“Yes. And…play.” I say. Out blasts our anthem for the weekend. Just as I suspected - Way Back into Love. Definitely not 1995. So much better. The first eighteen seconds of the piano notes play, and a gasp is heard from the backseat.
“What the fuck is this shit?” Miles bellows. A bit harsh but probably a bit accurate as well. I start the car.
Cue Hugh Grant. Chelsea and I ignore their protests, and sing along unhindered. I assume Miles is getting testy because all of his advances have been turned down.
“Don’t worry, it’s only four minutes and thirty nine seconds of pain, and then you can have some Oasis. I must have Wonderwall in here somewhere.” I flick quickly through the music device. Guy takes it from me.
“You just concentrate on the road,” he says.
“I’ll do that then.” He grabs my leg and I bite my lip. I pause, waiting for the music to line back up and then, I sing the lyrics. I force myself to stare ahead. A few more lines play and I let the song go on.
I start singing absentmindedly and look over at Guy. I stop singing. I’m paralyzed. I have just made a very bad judgment call looking in his direction at that precise moment, singing those precise lines. I turn my head forwards, holding my breath.
Did I really, truly, honestly just sing that line, confessing my love directly to Guy? I can’t even sing. I can’t even hold a note. Not that that matters because I just sang the most embarrassing line in the history of mankind straight to this hunk of a man from England. Are they like the French? Do they not have a word for cheesy? Of course not, they are English. They think everything is cheesy. Just keep driving, stare straight ahead, drop them off and forget this night ever happened. Forget this singing escapade ever happened. Finish the song, damn it. Finish it.
He isn’t talking. The music stops just as I pull up to the Luxor. I park the car behind a taxi. I look in my rear view mirror to see that no one in the back is talking either. The air feels strangely tense and somber, but quirky. Like we have just come out of a Quentin Tarantino movie, or are about to enter one. I’m not sure which. Now, we just need a Mexican stand off, a cool alias name and a catch phrase like ‘My name’s Adele and y’all can go straight to hell.’ Alas, Quentin doesn’t have time for us. And, I swear I hear something whispering in my ear. It murmurs. Louder. I swat my head.
“Gnat?”
“What?”
“Bug?” “
“Huh?”
“Did you have a bug in your ear?”
“Ohhh. No. I don’t think so.” I hear it again. A whirring sound and a drop in my stomach. I close my eyes very briefly, wondering if he’ll notice. I breathe in. This is no ordinary goodbye, and it appears those dang angels that my mother and Joy always talk about are around me trying to tell me so. In an effort not to look insane, I blink again, instead of swatting at my head.
This is a big feeling.
Singing in the car with Chelsea was a memorable feeling. Meeting my agent in the parking lot was an important-ish feeling. Leaving my uncle’s house after Easter dinner was an uncomfortable feeling.
But this. This. I was always afraid I wouldn’t get this feeling when it was called for. I feared I would let something slip between my fingers, and the ‘in hindsight’ clarity would grab my intestines and yank. Who trains you to know when to act on a feeling and what it means? Where does that intuition - Yes, that’s the word – intuition - come from?
It is here now and it is rustling in my ear, irritating my concentration. I’d rather it did something more profound than a whisper, but I am forced to listen nonetheless. A boldness overtakes me, like the one I got right before I saw him in the bar. Like the one I got when I auditioned for acting colleges all over the country – pure, and in full knowledge that I was the best candidate they would come across.
This is me now. The best candidate Guy will ever meet. I am sure of it. So, I tell him. But first, I switch on Oasis so Miles won’t hear me in the back. “I am the best candidate you will ever meet,” I say to the ground. And, I laugh. It is hysterical. What I just said.
“What’s that?” He wasn’t listening. He’s actually going to make me repeat this again?
“You didn’t hear me?”
“No, what was it you said?”
“It’s embarrassing…oh, forget it.” I’m past the point of mortification. “I said: I am the best candidate you will ever meet.” A huge grin breaks on my face. I peer at him.
“I’m sure you are.” He says emphasizing the sure part. He knows. Everything feels so certain in this moment.
I stroke his stubbly cheeks and soften my eyes. He pushes my hair out of my face, looking deeply into my brown eyes. So this is what this feels like. He pulls my lips towards his and we make out. I am so into this. The dead cat smell disappears from the air. Wind is lifting my non-existent skirt off the seat and I feel the breeze on my upper thighs. I hear the sounds of Notre Dame’s church bells in the distance mixed with the smell of cheap wine on the Pont des Arts, for that is my happiest memory thus far, and it is only customary that when the second happiest memory is happening, the mind is reminded of the first.
A car door slams and I begrudgingly pry my face off of his and turn to see Chelsea alone in the back seat looking a bit confused. Miles walks to the other side of the hotel’s front drive, and just stands there.
“Everything alright?” I turn my head around to the back seat and ask.
“I have no idea,” she replies. I decide if she wants to do something about it then she will; after all, she’s a ‘big girl.’ I have a beautiful face to smother in front of me. And this is the last time I will be able to devour it – if not forever, then for at least four months.
Finally, there is no putting off the goodbye any longer. There is only so long one can make out comfortably with someone sitting in the backseat alone.
“I really don’t want to leave you,” he whispers in my ear. “I wish you could stay.”
“You have no idea how much I want to stay,” I say. “But what would Chelsea do and isn’t it better if we wait?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But if waiting is what you want, then that’s what we’ll do. I have no problem with that.”
“I think it is, but then, why does the thought of leaving you feel like someone is ripping out my intestines?”
“I agree. This is going to be the longest four months I have ever known.”
“You have ever known? You’ll be away on a magical safari, living it up with the kings and queens of the jungle. I’ll be the one miserable, working my ass off, sweating my ass off and waiting for you to get in touch.” I figure I may as well be honest here.
“I will be in touch. Every second I can. I am really looking forward to Africa, but you’ll be on my mind the entire time. I can assure you of that. Trust me, I’ve never said that to someone before.”
“I’m going to choose to believe you now.” I choose my words carefully. “I also want to leave the option open for you though. If something happens…if you meet someone, just let me know, OK?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You never know.”
“No, what I didn’t know was that I could ever meet someone as unbelievable as you. That’s what I didn’t know.”
“But you still could -”
“I won’t,” he states. I refuse to believe him because he simply can’t know what the future will bring, but he seems so sure. I just really, really hope he’s right. “Text me when you get back to your uncle’s, will you?”
“Of course.” I find a nasty old business card in my wallet with my email and phone number on it. “Here’s my info.”
“So professional.” He’s mocking me. I give him a stare and a smirk. He kisses me one last time. We hear a snore in the backseat and look back to see Chelsea passed out. Miles is still standing at the front entrance waiting for his friend. “I’d better let you go.” He pulls away. “How did I get so lucky tonight? This is going to be hard.” He turns and exits
the car.
I roll down the window when he’s outside and he grabs my hand. I smile a sad smile. He taps the car and walks away. As soon as he turns his head, I crumple on the steering wheel for a second, overcome with exhaustion and gloom.
Guy gets to the curb where Miles is standing and they both look on and wave. All I want is for him to run back and say he’ll stay with me here. But somehow I know this is how it’s supposed to be. I need these next four months.
I wave until I round the corner and can no longer see them. Best night of my life.
THE MORNING OF MARCH 24TH
My head hurts. It pounds in fact. The heat in the room is unbearable, and the white curtains do little to detract from the sunlight streaming in. I am sweating and my mouth is sticky. I have just dreamt about swimming in a big fresh water lake - dehydration kicking in.
This damn desert.
My head swirls around looking for a clock. 9 a.m. I have only been sleeping for an hour. How is that possible? My body aches from a longing I have never felt before. Why was I so adamant to leave him? I kick the silk sheets off. Chelsea moans in the spot next to mine: her engagement and wedding rings gleam on the floor below her.
I stumble out of bed, and listen for any noise from downstairs. We are alone. Chelsea was already under the covers. Before I went to bed last night, I got on my computer and typed out an email to Tess stating how sorry I was that I wouldn’t be able to make it today due to a VIA – very important audition. I promised her that I would make up the hours this weekend. Really looking forward to that.
An email shot back almost immediately, and Tess replied that it was no problem if I needed to take off, that was our agreement. Why did I get so worried last night? I could still be with him. A lump buried its way down my throat. Was I seriously going to cry? I forced myself to get some sleep before I allowed tears to flow for this fantastic yet ephemeral individual I had known for just eight hours.
Now, my eyes are refusing to fully open, still caked in mascara and the thick black eyeliner. That lump is stubborn and hangs out in my throat. I feel empty.
I spot my large suitcase-like navy blue ridged purse with its contents half-dumped out and flop myself beside it. Rummaging through the fliers, receipts and change, I find my phone. A little envelope icon flashing tells me there’s a text message. My head forgets it’s pounding and concentrates on the thumping in my chest. I flip the phone open eagerly.
“You are lovely. Will you marry me…in five years?” the text message reads. I can’t help but laugh, remembering our silly promise…it was silly, wasn’t it? It’s my heart that now forgets to pound and skips several beats. I just hope I will see him again, let alone marry him. Four months is an awfully long time to wait for someone.
Perhaps in the 18th Century or during the Civil War, four months wasn’t so long; patience was demanded. But nowadays, so much could happen in four months. I think back to November - I had a different job, weighed ten pounds more, was a brunette, was still seeing an ex-boyfriend, and refusing to speak to Chelsea, I didn’t have an agent or manager. A modern day person moves quickly. How might he feel?
I clutch the phone to my chest preciously, and look to see if Chelsea is awake. No chance. I curl myself up into a tight ball, and reread the text over and over again. Eight hours with this man, and I know I want to spend the rest of my life with him. I write back.
***
Chelsea and I end up back at my apartment in Los Angeles by 6.30 p.m. that afternoon. We giggled about the whole weekend on the car ride back – our loud outfits, Leo the Brazilian boy, Victor’s obscene amount of phone calls, Easter brunch, Armando and her brush with his meat. We also played our anthem for the weekend, Way Back Into Love, over and over again, and sang along to it at the top of our lungs.
And finally, back in the apartment, after four and a half hours of driving, Chelsea confesses what I already know, and she has known since she lost her ring. Miles has irrevocably changed the way she feels about Victor. It’s as if Leo was her warm-up before Miles. While Leo allowed her to see that she was attractive physically to other men besides her husband, Miles took it one step further. He made her see that she actually deserves more than what her husband gives her – or doesn’t give her.
Miles not only conveyed a gentleness towards her that she never thought was possible from a man, but he also challenged her to look at the facts of her marriage. She is elated by what he has done for her. He listened; he comforted her; he held her hand. He opened her heart in a way that hadn’t been opened in over five years. In eight hours he did for her what could have taken years of therapy to uncover. I think she might be quite smitten by him.
In a way, I wish it didn’t have to be another man showing her the ropes, but if that’s what needed to be done, I wasn’t going to curse it. She needed to be shown it. No amount of my coercion would change her opinion about Victor. Another man was her catalyst and there was no shame in that. She needed him to poke holes in the thick curtains covering her eyes - letting the light in that was gasping to shine through to her. He gave her a much bigger gift than he would ever realize.
I never got a text back from Guy. I tried to call his United Kingdom cell phone number from Uncle Daly’s landline when I found out I was staying for a few more hours in Las Vegas, but got his voicemail. I left him a message because I figured that surely he would want to know that I hadn’t gone back to Los Angeles yet, and would want to take me out to lunch like he had said. Nothing. No answer the rest of the day.
He hates me. I try to convince myself that he’s a liar. I figure that’s it. That is the end of our story. We had a mini fake romance. I will leave. I will never hear from him again. He is the epitome of what I hate about men. He draws me in, promises me the world, and deserts me – leaving me shattered and gathering up the pieces of my fragmented heart. It hurts, but I had become somewhat accustomed to it before.
Unfortunately, Guy caught me weak and disarmed. He made me feel different than the usual man did. “I just knew.” But that doesn’t take away from the fact that all my knowing has not produced a single text, phone call or pigeon-bearing-message.
“What kind of man proposes via text anyway?” I say to Chelsea, trying to make myself believe he is a despicable man. I’m eating the rest of the dinner I cooked for us on my bed while I watch her pack. “I should have known when it took two tries to get him to buy us a drink.”
“What kind of woman accepts a proposal via text?” she says.
“Hey? Whose side are you on?” I sit up.
“I’m on your side obviously. I’m just saying that he was really, really into you, and I’m sure there is some valid reason for not hearing from him. Trust me. I’ll call you tomorrow around this time, and you’ll tell me you got a really sweet email from him.” She gets up to throw her suitcase on the bed.
“Yeah, we’ll see about that. No reason for me to get my hopes up. God, I just felt such a connection. It’s only been a few hours but every second I’m thinking of him.” I just can’t believe it. We go over and over the moments of the evening. I swear they are good guys, but can’t fathom what reasoning he could possibly have for not texting me back, especially when he sent me that first text.
I haven’t completely lost hope for some reason. But once you start building up that wall, and the facts are pointing to something horrible and mean, it’s tough to give in to the gut. It’s hard to relinquish the heart again once its been beaten to death by your thoughts.
“I’ve made up my mind,” she says to me, after we’ve analyzed and mulled over every single moment of the evening before to the fullest extent. She’s finishing packing the rest of her clothes. She pauses and fumbles with the hair tie around her wrist. Her thoughts suddenly go quite intense, I can tell by the crease between her eyebrows. She pulls her hair back off her neck and wraps it into a bun. “I’m leaving Victor.” It comes out final and determined.
I stop mid-chew. I expected this, only not so soon. “Oh…k…” i
s all I can muster before choking on a kernel. I’m trying to be supportive, but unable to hide my shock at the rapidity of such a major decision. “Do you want to talk about it?” I let out between sputters of coughing.
“I mean, we can. But I’ve made up mind.”
“How soon?”
“I’m not sure. Not immediately, but I can’t stay there very long. I don’t know if I’ll even be able to look at him anymore.”
“Will he be at the airport for you?”
“Who knows. He may have moved out by now.”
“I doubt that. If anything, he’s realized how good you are for him. Time does that to a man who doesn’t appreciate you. I should know. Where will you go?”
“My mom’s. She’ll be happy to have me, I’m sure. She never liked Victor. Although, I can’t bear to think how she’ll feel. She put in $10,000 of her own money for my wedding.”
“I’m sure money will be the last thing she’ll be thinking about. Just take your time. See how you feel when you get back into Baltimore. Your feelings might change when you see -”
“They won’t. I can’t tell you how good it feels to say that.”
We sit and discuss the pros and cons of her decree, until the inevitable time comes for us to drive her to the airport.
“Are you totally against marriage counseling?” I ask her in the Ford. I can’t believe I’m actually trying to save this marriage, but it’s such a big decision.
“I don’t think so, but I don’t know what good it will do.”
“You just don’t want to wake up twenty years from now having doubted that you tried everything you could to save your marriage. I mean, I know you have put up with so much, but he can still change once he sees how serious you are.”
“I know. I’m just afraid that it won’t be enough. Miles has seriously made me realize that I deserve more. How can I look at Victor now? I was in denial before. I don’t think I’ve loved him for a long time, but I was fooling myself.” The weekend in Vegas has forever opened her eyes, and she knows she won’t move to Virginia with Victor. “What are you going to do about Guy?”
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