by Kat T. Masen
I’m reluctant to move again, having just settled in London and adjusting to the awful cold weather. But I can’t and won’t allow an opportunity to pass by because I’m stuck in some comfort zone. Despite only being in London for such a short time, I’ve grown fond of the ‘Poms’ and their overuse of the word ‘bollocks.’
Dubai is known for its architecture from its ridiculously tall buildings to lavish hotels that accommodate the wealthiest people. It’s bustling with tourists and is the hip place to be right now.
Packing my bags and saying goodbye to the friends I’ve made over the past six months was difficult, but Dubai is so fast-paced that from the moment I landed, I hit the ground running. The company has put me up in a great apartment overlooking the city, and with long hours, I don’t have much time to socialize.
I wake up at the crack of dawn as I haven’t adjusted to the time difference, and before I know it, I stumble into my apartment, face-planting the bed in exhaustion. Long days on site, dining clients, and to launch party after launch party.
The heat. Well, that’s another thing.
Dressing up in designer work attire is a nice change, but the sweltering heat makes me sweat like crazy, and the weight has begun to fall off. I have the glow and physique of someone who works out at the gym without having to attend every day. Occasionally, when I have some time, I hit the communal gym in my building to build stamina. The only way to survive in Dubai is to be on top of your game, and endless amounts of coffee.
Dubai is the fashion capital of the world with countless shopping malls—extravagant and spacious—and people spending big everywhere you turn. It’s easy to fall into that trap, but I’ve tried my best to save some extra money so I can buy my own place real soon.
A home.
Wherever that is.
I’ve even met someone. His name’s Josh. He’s from Ireland on a work visa with a big firm who specialize in IT communications. We get along well and have a lot in common. It’s not a serious relationship. He’s simply a nice guy who I enjoy spending time with. Josh is far from being a complicated person. If anything, he’s the least complicated person I’ve ever met.
He has Mom’s approval because apparently I need it. Mom and Dad came out to visit, but lasted only four days. Dad complained about the heat the entire time, and Mom maxed out three credit cards much to Dad’s disapproval. As much as they love me, they couldn’t wait to go back home. Well, those were Dad’s words. Mom’s already arranged a trip back for just us girls.
Life, in general, is going well that is until one Saturday morning, when it’s thrown a massive twist. A curveball, or shitty stick of epic proportions. Something I’m not expecting. I should know when the phone begins ringing at four in the morning and reaching to find it, I knock my golden pineapple over—it’s bad sign.
I glance up at the clock beside my bed and answer with a croaky voice, “Hello?”
“Zoey? It’s Gigi.”
“Gigi?” I sit up in shock to hear her voice. I haven’t spoken to her in a couple of months since she’d been traveling to New Zealand and had limited cell coverage on the mountain range.
“Yes, it’s me, doll. I’m sorry to call you so early.”
“It’s fine.” My eyes are wide open, and I am worried at the tone of her voice. “Is something wrong?”
“I’ve got some bad news,” she mentions sadly. “Drew’s father passed away.”
The second she says the words, the pit of my stomach swirls into a massive knot threatening me with the urge to vomit. “Drew’s dad passed away?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“When? How?”
“Two days ago. I just flew back in an hour ago, and Mrs. Porter from down the hall informed me.” Letting out a sigh, she continues, “It was an accident. He was working on a car when his arm got trapped in a cavity. He tried to pull himself free but suffered a heart attack when doing so.”
“Oh my God,” I cry out loud, momentarily beyond words.
The tears fall past my lips and onto my lap. My heart’s in pain thinking about how much Drew must be hurting right now. His dad’s his hero. He’s never shy telling anyone that. I can’t even begin to put myself in his shoes, and to think, he’s going through this all alone. “And Drew. How’s he taking it?”
“Not well, doll. Drew was the one who found him.”
Dropping the phone, I race to the bathroom and vomit profusely into the sink, not making the toilet. I manage to compose myself for a few moments, retreating to the bedroom and picking up the phone. I sob into the receiver, Gigi trying her best to calm me from her end. I listen intently as she fills me in on all the details.
The funeral will be held in three days, and without question, I book the next flight back home.
***
The long flight gives me plenty of time to think. I’ve been so caught up in my new life that I’ve never allowed myself to stop and think about the past. Scared that if I did, I would run back and reverse all the positivity that’s been happening.
The night before I left for London was the best night of life, spending those last moments with Drew. Sometimes, without notice and in the most highly inappropriate situations, a memory of the way he kissed me, the way he was inside me, flashes before my eyes. And every time it happens, I have to break away from the fantasy reminding myself it was never meant to be—chasing a dream that wasn’t attainable.
But I can’t forget the image, the moment. The look in Drew’s eye’s as he touched me. Fueled by lust, desire, and the fact that what we were doing was forbidden. We had broken all the codes.
I wanted so much for him to follow me to London, suggesting the idea and hoping he would read between the lines without me having to lay my heart on the table. But he wasn’t interested. That last night between us meant more to me than it did to him. I guess all it was for him was a chance to screw his roomie.
Although it hurt that the feeling wasn’t mutual, leaving Drew was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I knew at the time that if I didn’t take the opportunity, I would regret it for the rest of my life.
And I was sick of living in regret.
I was completely done with Jess. According to Mia, he had knocked up some woman who already had four kids to different men and was chasing him for child support. Serves him right. His wandering dick finally got bitten in the ass.
Callie and I restored our friendship via email. It was nice to have her back in my life. We had both moved on from the past, chatted every now and then, hoping to catch up when I returned home one day.
My biggest regret of all is losing Drew. We promised to remain friends, stay in touch, but that never happened. That night was the last time I spoke to Drew.
He deactivated all his social media accounts, changed his cell number, and the only thing left was his address. Or so I thought.
According to Gigi, he had moved closer to the hospital. Only Gigi and Mrs. Porter from down the hall remained in contact with him. It was evident he didn’t want anything to do with me, and so, I gave up trying to hold on to something I never had.
Then this happens.
Life.
The exhaustion of the flight consumes me, my overtired brain barely able to sleep amidst the noise that the other passengers make. There’s a kid crying a couple of rows down, and feeling sorry for the little guy, I assume his ears are popping from the altitude. Turns out Mommy dearest thought little Johnny needed to sleep, removing his iPad. The kid’s lost it, and so I have lost my will to live.
The couple beside me are nice enough—married and middle-aged. They kept to themselves, not forcing me into any awkward plane talk. Somewhere during the night, the wife leans over and whispers to her husband, who then returns a big smile. He stretches his arms, unbuckles his seatbelt, then heads toward the restroom.
A minute later, she follows.
The frequent mile-high clubbers.
I’m grossed out wanting to ask the flight attendant if I can switch seats. Whe
n they return, their faces are flushed, and I swear on my grandmother’s grave—something I rarely do—they smell of sex.
When the captain announces our descent into the airport, I can’t be any happier. I think I’ve just aged ten years.
I check into the hotel closest to the airport to have a quick shower and change into my black dress. I know I’ve missed the ceremony, but if the cabbie speeds up a little, I will just make the burial.
The cemetery’s in sight, small with luscious green lawns and well-kept tombstones.
I point out to the cab driver where people are gathered near the plot. Drew doesn’t have much family, so it’s mainly his dad’s friends paying their respects.
I pay the cabbie a twenty and step out. Taking a deep breath, I walk over to the crowd as my heels dig into the grass. Ballet flats would have been optimal, the ground a little damp from some overnight rain.
The closer I get, the tighter the knot forms in my stomach.
And then, I see him.
His back is facing me, and his posture is fallen over with his head down. I try my hardest to hold back the tears, dabbing the bottom of my lids so as to not smudge my eye makeup. Around me stand guests—women crying softly into their handkerchiefs and men holding on to them, trying their darnedest to be strong. It’s a sad day, one that I wish Drew wouldn’t have to go through alone.
You’re here.
Be here for your friend.
No matter what happened between us, my friend needs me, and I’m not going to let him down. With every ounce of strength I have in me, I walk toward him excusing myself as quietly as possible through the crowd until I am by his side.
In a bold move, I drop my hand and entwine my fingers into his. He doesn’t look up to face me, his eyes slowly moving to my hand. I don’t allow him to let go, trying to warm up his ice-cold skin.
And just before the priest says a prayer, he gently squeezes my hand.
He’s alive.
He has acknowledged my presence, and that’s the first step. A small part of me is terrified that this will kill him, which I’m sure it is, but in a way that he can move on from and continue his life.
Not in the way of losing all will to live.
Simon & Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Troubled Water plays as the coffin is lowered into the ground. It was his dad’s favorite song. I remember him telling me he would sing it to Drew back home in Australia when he was just a baby.
While the song plays, I can’t hold back any longer, a single tear falling down my cheek as I keep my sniffs as silent as possible. It’s futile. Drew’s grip tightens, and his body begins to shudder. I wrap my arms around him wanting to shield him from the pain of watching his dad being buried. I don’t let go, not even when the music stops and only silence surrounds us. People begin to move forward, patting Drew on the back, and some others throw roses into the plot.
I wait patiently, without a word, and give Drew the time he needs. His persistent, dark stare at the tombstone begins to frighten me. With everyone almost gone besides a woman hovering, I open my mouth before quickly shutting back up as the woman walks over and calls his name. It seems to catch his attention, and judging by the way she looks at me and then him, I’m guessing it’s his latest squeeze.
“Drew,” she says calmly. “Are you ready to go now?”
My hand begins to slide away, not wanting to cause an argument between them, but Drew latches on even harder. Squeezing it so tight it begins to hurt.
“No,” is all he responds.
She appears persistent, resting her hand on his shoulder, still watching me with a curious eye. “I think it would be best to go. Everyone will be waiting.”
“Then go,” he yells back. “They can fucking wait for me.”
Backing off, and offended, she walks toward the cars and leaves us alone. I don’t get a chance to have a proper look at her, but she’s leggy with brown curly hair. Drew’s type. No need to get jealous, especially at a time like this.
It’s just us, alone. I’m stumped on how to talk to him, so I continue to be there quietly allowing the chirping birds to sing.
“I’m sorry, Drew,” I cry.
He squeezes my hand again tightly trying to comfort me.
“You know what’s ironic?” he says, without looking my way. “When I found him Cat’s in the Cradle was playing on the radio. I mean… is that fucked up?” A sinister laugh follows scaring me a little as we sit alone in the cemetery.
“Drew,” I whisper, composing myself enough to be a good friend. “Maybe it was his time.”
“He was only fifty-five. It’s too soon,” he adds, bitterly. “He begged me to visit, but I’d been so caught up with work. There was always an excuse.”
“You didn’t intentionally not visit him, Drew,” I tell him.
“You’re skinny.”
I’m confused by the change of topic. “Excuse me?”
“You’re skinny, like stick-skinny. Why?”
Do I answer him? This is odd.
“Uh, the heat in Dubai is like being in a sauna every day with like a thousand Arab men and women. All dressed, of course.”
He doesn’t say anything else, letting out a breath. “Are you coming to this lunch thing? I mean, what’s the point? Why the fuck do we need to celebrate burying my dad?”
“Maybe look at it as celebrating his life,” I say, smiling.
“Let’s go somewhere else. Just you and me.”
“Uh sure, but what about everyone else?”
“Fuck everyone else.” He laughs, removing a flask from his jacket and taking a long swig.
“Okay, but how about you hand me the flask? Where do you want to go?”
He pulls my hand along to his car, not turning around to say goodbye to his dad again.
From where I’m standing, I can smell the potent scotch on his breath. “How about I drive?”
He tosses me the keys. I climb into the car and put the keys in the ignition. “Where do you want to go?”
“Just follow my lead.”
We drive until he tells me to stop.
It’s beautiful—a small piece of parkland that overlooks the ocean. We sit on a small rock, wedged between two larger rocks. It’s pretty secluded, only an old couple walking their dogs are nearby.
“I come here a lot just to think.”
“It’s beautiful.” I smile.
“I bet you don’t have views like this in Dubai.”
“No.” I laugh. “Skyscrapers and desert.”
Staring at the ocean, the calming blue water and salty sea air ease my worries. And maybe it’s not just where we are, but who I’m with.
Drew picks up a daisy from the small shrubbery beside the rocks and tears the pretty white petals apart. “I’m sorry I cut you out.”
“I shouldn’t have left without saying goodbye,” I admit truthfully.
“You did what you had to do. And now look at you, you’re all grown up.”
“Am I?” With a playful smirk, I pull my sleeve up and show him my wrist.
Pulling my arm closer to him, he examines the tattoo, blinking repeatedly. He’s wearing his contacts, and I know how much they irritate him outdoors when the wind is strong.
“You got yourself a Rainbow Brite tattoo?”
I nod, grinning back at him. “I needed a reminder that wherever I go, whatever I do, it’s okay to be me. Flaws and all.” I look down at my wrist remembering the moment I got it. There was this small tattoo parlor in the heart of London. It had been a stressful day at work, and I was extremely homesick. After speaking to my brother for a solid hour, I stumbled upon this place. I remember looking at the window and seeing my reflection. It dawned on me that the person staring back was someone new. I had no clue who she was. She wore fancy clothes, ate salads for lunch, and went to art shows with colleagues because that was the latest trend.
I was thoroughly enjoying my new role, but every so often, I missed the old me—carefree, sweats-wearing Zoey who lounged on the
couch for endless hours watching reruns of Different Strokes while eating a bag of Cheetos.
And so, I walked in and asked the cute guy to ink me.
“There’s no doubt that you’re unique. Quirky, I’ll admit, and a tad neurotic when it comes to your music.”
I punch his arm softly easing the tension between us. “I went to a Foreigner concert in London. It was so good. I even managed to get my T-shirt signed,” I tell him excitedly.
“Did you tell him that you want to know what love is?”
I chuckle softly, then turn my head curiously. “Wait, how do you know that Foreigner sings that song?”
“Mmm… would you believe I’ve been listening to music released before the year 1990?” He shuffles awkwardly kicking his foot against the rock. “Joanna, my girlfriend, likes that type of music.”
Oh. There it is. The giant elephant in the room. Not so much an elephant, rather a skinny giraffe. It was bound to happen. I’m not allowed to be angry or jealous. I chose to leave. I ran off. Embrace his happiness, move on, then cry about it later after a few shots of tequila and some bad karaoke of My Heart Will Go On.
“Joanna. She seems nice.”
“Yeah, she is,” he says plainly.
“Been together long?”
“Four months.”
“That’s nice. She’s really pretty.”
“She is.”
I’m grasping at straws. “Okay, you gotta give me something here.”
He’s awfully fidgety probably from the scotch wearing off. “I met her in the ER. She had a pencil stuck in her hand.”
“What? Are you kidding me?”
“Nope.”
“Ouch! How did that end up being a relationship?”
“When we were removing the pencil, I asked her out to distract her.”
We laugh in unison, our shoulders colliding. “So, a sympathy date?”
“It was. She’s nice. A middle-school teacher.”
“I’m happy for you.” It’s genuine, coming from a good place in my heart. The bad place, the small area called ‘Jealousville’ is rocking itself in the corner holding a voodoo doll with Joanna’s face on it.
