One More For The Road

by Delilah Blake

  I occasionally send a letter or postcard to my sister, informing her of my new life, my new apartment, my job at the restaurant. She says the relationship between Andrew’s family and my family has become understandably strained. No one has figured out where I am, however, and like a good sister, she keeps my secret.

  She informs me Andrew is enjoying his new job in Virginia. Hearing about his new life doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would, and with each correspondence, I find I’m heartened by news of his fresh start. I’m happy for him. We’re both moving on, moving forward, even though I’m constantly haunted by my past.

  Try as I might, it isn’t easy to forget the man I left behind in Las Vegas, and I often wake in a cold sweat, his lips, his smile, his tears, his final plea for me to stay calling out from my dreams. I press my cheek to my pillow and pretend it’s his chest. I pull my blankets around my shoulders and pretend it is arms instead. I find myself searching for him on the streets, seeing his face around shop corners or over on the neighboring pier and I quickly realize just how crazy this train of thought is. Reason tells me he’s moved on, like Andrew, like I should, traveling to the other side of the country, finding someone else to love. The dull ache in my heart eventually becomes a constant soreness, and I find the steady pain a compromise I can live with.

  Until it isn’t.

  “Frances!”

  I nearly plow into Jun as I turn the final corner to The Singing Dragon. She runs full tilt across the pavement, her long black hair spread like a cape behind her. I swerve quickly, swinging the bags of fresh vegetables in an arc to avoid knocking her unconscious with a head of cauliflower.

  “Frances!” she cries again, screeching to a halt. Her cheeks are pink, her skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. “Mrs. Wen needs you at the restaurant!”

  My brain jumps into overdrive. “Is something wrong? Is everyone alright?”

  “Yeah,” she breathes deeply and puts her hands on her knees. “Everyone is fine! Mrs. Wen just needs you back right away! She says it’s urgent!”

  She isn’t making any sense. Why would Mrs. Wen need me? She knows I’m out running errands for her. So why the emergency?

  “What’s the matter?” I ask, trying to gain some sort of grasp on the situation.

  She responds by pulling at the crook of my elbow. “Come on! Hurry!”

  I nod, resigning myself to not getting any answers. “Okay, okay. Just help me carry some of this and we’ll go.”

  We make it back to the restaurant in record time, sneaking in through an alleyway entrance with an exhausted Jun panting for breath at my side. I’m completely out of breath and sweating through my loose autumn sweater and jeans, my hair sticking to my forehead and back of my neck like limp, overcooked noodles.

  “Frances!” Mrs. Wen cries as I place the grocery bags on the nearest countertop. She walks over and takes my hands in hers as her face splits with a grin. “Someone is here for you.”

  How can anyone be here for me? Katie is the only person on the planet who knows where I am, and she would never travel across the country just to see me. Sisterly love only goes so far.

  “Mrs. Wen,” I say calmly as I tie my hair up. Are you sure it’s not just a customer? I can take care of the table if you want.”

  It’s my afternoon off, but I’m more than willing to help Mrs. Wen out if she’s swamped. I realize, however, that it’s 3 o’clock and the dining room will be anything but busy.

  “No!” she beams. “He asked for you by name!”

  I turn to Jun who has taken a spot by the stove. Her lovely almond-shaped eyes are alight and wide. I still can’t read the expression coloring her face. Excitement, yes, but there’s something else, too. Fear, maybe?

  I nod and allow myself to be pushed through the swinging kitchen doors to the main dining room.

  My heart stops.

  My feet become rooted to the spot as I take in Jesse, alone at a table across the room, his back is to the kitchen, shoulders bent over a glass of water he’s stirring in gentle circles with a straw.

  For the first time in months, I don’t know what to do. My feet seem incapable of moving either forwards or backwards. My eyes sting as a rush of nausea hits my stomach like a wrecking ball.

  How is this possible?

  How can he be here?

  Why couldn’t he just stay away?

  Why am I not angrier?

  Mrs. Wen gives my hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze before retreating into the kitchen.

  Three months ago, I might have followed her out those doors. I would have run and never looked back. I’m not proud of the fact, but it’s true regardless. The old Frances, the one without a sense of accountability, she would have left without a second thought.

  But a person can change. These past few months have not only shaped me into a new person, and I will be eternally grateful for all this city has done for me; for all it’s given me.

  I won’t run again.

  My feet finally find the will to move forward. One step. Two steps. Three. The dining room is almost empty, the only other table occupied by an elderly couple I recognize from the drycleaners down the street.

  I’m close enough to see his hand clenched into a fist on the table, tanned skin pulled taut over his knuckles. His hair seems longer than when I last saw him, a good inch below his jaw line, and his already lean figure is thinner than I remember.

  I reach the side of his table, standing as awkward and stiff as a board.

  He doesn’t look up from his glass of water. “Hello, Frannie.”

  It’s like an old friend, that nickname. Hearing it for the first time in months sounds strange to my ears, but I welcome it wholeheartedly.

  He finally lifts his head and meets my gaze with twin pools so dark I want to drown in them. Jesse’s face is like an open book, so expressive and emotional, like a beautifully written novel I never want to put down.

  My next breath lodges in my throat.

  It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, talked to him, laughed with him, touched him, kissed him. My body practically screams for his with every second spent looking at him.

  What good did my leaving do? It was supposed to have kept him safe. He was supposed to have moved on! I’m supposed to have moved on! How, in a city of millions, did he know where to find me?

  There’s no escape from my thoughts. I’m tempted to close my eyes, to see if I can make him disappear by sheer force of will. But I know I’m just as likely to erase San Francisco from the map as erase his form in front of me.

  His eyes narrow in on my face as he gestures with his hand to the open seat across the table from him. “Sit,” he says in a pleasant tone that suggests neither hostility nor uncertainty.

  I find myself agreeing to his proposition, plopping down in the empty chair without an ounce of decorum. My knees pop embarrassingly as they bend.

  He doesn’t waste time. “I know my being here probably comes as a surprise to you.”

  That’s the understatement of the year.

  He either doesn’t catch my reaction or chooses to ignore it. “To be honest, it’s a bit of a shock to me as well. I know you told me you want to be on your own and I respect that. I do. I just… couldn’t stop thinking about the last time we were together. That night in the hotel.”

  I cringe at the memory.

  “It’s taken me months to get to this point,” he takes a deep breath, “but I need an opportunity to end things on better terms. That’s why I’m here.”

  I nod, shell-shocked to respond with anything more.

  “First things first, I suppose,” he says, sweeping his hair off his brow. There aren’t words to describe exactly how wonderful the simple gesture is. “I’m sure you’re wondering how I found you.”

  He seems oddly cavalier about all of this, not the least bit unnerved by our strange meeting. I nod a “yes” and he continues.

  “After you… left,” he forces the word out and for the first time hi
s relaxed demeanor falters, “I couldn’t stay in that room for another second. Not after we… Not after you… Anyway, I saw you sleeping on the bench outside the hotel. I kept my distance, but I wanted to make sure you were okay, that no one bothered you.”

  I can picture him, watching from a block away, arms crossed over his chest, ready to make a move if he saw anyone approach me who he didn’t like the look of. The idea of it almost forces a smile off my lips.

  “I watched you find a ride to the bus station,” he goes on. “With that nice couple. So, I got a ride, too, even though I had no idea where I’d go from there. I got to the station just in time to see you board the bus to San Francisco.” He shakes his head and silk strands of hair sway across his forehead. “I debated where to go next. I didn’t know whether I should head north to Canada, or south to Arizona and eventually Mexico, or back east. To home.”

  Somehow, I manage to find my voice, though it comes out in little more than a weak whisper. “What did you decide to do?”

  His eyes lift to meet mine and I suddenly know the answer. He went west. To San Francisco. To me. I tear my gaze away and stare down at the goose bumps on my arms, hurriedly pushing the rolled-up sleeves of my sweater down to my wrists.

  “I had no idea how to find you or if you were even still in the city,” he whispers finally. “For all I knew, you could have arrived one day and left the next. Or you could have not made it all. You could have been stranded somewhere, or hurt, or—”

  He breaks off and turns his head away, eyes suddenly rimmed red. After a few shallow, ragged breaths, he composes himself and continues.

  “I checked into a motel on Van Ness,” he says, placing his palm flat on the table. “I took in the sights for a few days, wandering around aimlessly, searching for a ghost. Eventually I stumbled into a used book dealer on Montgomery. The owner and I got wrapped up in a debate over the comparisons between American and European 20th century playwrights. He liked me so much he agreed to let me work part-time in his store, providing I cleaned myself up, and didn’t mind sleeping in the storage room. I’ve lived there for almost three months now. Mr. Moore practically lets me run the shop now.”

  I stop him. “You’ve been looking for me for three months?”

  “No,” he answers with a firmness that startles me. “I actually spotted you after about two weeks. I hadn’t even planned on going down to the bay that day, but I’d gotten on the wrong trolley,” he chuckles. “I was waiting for the right one to take me back up Van Ness when I saw you. I remember thinking I’d gone crazy, that I’d finally snapped, and you were a hallucination. You were over on Pier 35, staring out at the ocean, oblivious to me, to the world around you. Like it was just you and the water.”

  “You looked happy,” he goes on with a faint smile. “Well-rested. Your hair was loose and blowing across your face. You seemed content just smiling out at the ocean.”

  I realize he’s correct. I am content here. Happy, even.

  “I didn’t want to bother you, not when you seemed so peaceful. But after that day, when I wasn’t working in the shop, I would catch a glimpse of you every so often somewhere in the city, sitting at Ghirardelli Square or down at the wharf. You went to the piers the most often. It became habit for me to find you there. You seemed to have created a pattern for yourself, a life. So, one day — and I’m sorry for this — I followed you all the way back to Chinatown. I chatted with Mrs. Wen. She didn’t seem to have a clue about who I was, so I assumed you’d told her nothing of me.”

  This last bit seems to bother him more than I wish it did.

  A moment of silence passes between us until his voice breaks through the quiet once more. “I’m proud of you, Frannie.” His eyes are full of emotion. “I’m so proud. You made it. Not only that, but you’re making a life for yourself here. And I want you to know that you were right.”

  My brow creases in lines of confusion. “Right about what?”

  “I did become a distraction.”

  His words blow me away. I can’t even find the proper argument I need to protest. And even though I was the one who said them, those hurtful words that nearly killed us both, I hadn’t meant them. Of course, I hadn’t. I’d wanted him to be angry with me, for him to want me to leave, but deep down, I prayed he knew better than to believe me.

  “Jesse,” I begin carefully. “You were never—”

  “I never wanted to get in your way.” He doesn’t let me finish. “I never wanted you to feel hindered or pressured. I just wanted… to be with you.”

  My eyes begin to sting again and my chest throbs with a dull, familiar pain.

  “I’ve thought about you a lot since you left. Every day.” The last word cracks and he fights to collect himself. “I think about how things would be now if you’d stayed. And I realize how ridiculous, and, might I add, painful to play the what if game, but I can’t stop myself from wondering. It’s hard not to when your heart refuses to let it go. And for the longest time, I wondered why you didn’t stay with me. But I think I’ve known the answer all along.”

  I open my mouth to speak.

  “You ran because you were afraid.” He holds up a hand to stop the feeble protests he knows are coming. “Please. Don’t try to lie when we both know better. And I think you know I would never hurt you, so I have to believe the fear was for someone else.”

  His eyes flicker to meet mine and I know he knows.

  “I’ve had time to think about my life and how much easier it would have been if you had never entered it. At times I’ve even wished I’d never met you because then I could sleep instead of spending every night thinking about you, where you are, what you’re doing. Worst of all, if you’ve met someone.”

  I shake my head. “Jesse, I haven’t—"

  He’s hurting. These words, coming here, even my presence are all causing him pain. I can see it despite his desperate attempts at concealing it. And there’s nothing I can do to fix it. Not when I’m the cause behind it. I can’t be the problem and the solution.

  I don’t know what possess me to ask, but the question leaps off my lips before I can stop it.

  “Do you hate me?”

  He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. In and out, in, out, several times before his eyelids open and he’s staring at me again.

  “I did. For like a day.”

  At least he’s honest.

  “But even that didn’t last, because thought of being without you makes my heart hurt like you wouldn’t believe.”

  He’s wrong. I know exactly how much it hurts.

  “You pushed me. You made me think about my actions — the good and bad. You succeeded in making me so mad sometimes I wanted to scream, but I loved you for it. And now… now there’s nothing. No challenge, no push. There’s nothing left for me but to move on and deal with its absence however I can. It’s probably what’s best for both of us anyway.”

  A part of me wants to agree with him. It might very well be what’s best for us. We came to rely on each other so fully, so desperately. That sort of relationship is never stable.

  And yet another, larger part of me wants nothing more than to throw myself across the table and kiss him until neither of us can breathe. Until I forget everything but the feel of his lips on mine. Until we’re both giddy and sated and completely, totally at peace. I feel the muscles in my arms and legs tense as if they’re preparing for the leap and I have to quickly restrain the insane impulse.

  The distance the small table has put between us suddenly feels like miles.

  He straightens in his seat. The top two buttons of his shirt hang open, the collar falling open revealing a tantalizing piece his faultless chest. I can almost remember how it felt to lie against it, my ear resting on his warm skin, listening as his body spoke to mine.

  He rests his elbows on the hard, glass surface, clasping his fingers in front of his mouth. “I thought about taking the easy way out and leaving you a letter. That way I wouldn’t have had to see you. I wouldn
’t be reminded of your smile, or the way your eyes light up when you have an idea, or how your jaw sets when you’re frustrated. I’m really going to miss that.”

  One word catches my attention above the rest and my still beating heart plummets inside my chest, spiraling down to the pit of my stomach.

  Miss.

  “You’re leaving?”

  This is all wrong. We’ve been apart for months. I have a life here, people I care about. The idea of being separated from him again shouldn’t bother me.

  And I’m right. It doesn’t bother me.

  It kills me.

  He stops my heart with nothing more than a nod. “Today’s my last day in the city.”

  “Where are you going to go?” I stammer numbly, feeling my skin grow cold.

  “Home. I can’t keep running. I may hate what’s waiting for me back home, but I want to have the courage to go back and fix my life rather than trying to escape it.”

  My lungs empty of air as he gently pushes his chair back and stand. “I guess this is it then.”

  “You’re leaving now?”

  I don’t what I expected. Why shouldn’t he leave now? He doesn’t owe me anything. There’s no reason for him to stay.

  He nods his answer and I watch the muscles in his neck tense as he tries to keep his cavalier mask in place. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for, Frannie. Something or someone who makes you feel the way you made me feel, an adventure that reaches beyond that list of yours.”

  I can’t bring myself to tell him I haven’t even thought about my list since arriving in the city. It’s been pushed to the back of my mind and buried under my new life here.

  He sighs with false cheerfulness. “If you’re happy, well, it’s all that really matters. One you’ll love fully and completely, and you’ll do anything for him. And I truly hope he deserves you. Because you deserve something, someone wonderful, someone who’d die for you, someone who’d live for you. And not just when times are simple or easy. Someone who will stare out at the unknown with you and realize the sheer greatness of it. You deserve great love, Frances.”