Second Chance

by Katie Kacvinsky

  I sigh and lean back on my hands and suddenly a giant, neon orange wing soars over the café’s green awning above me. Its satin fabric stretches at least fifty feet in the air and tucked in the center is a small, black, human body. The whole creature looks part human, part plane, part butterfly. A blue kite glides in behind the orange one and they glissade back and forth, like they’re sweeping a section of the sky. The orange glider touches down in the empty field across from me.

  My hand instinctively reaches for my camera, but I’m out of film.

  I do the next best thing.

  I grab my journal out of my backpack and use a pencil to outline the shape of the kites, so I can safely store the image.

  “Are you seeing this?” I ask to no one in particular and I’m answered by a young couple passing behind me on the sidewalk, both carrying breakfast croissants wrapped in paper.

  “They’re jumping off those cliffs,” the guy answers me. He waves his finger at a rise of jagged hills behind the restaurant that frame the edge of the valley town. “They’re just hang gliding,” he points out, like it’s no big deal.

  I stare up at the cliffs towering thousands of feet into the sky. “That’s such amazing trust,” I say. “Can you imagine throwing your body off the side of a cliff and having faith something will catch you?”

  I look between them and wait for an answer. They both stare at me like our eyes are seeing different things, which is a common response to most of my observations. But I barely notice their reaction because an image pops into my head. I think people can be like those wings, people can catch us and help us glide to a smooth landing after we jump and free fall from making crazy decisions. It makes me think of Gray, my human hang glider. It’s a sign.

  I spring to my feet, swing my backpack over my shoulder and half skip, half run down the sidewalk toward an Internet café. I almost trip over the curb when I cross the street because I’m still looking up at the sky. My heart’s hammering as if I just experienced my own free fall. Suddenly hang gliders are everywhere. I see them in an older couple sitting on a bench, the woman using the man’s shoulder as a pillow. I see them in kids holding hands to cross the street and friends leaning over table tops, talking and laughing. I don’t doubt what I’m about to do because my split second decisions are always my best.

  How did I not realize what my next move needs to be? That he is where I need to be?

  I sprint up the stairs of the café entrance and walk inside a lobby that smells like sweat and dusty travelers. There’s a line five people deep waiting to get on the available computers. I lean against the wall and grab my frayed, red wallet out of my backpack. I pull out the plane voucher for my return flight home, given to me by the family that flew me out to Europe four months ago. Has it seriously been four months?

  I tap the voucher impatiently against my chest. Now I just have to come up with a memorable surprise plan. I could show up at Gray’s front door wearing a giant red bow, like in those car commercials. Or, even better, I’ll design a scavenger hunt and take him all over the city until it leads back to his bedroom, where I’ll be waiting for him. Naked.

  I can already feel his arms around me, welcoming me home.

  GRAY

  Lenny, Miles and I walk into the Velvet Room, a restaurant downtown that hosts live music every night. It’s one of our first nights off in weeks. My suspension is over and I’ve pitched three winning games, so Miles has agreed to let me out, under his direct supervision. Lenny’s taking us to see a local band called Chuck’s Angel. They took a month-long break and now they’re back to their regular Thursday night gigs.

  We walk downstairs into the crowded bar and pay a five dollar cover charge. The basement room’s dimly lit and the wide space has a few open tables in the back. The walls are covered in dark blue velvet, as well as the bar stools and seat cushions. The band has already started their set when we sit down. They have an acoustic, folk sound and Cat Parker’s voice is low and breathy as if she has to push her notes out from deep in her chest. She’s wearing a short skirt with dark tights and an army hat.

  “She is hot,” Miles says, gaping at her. I have officially given up guessing his type. A month ago he dragged me to a gymnastics meet to watch a girl who was five feet tall perform acrobatic feats to bad music. She moved with so much elasticity it was uncomfortable to watch. I’m pretty sure it was her flexibility that lured Miles. Cat Parker is the exact opposite, with her black combat boots and curvy shape.

  When a waitress takes our order, Lenny asks if we want to split a pitcher and I tell her only if it’s non-alcoholic beer.

  “What? Don’t you have a fake ID?” she whispers to me, and I remind her I’m on probation for the rest of my scholarship-endorsed life. Miles and I each order sodas.

  “I thought your probation was for drugs?” she asks.

  “Alcohol is a drug, Lenny,” I say, although most people that live in a college town would argue that alcohol is as vital to consume on a daily basis as water. She points out she meant illegal drugs.

  “I’m not twenty-one,” I remind her. “It is illegal.”

  “Ugh, athletes,” she mumbles.

  Miles shushes us because Cat’s speaking to the crowd. She thanks us for coming and introduces her band. I scan the audience and make eye contact with a cute brunette across the room. She smiles at me from the bar. She’s wearing knee high black boots and a short skirt and it’s pretty hot. I smile back.

  Cat explains her next song is a cover and dedicated to an experience she had with an unexpected friend she made in Switzerland. She starts strumming her guitar and I recognize the riff for Shelter From The Storm. I wince a little because this song has always reminded me of Dylan.

  “Is it my imagination,” Lenny says, “Or is the bar slowly migrating in our direction?”

  Miles and I look around at the room full of girls and I point out we’re two of the only guys in the audience. Miles nods and says we should check out chick bands more often.

  “Speaking of women,” Miles says and looks at me, “whatever happened with that girl? Dana? You haven’t mentioned her in a while.”

  “Dylan,” I say. Just the word on my tongue makes the edges of my brain sizzle. I take a sip of my drink and shake my head. “That’s over,” I say. Lenny’s mouth drops open and she reminds me I referred to Dylan as the love of my life.

  “That was the pot talking,” I inform her. “I think I also vowed eternal love for grilled cheese sandwiches and tater tots.”

  “The good ol’ days,” Lenny says with a smile. We’re all quiet for a few minutes while we watch the band and absorb the sound. My mind starts to decompress; a natural reaction to live music. Cat begins another song, this one an original. Lenny glances sideways at me and asks if I’m seriously over Dylan. I nod and it doesn’t feel forced.

  “I haven’t seen her since Christmas,” I say, like that should explain it. Like time can erase feelings. “That was over four months ago.”

  “True love knows no boundaries,” Lenny mocks.

  “True love can take the hint someone in Europe forgot you exist,” I say.

  I glance around the bar. The room is filling with people. I notice a half dozen girls cuter than Dylan. They wear clothes that actually fit, they comb their hair and look presentable and I can see their fingernails painted in bright colors instead of embedded with dirt and sand and chewed off. These are real women. Dylan was just a big kid.

  I try to think of a word that defines Dylan. She isn’t cute. Or pretty. Or hot. She’s like an abstract painting—something that catches your eye and forces you to stop and study it, but it’s difficult to label what you see. All you know is you’re staring at something unique. It’s interesting for a while, but now I want a girl who attempts to be feminine, who’s going to college and has realistic goals. Besides, why waste my time wanting the one woman I can never have?

  Lenny asks me what I would do if Dylan walked through the door, right now.

  “Wh
at would you say if she walked up to our table and said she was passing through town?”

  My eyes fall back on the girl across the room and she looks up at me and smiles. Game on. I set my glass down and look Lenny straight in the eyes, giving her the same intense gaze I give batters on the plate to remind them who’s in control.

  “I’d tell her to keep right on going,” I say, and stand up to go talk to this girl.

  DYLAN

  I’m so tired I’m pretty sure I could sleep standing up. Maybe I’ll try. I haven’t eaten a meal in twenty-four hours, except for a Rold Gold Snack Mix (ranch flavored) the airline so generously gave us as a complimentary snack to tide us over during the ten hour flight from Zurich to Chicago. Definitely satisfying.

  As I stand in line to board my third flight, I try to remember where I am and where I’ve been in the last thirty hours. It started with a 5 a.m. train ride out of Interlaken to catch a 9 a.m. flight to Chicago. I didn’t sleep a wink because two toddlers on the plane decided to have alternating meltdowns. I had a three hour layover before I caught a flight to Dallas. Now, only one hour and forty minutes of air travel separates me from Gray.

  When I finally arrive at the airport in Albuquerque, my body moves with all the grace and coordination of a bag of lead. My lips are chapped, my eyes hurt, and my shoes smell so bad I consider throwing them away, but I’m too tired to untie the laces. I trip over my own feet on the way to the baggage claim and decide to take a short rest against the wall, next to the restrooms. I have to wait for my luggage, anyway.

  ***

  Distant voices try to wake me up, but I refuse to open my eyes. If lack of sleep were an Olympic competition, I could have placed at least silver. So I deserve a nap. Their mumbling continues to stir the air around me. They sound French. Wait, am I in France? I can’t remember.

  “Pas, merci,” I say without opening my eyes and swat my arm in the air. “Aller-on.” Wow. I’m impressed I remember the words for no, thank you and go away in my dazed subconscious.

  “What is she saying?” I hear an elderly voice whisper.

  “I think she’s French,” another woman answers.

  Ugh, great. Wrong language. Where am I again? Germany?

  “Nicht, danke,” I groan.

  “What was that?” someone asks.

  “She must be from Europe.”

  I recognize the American voices and open my eyes to meet the concerned gaze of two gray-haired women leaning down and peering in my face. They step back, startled.

  “Dear, we were worried about you,” one of them says to me slowly as if she thinks I can’t understand English. “You looked unconscious.”

  I pull myself up and press my hand against my forehead to try and ease a head rush that feels like someone is banging a metal hammer against the side of my head. I stare with a frown at the conveyer belt. There’s my lowly duffel bag, still making its rounds like an old, abandoned dog waiting for someone to notice it.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” I say and rub my eyes. I blink and try to focus on the friendly faces that look concerned for my well-being.

  “Is someone picking you up?” one of them asks me.

  “Where am I?” I ask and I fast forward through the last few hours of my memory. Chicago? No. Dallas?

  “Albuquerque, New Mexico in the United States of America,” the old lady says slowly.

  I slap my palm against my forehead. “That’s it.” And then it hits me. I’m here! After traveling over land, ocean, mountains, desert and experiencing way too much turbulence, I’m home. Only miles, minutes from Gray, who will take me in his arms and let me sleep for forty-eight hours and rip off my clothes and throw me down on the bed and act out my sexual fantasies and eat a huge plate of biscuits and gravy. Not necessarily in that order.

  I grab a scrap of paper out of my pocket with Gray’s address and tell these women I need a cab. One of them introduces herself as Margaret and insists on seeing me safely home. I smile and thank her. I get to my feet and waddle to the bathroom to brush my teeth and wash my face, which I discover has deep indents down the side of my cheek from sleeping on my backpack. I brush my teeth with my index finger because I’m too exhausted to look for my toothbrush. I’m so done with traveling for a while.

  ***

  Margaret turns her old Cadillac onto Gray’s street and I look around with a content smile. The off-campus housing is exactly how I imagined it. Old, two and three story homes sit close to each other under large maple trees that line the sidewalks. Students pedal by on bikes or walk along the sidewalk, clutching mugs of coffee. Mmm. Coffee. Guys are throwing footballs in the street and grilling out on front porches with beers in their hands and flip flops on their feet. I feel like I’m watching an infomercial advertising the diverse and happy student lifestyle at the University of New Mexico.

  I ask Margaret to pull over when I see Gray’s house. It’s white with blue shutters framing the windows, has three stories, and looks like a giant birthday cake. Maybe I’m just hungry. If I were a giant I’d light candles on top of it and kick off my own welcome home party. I get out of the car and stretch while Margaret unlocks the trunk so I can grab my duffel bag. She hugs me and welcomes me once more to the United States. She assures me I’ll love it here and that Americans are very friendly.

  I fibbed a little bit and told her I was from Switzerland. She was so excited to help a foreigner—I didn’t want to disappoint her. Margaret drives down the street and I wave goodbye. I cross the sidewalk and gaze up at his house. I try to guess Gray’s window. If I lived here, I’d want the top room because they always have the low, slanting ceilings and this one has its own fire escape. Butterflies fill my stomach as I trudge up the porch steps and knock on the front door. I know sexy is the furthest word to describe my appearance and clean is far from my current state of hygiene, but I still hope Gray will at least wrap his arms around me. I knock on the door again, louder this time, but I’m answered by silence. I decide the porch will do just fine for a temporary bed and roll out my newly acquired airplane blanket, a souvenir I felt entitled to. Thanks, Delta.

  I stretch the blanket on the wood porch and use my duffel bag as a pillow. I throw my blue hooded sweatshirt over my shoulders and pull the hood over my face to block out the light. I’ll just relax for a few minutes. Just until I come up with a plan.

  GRAY

  The four of us amble up the steps to the front door, getting home late from a three hour practice. It’s past dinner and we’re all starving. Todd suddenly stops in front of me at the top of the stairs and I almost run into him. Miles and Bubba run into me until the four of us are huddled in a human traffic jam. I follow Todd’s startled gaze to the ground near his feet.

  “Dude, we’ve got a homeless person on our porch,” he says quietly and points to this girl, sprawled out on the floor like our address was recently listed as a shelter. She’s got a blue Hawaii sweatshirt wrapped around her chest and a square, navy blue blanket spread out underneath her. She’s using a tattered black duffel bag as a giant pillow. The hood of her sweatshirt is covering her face. It’s only evident it’s a girl by the delicate arm resting on her chest and the long, brown hair spilling out underneath her sweatshirt in a messy braid.

  “That’s just sad,” Miles says and walks closer to her. He tentatively pokes the side of her leg with his toe, but she just snorts. “She must be strung out.”

  “Maybe she’s a runaway,” I say because she looks young.

  “I’m calling the police,” Todd says.

  “Wait,” I say and grab Todd’s wrist. My eyes widen with shock when I notice familiar silver rings on her fingers. I bend down to get a closer look at this skinny rail of a girl.

  It couldn’t be. I inch closer to her and lift the sweatshirt hood. When I see her face I freeze. Long eye lashes, golden freckles, and perfect lips greet me, a face branded in my memory.

  “Dylan,” I say under my breath. The guys hear me and start to crack up.

  “T
hat’s Dylan?” Bubba says with disbelief. I slowly nod and keep my eyes focused on her. “That’s the chick no one else can compare to, the one you’ve been pining over all year?”

  I stand up and frown. “I haven’t been pining,” I argue.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Todd asks with concern in his voice, like she just broke out of a drug rehab clinic.

  “Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s been backpacking through Europe,” I inform them. “She probably just got home.”

  “And came to Albuquerque of all places? I’m not buying it. I bet she hitchhiked here,” Bubba says. He walks inside, laughing, and Todd shakes his head and follows him. I cross my arms over my chest and stare down at her. Her mouth is parted slightly and her stomach is rising and sinking in a repetitive motion. I can hear deep breaths move in and out of her nose. She’s out cold. Miles stands next to me and studies her.

  “So, this is the love of your life?” he asks.

  “Was,” I remind him. Miles backs up towards the door, either to give me space to pick her up, or out of fear of what will happen when I rouse sleeping beauty.

  I study her long, lanky body and frown at those baggy jeans, a style choice she obviously hasn’t grown out of. Or into. I say her name a few times to wake her, but all she answers me with is a grumpy moan and I think I hear something like merci.

  I take a deep breath and scoop her up in my arms. Her comatose body has all the grace of a wet noodle and her arms and legs flop lifelessly as I lift her off the ground. It isn’t sexy, but I consider that a good thing. I don’t want to see Dylan as sexy. I don’t want to see Dylan, period.

  Miles opens the door for me and my newly acquired baggage. I carry her up the four flights of stairs to my bedroom. I imagined our reunion several times but in my daydream she always showed up to surprise me naked, or maybe wearing black lingerie. I never imagined it like this, with her mouth hanging open and a strand of drool wetting my T-shirt, just below my collarbone.