by Jennifer Cox
And, of course, Garry was right: His parents were completely wonderful. And the boat, forty feet of beautiful wood, fantastically restored and outfitted by Garry’s dad, was delightful. And most importantly, very still.
Garry’s parents seemed to be one of those couples who enjoyed each other’s company, so were relaxed and easy to be around. They went out of their way to make me feel welcome and I liked them immediately. In their early sixties, Gerry and Judy complemented each other. Both fit and energetic, they mirrored each other’s body language; instinctively reaching from a shelf what the other was looking for or interrupting each other’s stories with gentle teasing.
They clearly were Soul Mates, which felt like a good omen for Garry and me.
Garry busied himself preparing salmon for the barbecue and making some kind of complicated marinade for the mushrooms. So Gerry, Judy, and I took our drinks up on deck and sat out in the heat of the early evening sun. We chatted easily about family and work and life in the Bay Area, and life in London.
I didn’t know whether to talk about my journey or not, but Judy, perhaps sensing my discomfort, made it easy for me. “So, Jennifer,” she said in a tone so neutral the Swiss would have begged for the recipe, “Garry’s told us a lot about you; your journey sounds very interesting.”
And with that the floodgates opened. I told them about London and how, although I’d been happy with my job for years, my priority had become finding the relationship that would make me just as happy. The journey had been to find my Soul Mate but also to understand why I made the choices that had stopped me meeting him sooner.
I told them about the Love Professor and his theories; I told them about the Vegas Bettys and their insights; I told them about Davide and his dead love in Verona; I even told them about Anders and his amazing floating sauna. As the sun set over the bay, I told them about my whole journey and how it had brought me into their son’s life.
Judy had lots of questions. She asked as a woman as well as a mother, curious about the lengths I had gone to and the people I had met along the way. “Judy, quit interrogating the poor girl!” Gerry said after a while. But I was glad of Judy’s questions: I wanted to tell them my story, but mostly I wanted them to know that Garry was safe with me. And much as it made me hot with embarrassment, I knew the only way was to come right out with it. I checked my glass to make sure I had enough wine for what I was about to say.
But just as I opened my mouth, Garry came up on deck, a beer in one hand, barbecue tongs in the other. Flushed from cooking, he looked relaxed, happy, and extremely sexy. Perching on the back of my chair, he draped his arm across my shoulders. “Hey, what’s with all the talking?” he teased. Gerry raised his eyebrows in an I already tried telling them that way. Judy and I smiled conspiratorially at each other. “Are you ready to eat? Dinner’s a couple of minutes off,” Garry announced, taking a lazy pull on his beer and watching with Gerry as a powerboat cruised slowly by.
I wished Garry had been just three minutes longer in the kitchen. Pausing to take a gulp from my glass, I started nervously. “Look, before we eat, can I please say something really quickly?”
Judy nodded encouragingly.
“Judy, Gerry, it’s really nice to meet you. It’s very kind of you to invite me onto your boat and I’m having a lovely evening. Thank you,” I told them by way of a preamble. Garry’s parents seemed a little nonplussed by my speech and looked over to Garry, whom I felt shrugging behind me as if to say: What can I say, she’s British, they’re very formal…
Judy reached over and patted my arm. “Well, dear, you really are very welcome—”
“No, no…” I interrupted. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, what I’m saying is—Garry is an extremely special man and I feel blessed to have met him and have him in my life. And although I have to keep traveling and dating…” Out of breath, I trailed off. “…I just want you to know, I’m in love with your son and I’m not going to do anything to hurt him or mess it up.”
Garry looked self-conscious but touched. Gerry beamed as Judy hugged me and said: “Oh, aren’t you, darling. Thank you, Jennifer, and don’t you worry. We know how happy you make Garry and that makes us very happy too.”
Garry got to his feet, clearly desperate to change the subject. “So, if everyone’s finished saying what they have to say…” He gave me a pointed look “…can we eat?” And, picking up his beer, he led the way into the cabin. Judy and Gerry stood up and followed.
Feeling emotional and light-headed, I was a little slower. Today I’d flown to San Francisco. Today Garry had (possibly) told me that he loved me. Today he’d brought me to meet his parents. Today I’d told his parents I was dating eighty men and loved their son.
Yes, sitting down to a nice dinner and a number of very large drinks was probably the best way to cope with days like today. I got up and followed them all into the cabin.
The rest of the evening, like the three days that followed, was perfect. As usual, it was an extraordinary meal, and we all talked and laughed until around 10 p.m., when Judy and Gerry left. “We have so enjoyed meeting you, Jennifer,” Judy told me as we hugged and kissed good-bye. “You two look so happy together; I do hope it’s not too long before we see you again.”
I agreed wholeheartedly.
San Francisco was like a holiday—neither of us worked and we didn’t check email once. We had plans to visit some of the Costco crew: Rico and Annie, Brenda, and Jefe all lived about half an hour away. Lonely Planet’s U.S. office was also in the area and I’d let some of my old friends from the company know we were in town.
But, in the end, we saw no one: We stayed in bed late; lazed on the boat in the sun; drove around with the convertible roof down, singing to Johnny Cash and Def Leppard’s request to “Pour some sugar on meeee…” at the tops of our voices. And, of course, we talked.
We talked about Garry coming to see me in London next month. And Garry was traveling to Japan with Seattle’s basketball team, the Sonics. Russia had fallen through but Hector had some dates for me in China; could I go via Tokyo? We got out our diaries: The timing would be tight and I’d have to scramble to set up dates there, but it could work.
These were not always easy conversations to have; we didn’t know what would happen after this point, plus there was the business of my ongoing dating. Plus we were both a little frazzled from our relationship being so fast and intense: It was as if we were speed-learning each other, knowing that, for the foreseeable future, this was all the time we had together. “We’ve fitted three years of relationship into three weeks,” Garry observed as we curled up on deck together under the moonlight, drinking wine. We felt the same way about the situation: incredibly grateful to have met each other, but at times overwhelmed by the pace at which the relationship was forced to run.
And to think I’d initially imagined I’d meet my Soul Mate and simply drive off into the sunset, the road straight and easy to navigate.
But, whatever the pressure or complications, I didn’t regret it and wouldn’t have changed it for the world. And even more perfectly, any time I got scared and thought I was in too deep, Garry would say or do things that made it clear he felt the same way.
We were in this together.
In the end, it was Garry’s dad who made the last day easier than it might have been.
He rang to ask if Garry minded giving him a hand with a boat he had to move from a harbor nearby. I think Garry was a little worried I’d get upset since we’d planned a trip into downtown San Francisco, but I was pleased. Gerry was fun, and messing around with fast boats rather than thinking about leaving was exactly the distraction we needed.
So we spent the rest of the morning tinkering with boats (they tinkered, I sunbathed), then roared around the bay for a couple of hours.
After saying good-bye to Gerry, we had an entertaining afternoon in San Francisco. We watched a large transsexual shoplifter get chased down the road by police on bicycles; we played tourist and rode the c
able car from Union Square, via Chinatown and trendy North Beach, out to Fisherman’s Wharf. The sunset stained the ocean orange and purple, and as we queued to catch the cable car back we held hands, listening to a soulful street musician sing “Georgia.” Then we drove to Lulu’s, a trendy but low-key restaurant, where we ate oysters and made up stories about the old moguls who hungrily watched the starving starlets at their tables.
We got back to the boat late, and got to sleep even later. Knowing it was our last evening together, we didn’t want it to end.
Early the next morning, tired from the lack of sleep and a little hungover from the excess of Oregon pinot, we found a diner in the airport and ordered a huge breakfast. Slumping next to each other in the laminated booth, we stared at the taxiing planes as we sipped scalding black coffee from chunky china mugs.
Airports are famously awful places for saying good-bye: busy and anonymous, they have no room for what’s been, only what’s coming next. It’s one big Hello and Good-bye factory: pairing and parting busy people the length of its production line.
That I was off somewhere new was what I always loved about airports. But not this time. This time I didn’t want new: I wanted what I had. I wanted to be with Garry.
Feeling upset and tired, though, neither of us wanted to dwell on what was to come, so we ate instead. I can’t speak for Garry, but I wasn’t even hungry. That didn’t stop us. We ate our way through an insane amount of pancakes and eggs and coffee and toast and French toast and home fries and more coffee. When the time came to say good-bye, I felt unbelievably full and unbelievably sick.
At the departure gate, our arms wrapped around each other with my face buried in Garry’s shoulder, I could smell the sour odor of fried food in my hair. We stood for about ten minutes, partially because we were too stuffed to move but mostly because we knew the moment we pulled apart, it would all be over. But we’d had our time together, until the next time; we had to accept this was good-bye.
We stroked each other’s faces, trying to absorb and memorize every freckle, every lash. “Thank you for everything, Garry,” I told him. I know that sounds like something from a bland greeting card, but in truth I was grateful for everything. That I’d met him; that he had been so willing to let me into his world, share his house, his truck, introduce me to his friends and family. The fact that he’d let me see so many different parts of his life meant I was leaving not only feeling like I knew a lot about him, but also reassured and optimistic that he wanted me in his life. It wasn’t just that, after Keep Your Distance Kelly, being with someone who wanted to be with me was very welcome. I also believed Garry and I were similar people, alike in what we wanted and needed, for ourselves and each other. To have found someone like that, who was cute as hell to boot, was truly something to be thankful for.
Even if he lived in America.
When Garry looked up at the monitor and said with a sad smile, “Jen, they’re calling your plane,” I started to cry. I knew it wasn’t fair—we were both trying to be brave and get through this in one piece—but I couldn’t help it.
I wanted to tell him that I loved him, but I stopped myself. Nothing had been said since the half-declaration on the boat, and a part of me felt it was still too soon. We’d only known each other for three weeks. “I’ll see you soon,” Garry said, looking distressed as he wiped away the tears that now streamed down my cheeks, “…London or Tokyo, I’ll see you soon.”
“Garry…” I said, looking up at him through the fresh tears that clung to the ends of my lashes, “…I love you.”
And the tears shook themselves free from my lashes as new ones rose up to take their place. The tears glistened in Garry’s eyes too as he pulled me to him, cradling me in his arms. “I love you too, baby,” he whispered.
Chapter Twelve
37,000 feet (on the way to London)
Back in London, I got ready
to give Garry the grand tour.
Exhausted from the lack of sleep and the excess of emotions, I fell asleep as soon as the plane took off.
I slept lightly and my mind flitted around the events of the last few weeks, plucking individual moments from memory like rosy apples from a tree. Garry drinking my chili vodka shot in the Costco bar at Burning Man; last night on the boat, curled up quietly on deck, his hand stroking my hair, Frank Sinatra on the radio singing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”
I hated that these were now just memories, that I had to look back to what had happened rather than forward to what was ahead of me. Before too long they would become like gum that had been chewed and chewed until all favor was gone. They’d become stories and set pieces rather than the rich jumble of sensations, emotions, and experiences I could still so vividly recall.
I dreamed about Garry visiting me in London; cutting through the back alleys of Soho; walking along the South Bank from the National Theatre to the Tate Modern and Borough Market…
But as I dreamed, pleasure turned to fear and I woke up: What if it didn’t work in London? What if our relationship only worked on his home ground, when I was happy and uncomplicated, not distracted by the demands of my London life? Was I going to slide back into old habits and end up a dull workaholic again?
I gave up trying to sleep and slouched tiredly in my seat. I knew it was pathetic, but I missed Garry already. Instead of us being together with our what nexts?, I was now alone with my what ifs?
Arriving back home took the edge off my worries as, once again, the welcome flood of friends, family, and a variety of wardrobe options washed over me. And funnily enough, even though he was in America, Garry became part of my London life too. In the morning when I logged on, there’d be an email from him, and most nights (eight hours ahead, so his afternoons) we’d sit on the computer and instant-message each other or sit on the phone for hours. I loved hearing how his day had gone, what JR had said, where he’d gone for a drink with Doug and his girlfriend Bette. And, in turn, I loved to tell him where the Sonar Sisters (Lizzy and Grainne got so excited hearing about Garry that their voices would get higher and higher until eventually their conversation was only audible to bats, dogs, and whales) and I had been the night before; what had happened during my bike ride to Starbucks that morning. I missed him, but technology made it possible to still feel close to each other.
And, as ever, we both had work to do: Garry was preparing for the start of the basketball season and his trip to Japan; I was nailing down the final leg of my journey through Australasia, as well as trying to find some dates in Japan. Fortunately, my friend Kylie worked for the tourist board, plus by lucky chance I was on a radio program with a journalist based in Japan. I emailed him after the interview and he got straight back, saying he’d be delighted to date me, though warned:
I’ve only been here a month, so don’t expect me to know anything! Will, emailing from Tokyo
For the first time since I’d made the decision to undertake this adventure, I felt calm and content. Possibly because I’d met my Soul Mate and was now on the home stretch of my journey, but also because it seemed that my theory of working your way to your Soul Mate was valid after all. I felt a real sense of satisfaction and achievement and—I have to admit it—All-Purpose Flirty.
This isn’t a type of bathroom cleaner, it’s one of the side effects of falling in love. I felt so happy and good about everything, I think I must have been exuding a sort of cheerful, uncomplicated energy. I don’t know which way round it happened, but total strangers were smiling and saying hello, holding doors open, and generally being lovely. And I was doing it all right back.
It was like the Love Professor said: You get back what you put out there.
Of course, it was all because I’d met Garry. I was aware of the irony: that falling for him seemed to have made me more noticeable and, possibly, more attractive to other men. This came in handy, as I still had another twenty dates to go, but at the same time I didn’t want to do anything that was going to threaten my relationship with Garry.
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I’ll be honest, I really didn’t understand how he was managing to cope; it must have been a nightmare for him. If the tables were turned and he told me he was dating twenty women, I can tell you now, I would have completely lost it. Maybe it was because he’d known all along that this was what I was doing, or maybe he was just choosing not to think about it. Whatever the reason, I wanted to help by making it as painless for him as possible. I tried to get the balance right between telling him what I was doing (whether going swimming with Cath or securing a date in Melbourne) but being sensitive to his feelings and not telling him in a way that would hurt or distress him. It was important I didn’t keep things from him: Honesty was one of the few straight lines we had in this hall-of-mirrors situation. But I didn’t want to make him jealous either, a strong but ultimately useless bond that would foster nothing good. I wanted him to choose to be close because he liked me, not because I was driving him mad and he was scared of losing me.
So I got on with my job.
I dated Robert (or Irritating Robert, as I was soon to think of him), one of the website dating people who’d been the most persistent. Every couple of weeks or so for the last three months it had been:
Hello Jen, Rob here again!!!! So where are you now?!! Still traveling or are you back in old Blighty? Any chance you might have time for a little drinky?!! Rob xx
The abundance of punctuation was unnerving, but it was the excessive use of animated smilies that had me on red alert—reading an email peppered with flashing grins, waves, winks, and blinks was like sitting in front of a short-circuiting traffic light.
Whether I saw myself as the Patron Saint of Single Souls, dispensing mercy dates among the relationship needy, finally giving in to Robert turned out to be a bad idea. Robert (Date #61) asked me to dinner at the Dorchester. Not my kind of place, but I went, only to find he’d invited me to his office Summer Ball and told everyone I was his girlfriend.
