comes into view, the grilled peppers and spices hit me full force. My stomach bellows out and constricts, and I pat my abdomen. Calm down, we will eat soon.
“Hey, honey. What are you doing here?” She smiles, wraps me in her embrace, and I squeeze her a little harder than usual. “Is everything okay?” Concern laces her voice since I have yet to let her go.
I give her one last squeeze, take a deep breath, then let her go. She steps back to the stove, but has her eyes on me. “No, everything’s not okay. I just flew back from Clearwater.”
In front of me, Mom freezes with the spoon mid-air above the pan. Her eyes search mine, looking for clues as to what I am thinking, before pinching tightly with sadness. “Oh, Gavin. Was that where your shoot was?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think I’d see her. But I was so far off base. Mom… she was the photographer for my shoot.”
Mom sets the spoon on the rest and comes to stand beside me. She rubs my back, trying to soothe away my pain. She remembers, all too well, my rebellious days after we moved to California. The torment I endured and inflicted on everyone around me.
“What can I do?”
I turn to her and hug her again. When I release her, I relay my plan to her. And I tell her what happened in Clearwater with Alyson and Layla. How both of them behaved as if their needs and desires supersede mine—even with me in the epicenter.
The fire in Mom’s eyes is like nothing I have seen before. Even with all the shit I put her through, she never showed this side. At least not to me. Her cheeks burn bright red as she balls her fingers into tight fists at her side. Right now, Mom is as livid as I am. If not more.
“I’m moving back, Mom. But I have a lot of work ahead of me.”
The fire leaves her eyes and is replaced with a gentle smile. “Please tell me what I can do to help. Of course, I’ll miss you, but I understand. Your heart never left Florida, honey. Not once.”
Since Dad passed away two years ago, Mom and I have grown much closer. For a little while, I let go of the anger and resentment I held toward her. Once I understood she had no choice—take the promotion or possibly lose her job—my forgiveness was easier to dole out.
“True. But I messed up, Mom. I don’t know if she’ll forgive me.”
Mom walks over to the stove and turns off the burner. She grabs two bowls from the cabinet and portions us both some food. We walk over to the small, four-seater dining table and sit. She sets a bowl in front of me before speaking.
When her eyes meet mine, they are serious and determined. “Gavin… Don’t stay away and wonder what if this or what if that. If there is one thing losing your father taught me, it’s that life is much shorter than we give it credit for. You have to do things now, while you still can. There are so many things your father and I didn’t get to do together. Things I will never get to do with him. And I’m fully aware he’d want me to keep living my life. To find someone else who brings me happiness. But I’m not ready for that. It’s too soon. Maybe one day…”
I reach across the table and take her hand. “When you’re ready, Mom. It’s okay if that doesn’t happen for many years to come. Or if it happens sooner than you expect. Anyone who says otherwise is an asshole.”
“Gavin,” Mom scolds. I shrug her off. “Anyway. You and Cora are young. You have what looks like a lifetime ahead of you. But I thought the same with your father. So, I chose to work hard and save for us to do everything after retirement. But we can’t predict the future. I never thought I’d be spending my retirement without your father. It’s a hard pill to swallow. And it’s not something I want for you. To live in regret. So whatever I can do to help you, let me know. Because your happiness matters more than anything else in my world.”
I give her hand a gentle squeeze. “Thanks, Mom. You always say what I need to hear. And after I sort out all the details tomorrow, I’ll let you know.”
Silence rings around us a moment, but soon Mom and I fall into easy conversation. She talks about work and some new software they are developing to detect specific heart defects in the womb. Some new, experimental noninvasive technology. I listen to every word she says, but a lot of what she tells me is gibberish. A strange blend of medical terminology and techie talk. But it’s my mom, so I pay attention to every detail. I smile at her excitement.
When she finishes her story, I tell her about the shoot in Clearwater for Global Beach Magazine. How the magazine will reach major cities across the world. I also let her know I have no doubts about finding a new agent, especially after this shoot. Then I share the last shoot I plan to do here. That it involves Layla. Alyson hasn’t told me what the shoot is for yet, but I can only assume it’s something to do with couples. If that happens to be the case, I will be speaking with that photographer the moment I arrive on set.
After we finish eating, Mom drives me to my house. We exchange hugs and promises to keep in contact throughout the week. I unlock the front door and wave at Mom as she backs out of the driveway. I stand in the darkness a moment and breathe in the stale air and vacancy around me. When I flip the light on, I scan the empty and soulless house I have lived in for the last eight years.
Then I drop to my knees and cry. “I’m finally going home.”
Eight
Cora
The sun burns fiery as it collides with the horizon.
Over the last week, I have visited the beach every evening. Sat in the same exact spot and nestled my feet in the warm sand. Watched the sun plummet into the water and fizzle into darkness. Smelled the mustiness of the dampened earth. Felt the salty breeze brush against my skin and whip my hair across my face.
Every night is different. The way the sun glows, how the sky changes colors, the scents in the air and on my skin, the sounds of the waves crashing or people chatting, how the breeze fluctuates. All of it. One night, I sat here in the rain. Actually, it was a downpour. But I refused to leave. If anything, I compared the changes in the atmosphere to the temperance of my mood. Like Mother Earth was going through mood swings and taking me on the journey. And I plan to embrace every leg of said journey.
A half hour after the sun is no longer visible, I rise from the sand and walk back toward my car. The drive home is forgotten, and at times I am surprised I make it home in one piece. I recall getting in my car
and parking in the driveway, but nothing in between. Every day is the same.
I unlock the back door and flip on the lights. The scent of daily flower deliveries dying on my kitchen counter permeates the air. For the last five days, a new bouquet of flowers has arrived on my front doorstep. Red roses. White roses. Yellow roses. A mixed variety of roses. And a mixed variety of non-roses.
Each bouquet from my mom and Shelly’s florist shop. Each bouquet sent with a small note. And I read each one of them. Absorb all the words. Unlike the text messages I continue to get from Gavin.
The notes sweet and short.
I miss you, baby.
Sunsets are never the same without you.
Tu es les étoiles de ma lune.
Can we watch Lord of the Rings on repeat for a week straight?
Soon, baby. Soon.
Surely, my mom and Shelly are enjoying Gavin’s whole charade a little more than most people. And as bad as my house started smelling yesterday, I can’t throw any of the flowers away. I just can’t. Maybe I should dry them. Drying them would at least eliminate the funk in the air.
Luna weaves figure eights between my legs, purring and mewling as we head toward her bowl. After I give her a scoop of food and a few pets, I head to my room to change clothes. I love the scent of the beach—it conjures up so many wonderful memories—but I don’t enjoy the constant sand on my skin. Beach sand is nature’s equivalent to glitter.
A few days ago, Shelly stated we were going out. There was no asking and I wasn’t allowed to refuse. Everyone was going and we were visiting the nightclub Micah works at in Tampa. Although I didn’t want to go, I had no energy to fight Shelly. So I caved. It wasn’t worth the argument.
Time Exposure (Click Duet #2) (Bay Area Duet Series) Page 6
