by Dori Lavelle
“Excuse me,” I asked.
“I’m sorry for disturbing.” He pauses. “I just wondered if you were visiting friends in Mexico or came as a tourist.
“Both.” I turn my head to look ahead, discouraging him from continuing the conversation, but even looking away, I sense him watching me, waiting for me to say more. I keep my mouth shut because I’m in no mood to talk to anyone right now. My focus is on leaving this country.
As soon as I reach home, I’ll pick up the pieces and restart my life. This time I’ll work harder on forgetting Lance LaClaire.
And yet a niggling feeling inside of me makes it hard for me not to think about him, the way his eyes had looked when he told me he doesn’t have any chances to give. He lied. His words said one thing, but his eyes told a different story. He was hurting as much as I was. He wanted me to stay in his life just as much as he wanted me out. But that’s over now. As much as it hurts, loving someone doesn’t mean you’re meant to be together.
“Did you have a good time in Mexico?” The man continues our one-sided conversation. “Was it what you expected?”
Why do some people feel that because you’ll be spending a couple of hours on the plane with them you have to talk to each other? Normally I wouldn’t mind so much, but I’m not in the right head space. I hope he won’t be bombarding me with more questions during the trip.
I let out an inaudible sigh and turn back to face him. “Not really.” He has no idea that while he’s talking about Mexico the country, I’m referring to the experience.
“You’re not much of a talker, are you?” A smile curls his thin lips.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m a little exhausted, that’s all.”
“I fully understand that.” He pulls a newspaper from his briefcase and leans back in his chair, eyes still on me. “I apologize for the disturbance. Please rest. I won’t bother you.”
“I ... I didn’t mean to be rude—”
“No need to apologize. It’s just that I travel a lot, and I realized that the flights seem much shorter when I talk to other people. It doesn’t have to be like that for everyone.”
Even though he keeps looking at me from time to time, he no longer strikes up conversation until the plane leaves the ground. Instead, he occupies himself with reading his newspaper and fiddling with the TV.
I hold my breath when the plane leaves the ground. I may not have completely let go of my fear of flying, which is related to my fear of heights.
I plug in my earphones again and focus on the sounds of nature. I can do this. I made it through the flight to Mexico, I’ll be fine this time as well.
The moment the airplane rises above the clouds, images of Lance and me in the hot air balloon hijack my mind. I watch as my expression changed from nervousness to excitement. As the images become clearer in my mind, my skin remembers the feel of Lance’s touch when he took my hand to calm me down. I watch the dimples flatter his cheeks when he smiled at me as though I was the only person in the world.
I look away from the window, from the clouds, but my heart has started to ache, and my world is spinning first in slow motion and then fast.
Blinking several times to chase off the dizziness doesn’t work. I can feel my throat closing, cutting off my air supply. Panic riots through me and my pulse skitters. I lean forward, shoving my head between my knees, squeezing my eyes shut, forcing air into my lungs. My hands tighten around my throat as choking sounds exit my lips.
A hand warms my back, but I don’t respond as nausea hits my belly. Bitter bile burns the back of my throat like acid.
“Are you okay, miss?” My fellow passenger breaks the silence between us. His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away, barely making it through the rush in my ears.
Unable to respond, I lift my head and press it to the back of the seat in front of me. Sweat drips onto one of the magazines in the small pocket attached to the back of the seat.
I swallow hard, force my heart to settle down, but it refuses. Images of Lance still flicker in my mind. I don’t know whether my panic attack is related to my fear of flying or the fear of letting him go. Maybe both.
I need to let go of his face, need to let go of the memories or they will paralyze me. Maybe one day I’ll think of him and smile, grateful for the brief moments we spent together, but right now thoughts of him make me sick.
The man next to me is talking to someone now, a flight attendant perhaps, but his words are still muffled, out of reach. I want to look, but I’m frozen.
My hand clutches my stomach when I start to heave. Through the black dots in front of my eyes, I see that someone has placed a small bucket under me. The heaving doesn’t bring anything out of my stomach, nothing but air.
Several more voices are asking me if I’m okay, but words continue to fail me.
Someone places a hand between my shoulder blades, and I want to shake it off. It feels too warm. Although the gesture is meant to show kindness, it makes me feel worse.
Finally, the dizziness subsides. I wipe the sweat from my forehead and lift my head, which feels way too heavy.
“She’s fine,” a female voice says.
Ignoring the many faces watching me, I look at the man next to me, the man I didn’t want to talk to and part my lips to speak. Nothing comes out. I lick my dry lips and try again. “My ... my medicine. Panic attack.”
The man’s face folds with concern. “How are you feeling?” He lifts a hand to touch me, but changes his mind and brings it back to his body. “Do you feel better?”
I try to nod, but my chin hits my chest. “Medicine, please,” I croak. “Inside my bag.”
He gets the message and grabs my handbag from where it sits at my feet. He rummages inside and comes out with a white bottle, the right one, and presses it into my hand. A flight attendant fills a glass with water, the liquid gurgling as it hits the bottom and races to the top.
I’m unable to open the bottle of pills. My hands won’t stop shaking.
“Let me.” My neighbor takes the bottle from me and opens it. “How many?”
“Two, please.” The concern in his voice makes me feel rotten for the way I had brushed him off earlier. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” I watch as the white pills fall into the palm of his hand and he hands them to me.
I throw them into my mouth and wash them down with the entire glass of water. Then I lean back in my seat and take a deep breath.
I assure everyone watching me that I’m all right. Relieved, the flight attendants finally leave.
Blinking away the rest of the black dots in front of my eyes, I turn to glance out of the window again, refusing to let my fears have the best of me. Fortunately, thoughts of Lance have disappeared with the dizziness.
It’s time to prepare for the next chapter in my life, a chapter without him in it. But before I let him go completely, I pull out a notepad and pen and write him a goodbye letter for closure.
24
Alice
“I’m sorry, Alice, I’m just not fond of that venue, either.”
“Roselle,” I say calmly. “We have to come to a decision fast. The wedding is only six months away.”
Sometimes I hate being a wedding planner, especially when I come across a bride-to-be who suffers from the curse of indecision.
In the past week, I presented Roselle Mercier with so many options, but she hated every one of them. There was always something wrong. She doesn’t like the venues, constantly changes her mind about the flowers, suddenly doesn’t like the invitation cards, which have already been mailed out and there’s nothing we can do about it. Now every time she walks through my office door, I dread our conversations.
“I know. I know I’m being a bridezilla, but I want it all to be perfect. I need to follow my heart, and right now it doesn’t like that château.”
“It also didn’t like the previous one and the one before it.” I clasp my hands in front of me on the desk. “Do you mind if I ask you a
personal question?”
“Sure.” Roselle twirls a lock of her long, blonde hair around her index finger. The movement causes her huge diamond engagement ring to sparkle.
“I hope I’m not overstepping here, but I’m kind of getting the impression that you might not really want this.”
“Want what exactly?” Her face clouds.
“The wedding.” I cross my legs under my white vintage office desk. “Roselle, do you really want to get married?”
Her expression tightens. “Why are you asking me that question?”
“Forgive me if I’m wrong, but you’re unable to make a decision about anything to do with this wedding. Could it be that subconsciously you don’t want it to happen?”
Her shoulders sink. “It doesn’t matter whether I want to get married or not. I’ve been dating Alexandre for ten years. It’s time. I wanted this.” She pauses. “I do want this. I’ve waited a long time for him to propose, and he finally did. I have no reason not to want to marry him. He’s my whole world.”
“Ten years together is a long time. Maybe you’re scared things might change once you’re married.” Asking all these questions makes me feel like a psychologist, but I guess that’s what I am to some of my clients. Weddings have a way of sometimes bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes someone from the outside often needs to step in before the people involved are swept away by their emotions.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Roselle twists her engagement ring around her finger, big brown eyes hooded by her long lashes.
“Yes, of course.” It’s not as if we hang out in the same circles anyway. After this wedding, we will probably never see each other again. There are times after a wedding ends where I lie in bed, several months or years later, wondering if the couples I organized a wedding for are still together, still happy.
“I cheated on Alexandre.” She removes the ring only to slide it back onto the finger again. “It ... It happened two months ago.” Her lips tremble as she speaks. “I’m pregnant.”
I unfold my arms and lean back. I definitely didn’t expect that. They looked so happy and in love a couple of months ago when they walked into my office. “Does Alexandre know?”
“I told him last night ... about the baby. He doesn’t know I slept with someone else.”
I’m quiet for a long time, wondering what to say to her. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. “What did he say?”
“He wants us to get married sooner. He’s excited about being a father.” A tear trickles down her cheek. “But I feel so bad for lying to him. But if I tell him the truth, he might leave me.”
I’m dying to know why she did it, why she cheated on the man she claims to love so much. But it’s not my place, and I don’t want to judge. There’s only one thing for me to do. I place a hand on hers.
“Roselle,” I swallow hard. “I’m sorry to say this, but I think you have a lot of things to work out first before you decide to get married. I’ll be here if you do decide to go ahead with the wedding.”
She nods and her wet gaze meets mine. “Alice, have you ever loved someone so much it hurts?”
“Yes.” I detach my gaze from hers. “Yes, I have.”
It’s been six months since I said goodbye to Lance, and I’m still in the process of picking up the pieces of my heart. I’ve glued a few of them together, but some are pulverized to the point I can’t pick them up. And others got lost along the way. But I’m doing fine walking around with an incomplete heart.
My business gets me through the tough times. When I wrote him the goodbye letter on the plane, I never expected to get a response, but it still hurt when he didn’t write back. His decision to move on with his life made it easier for me to do the same. In my weak moments, when thoughts of him invade my mind, I do my best to remember the good times. I hold on to the belief that each day is a step closer to healing.
“Alexandre is my heart,” Roselle says. “I don’t know why I cheated on him with a random guy at a bar. I tried to stop myself, but I couldn’t. Then it was too late.” She blinks away tears.
“I’m really sorry. I wish I could help you with this.”
Roselle drops her head into her hands.
My cell phone rings. Emile’s name flashes on the screen but I ignore it for a moment.
“Roselle, look at me.”
She looks up, eyes wet. “I don’t know what to do.”
I hand her a tissue from a silver box on my desk. “Maybe you should think about telling Alexandre the truth. If you don’t, the guilt will eat at you. Or he might find out by accident.”
“Yeah.” She purses her lips. “Maybe you’re right. Alexandre knows me too well. It’s only a matter of time before he reads my mind.” She rises to her feet. “I’ll call you next week to let you know how to proceed.”
She walks out of the room with shoulders hunched and tears still streaking her cheeks. I’d hate to be in her shoes.
Alone again, I return Emile’s call. The past week she’s been home sick with a bad cold. But it’s okay because our business has been doing so well that we had to hire two additional wedding planners to help.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Not good,” she says, breathless. “You have to come home, please.”
My spine straightens. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“I did something stupid. The apartment is on fire. I fell asleep and forgot to put out the cigarette.” She coughs. “I should have listened to you and quit the damn things.”
I’m already on my feet and on my way out the door. “How bad is the fire?”
“Really bad. I’m so sorry, Alice.”
I’m barely able to breathe as I run out the door and get into my car. “Are you hurt?” Belongings can be replaced, but not my friend.“Where are you now?” My words have a hard time coming out of my constricted throat.
“I’m fine. I got out in time. I’m outside. The firefighters are on the way.”
“I’m on my way.” I start the ignition, but before I drive off, I take a moment to breathe in, to pull myself together. I remind myself that some things in life happen, and we can’t avoid them. We can only control the way we react to them. Panicking right now wouldn’t be a good idea.
Despite the traffic, I make it home in record time. As I approach the house, I’m surprised not to see any sign of smoke or fire. I quickly pull into the parking space assigned to our apartment and jump out of the car.
I’m breathless by the time I reach the last floor and burst into the apartment.
Emile is sprawled across our printed yellow couch, a smile on her face.
“Emile, what’s going on?” My gaze darts around. “You said there was a fire.” I lift my hands and let them fall. “Why would you lie about something like that?”
“I’m sorry, lovely.” She sits up. “You’ve been working so much. You need to slow down a little. Since you returned from Cabo, all you do is work. I wanted to ask you to lunch, but if I did, you wouldn’t have agreed.”
“I can’t believe you scared me like that.” I collapse onto the couch. “You of all people.”
She comes to place a hand on my back. “Breathe, just breathe. It’s all right.” She pauses. “It was a bad joke. I should have come up with something else.”
“Forget about it.” I rise to my feet. “I was having a bad day, anyway. At least you look like you’re feeling better.” My gaze takes in Emile’s pale face. Her nose is still red from being blown too many times, but I’m glad to see she got her strength back.
“The worst is certainly over.” She touches one of her auburn pigtails.
“Well, let me go have a quick shower. We could go out for a pizza.”
I pick up my purse and walk the twenty steps to my room. I push the door open and freeze.
“No,” I whisper, clutching my chest. “Lance?”
“Yes.” Lance is standing next to my bed with the help of crutches. His wheelchair is folded, leaning against one
of my peach-colored walls. “It’s me. I wanted to surprise you. I didn’t think your friend would be able to pull it off.”
I close the door and take a few unsure steps into the room toward him. I’m finding it hard to believe he’s real. “I can’t believe you’re here. And you’re ... wow!” Tears flood my throat.
“I’m real. Come here.” A grin sweeps across his face. “Come and touch me. See for yourself.”
“What happened? How?” I glance at his wheelchair and then back at him.
“The past few months I was in South Africa undergoing an intensive experimental treatment. It’s working.” He lowers his gaze to his legs, then raises it again, eyes dancing. “Well, I’m not quite there yet, but my body is reacting well. I might never really walk again, but as you can see, I can stand ... with a little help.” He pauses. “I only saw your letter when I returned home last week.”
My hands fly to my mouth. “Oh, my God, Lance. I can’t believe this.” My vision blurs.
He’s here. I’m made a choice to give him up. I said goodbye. Now he’s here. He has not forgotten me. He didn’t give up on us. I’m so overwhelmed with emotion, I don’t even know how to feel.
“What are you waiting for? Come here and hug me already.”
My entire body is hot as I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around his neck. He buries his face into my shoulder and inhales. “You still smell so good … like home.” He pauses. “After you left, I felt completely empty. Nothing and no one could fill the hole you left in my life.” He sniffs as I hold on tight. “I was a fool to let you go, even when you showed me that I can live. Even if I never walk again, I can live. I want to experience life with you, if you’ll still have me.”
I pull away from him, tears pouring from my eyes. “Do you mean that?”
“I’ve never meant anything more in my life.” He gives me a mischievous grin. “And by the way, we happen to have some unfinished business. I came all this way because I want to make love to you.”
