by Megan Rivers
I tilted my head and my pony tail fell over my shoulder. “Why does that matter?”
He closed his eyes and swallowed. When he opened them again he said, “Because I don't think I could take it if I lost you again.”
Biting my bottom lip, his words hit me hard. “You'd rather live without me than to lose me again?”
He nodded, his eyes shone with pain. “That way only one of us hurts.”
I shook my head at his words. “You're wrong. Letting me go because you're afraid of something that might not happen—letting me go because you don't have faith in us despite everything we've been through together... that hurts.”
“Oh,” he said. Realization dawned in his eyes and relief flooded through my body; I was getting through to him. “I didn't think—I should've—I never meant—“ he stuttered over his words. Sympathy spread across his face like a crack in shattered glass.
“It doesn't matter,” I said shaking my head and shutting his floodgate of words. “What does matter is what's going to happen next.”
“Next?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
I raised my eyebrows in question. “Where do we go from here?” He looked at me, his eyes searching for an answer. “Do I call for a cab and leave us behind or do we sit down and try and work this out?” I said pointing to the couch behind him.
He bit his bottom lip as he weighed his options. I was asking him to make a huge decision and I wasn't sure he was courageous or confident enough to make the one I wanted to hear. Seconds moved in slow motion and I could feel my heart wanting to jump out of my chest. I told myself to accept whatever choice he would make. I came here to fight for him and I made my case. His decision was out of my hands. I tried not to stare him down and looked from the gated pool to the table, to my shoes—anywhere else, but each moment I avoided looking at him, I lost my optimism.
It might have only been five seconds later, but it felt like a lifetime, when he said, with glistening eyes, “Let's sit down.”
I had been biting down on my lip absentmindedly and, when I heard his words, a smile erupted across my face. His gaze softened when he saw it. Without much thought I wrapped my arms around him, my face pressing against his chest. Relief settled throughout me when his arms went around me and he rested his cheek on top of my head. It was like coming home after a long journey.
XVIII.
The Circle of Life
“I Won't Give Up” – Jason Mraz
A week later, after our first Pizza Friday as a couple, I woke up Saturday morning to my cell phone ringing at 7:30, the screen flashed with Galvin's name. “Hello?” I asked, trying not to sound like I just woke up.
“I know it's early,” he said, “but can I take you out on our first second first date today?”
My brain was still trying to climb out of a dream daze and I struggled with registering all the words. I heard Galvin's voice say “date” and I agreed.
“Great. I'll pick you up at eleven. Go drink some coffee and I'll text you so your post-caffeinated brain can remember.” Like I said before, I love how he just gets me.
Two cups of coffee and a shower later, Galvin knocked on the door instead of using Meadow's key. He was dressed in jeans and a deep cerulean shirt that popped out from under his jacket. He held a Star-Gazer Lilly and a bag of M&Ms. I met him with a smile.
“You remembered!” I exclaimed, gingerly taking it from his hands. I was touched that after all these years he remembered my favorite flower.
“Eighteen year old me did do a few things right,” he said, stepping into the apartment. I went to the kitchen and filled a glass of water to house the lily. “The M&Ms was all my idea though.”
“I love it,” I said, placing the glass on the kitchen table. “Where are we going?” I asked, slipping on a pair of shoes.
He shook his head with a sly smile. I was just going to have to wait and be surprised.
Our journey was quick, after we left my apartment. In fact, we ended up at the Brooklyn Art Library, to visit the Sketchbook Project. I was so elated when I walked inside and smelled the paper, the books, the paints.
“Why don't I know about this?” I asked, surprised. It was a library of thousands of sketchbooks by artists all over the world. Anyone could submit their sketchbook to the library. “I love this!” I exclaimed, running my hands over a variety of sketchbooks. My excitement was barely contained, taking in the possibilities. I suddenly understood how and why bibliophiles got excited in a library.
For two hours Galvin patiently let me pick up book after book after book. I know he didn't quite understand the comments I made, but his face lit up when mine did. At one point we had separated in the library; I was engrossed in a sketchbook where the artist played with the color white in unthinkable, creative ways. When I closed the cover (with a sigh of satisfaction), I wandered through the stacks, searching for Galvin. Finally, I found him next to a window, between two shelves, tucked in a corner. His head hung down, studying a black moleskin sketchbook.
Quietly, I made my way to his side, so close that I could feel his warmth. He had the book opened to a page that folded out, looking to be drawn on an old paper bag, but cut and taped to fit into the book. The entire picture was made of circles in black ink. Small circles, large circles, hallow circles and dots composed the image of two figures in the moonlight. There was a darkness to it, like the sting of unsaid words bleeding into the atmosphere. But there was also a lightness coming from the moon and stars, erasing—almost healing—the cloud of misery hanging around the two figures.
“Wow,” I said under my breath, my analytical mind forming relationships and identifying the symbolism within it. It was hard to tell if the light was over-taking the dark or the other way around. It was one of those pictures I could stare at for hours (days, years!) and see deeper and deeper into it.
“I know,” Galvin said, his voice low and heavy with a sigh. “It reminds me of us.”
I lifted my eyebrows, wanting him to explain.
He pointed to parts of the picture, talking to it instead of to me. “That night in Maine, when we were over.” I couldn't help but notice a strain in his voice. “It surrounded us in so much darkness. But now the light is coming back; we're circling back around.”
Looking up at him, his eyes finally left the paper and met mine. I held them for a second and I loved him even more. Just like that night in Melbourne, I made the move to kiss him, suddenly overcome with new emotions.
Then I felt his calloused hands cup my face, pulling me in deeper, like he was afraid to let me go. Undertones of raw passion coursed between us and it was exciting, but also familiar. We parted only inches from each others face. His eyelids lingered shut longer than the kiss. My face felt warm, but electricity surged through my limbs.
“That's our first real kiss in twelve years,” I said, looking at his eyelashes as they fluttered open. I had kissed him on the cheek since we had decided to take a chance on a relationship, but this was different. It was deep and sweet, like a good piece of milk chocolate melting in your mouth. Where the world muted and faded into the background.
“Better than I remember,” he said, barely above a whisper. A smile played on his lips; I could tell he was trying to keep it hidden.
We walked out of the library with a sketchbook and some new art supplies in a small brown bag because after I decided I wanted to participate in the project, Galvin pulled my hand to their store and said, “Let's make it happen.”
Those four words built our relationship up from the foundation of friendship we established. For the next three months we were the old Galvin and Christie. Only now our Pizza Fridays involved cuddling, our walks through Central Park included hand holding, and our outings were called dates, with a lot more kissing.
XIX.
Back Home (with Butterflies)
“OREO Wonderfilled Song” – Owl City
Three months later, I had just finished my first summer course for my graduate degree. There were many
days that summer when I would be studying, or doing homework, and Galvin would be in the background, strumming his guitar. It was like old times, hearing the guitar in the background of my day. It was the soundtrack to my life.
We were celebrating the completion of my course with a brunch at the Rooftop Garden. It was a warm city morning; I barely needed the charcoal gray cotton jacket I wore over my white tank top and jeans. We sat at a table near the outskirts, with a better view of the city. After we ordered, Galvin paused the small talk we engaged in and said, “Can we talk?”
Tilting my head at his tone, I tried to hide the worry in my voice. “Of course. Anything. What about?”
Galvin wore a gray button up shirt, but left the two top buttons unbuttoned and my eyes kept sweeping down to the skin it showed. “I think I'm ready,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He swept his sunglasses to the top of his head.
Licking my lips, completely lost, I replied, “Good. For what?”
His right elbow rested on the chair's armrest, but his left hand reached for the table and played with the corner of the cloth napkin that housed his silverware. “To go back into music,” he said in a rush of words.
When his eyes traveled from the table cloth to my face, I smiled. “Oh?” I failed trying to hide the excitement and pride in my voice, which made him give the slightest hint of a smile.
His eyes traveled down to my shoulders, a tactic—I'm sure—to make sure he masked his relief of my support. “Aaron Young contacted me about a week ago,” he began explaining.
Taking a sip of ice water, I lowered the glass and asked, “He's the guy from City Lights, right?”
Galvin nodded. Aaron Young made up the one-man band, City Lights. He plays all the instruments himself and layers them on a track before he records the lyrics. The year prior he arrived on the music scene and his single, “Dandelion Days” went platinum.
“He asked me to collaborate on a song and sent me what he had,” Galvin continued. “I wasn't going to, but what he sent took root in my soul and before I knew it, I sent him my thoughts and tracks.” Galvin's eyes reflected the passion he had for music that I had long forgotten. He was excited about this project. Whatever emotion he was holding back, I'm sure it found an outlet in my smile.
“So, Aaron asked me to fly out to L.A. next week and record the track.” Galvin paused, swallowed, and added, “It will be my first time in a studio since 2004.” He looked up at me. “Nine years, Christie.”
I took a breath to let his words seep in. “I know I'm biased,” I started, thinking he might need a pep talk, “but I think you're one of the most talented musicians out there. Not many artists have accomplished as much as you have. You'll do just great. And I'll be there right by your side, if you need me to be.”
His lips stretched into a smile of relief. “I had hoped you'd say that. It's a little scary.”
A slight breeze swept across the rooftop and tossed my hair behind my shoulders. I waved my hand. “It'll be like riding a bike.”
He raised his eyebrows and his gaze swept the floor. “Except the whole world will be critiquing my comeback to the music scene.”
Scratching my forehead and squinting at the sun's reflection in the buildings across from me, I thought about my response carefully. “Don't go into the studio thinking about it that way. You didn't think about it that way when you first talked to Aaron, right?”
Galvin shook his head lightly. “No, it was just fun; natural.”
“There you go. Go into the studio to have fun. Do it for the music, do it for yourself. Don't worry about what the rest of the world thinks, you're not doing it for them.”
Galvin lifted his right hand so that his chin rested on his knuckles as he mulled over the words. “You're coming along, right?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows.
Smirking, I said, “A trip to California with you, to meet Aaron Young and to visit Meadow?”
He set his smile loose. “Right. Silly question.”
Galvin only planned to be in the studio with Adam for three days, but I took a week off work. We arrived at LAX late in the evening, which made the trip uneventful and peaceful; we had just enough time to rent a car and check into a hotel before we fell asleep due to the exhausting time difference.
Our first full day in L.A. was a lot more of a vacation; we spent the day at Trey's house because I had to make good on my promise of an epic battle of squirt guns.
Trey was having a barbecue (about four weeks early) to celebrate his eleventh wedding anniversary to Leah. He invited some close friends that Galvin seemed to know, but I had no idea who they were. There were kids in and out of the pool, adults mingling all over the backyard, and the whole scene of Trey standing next to a grill, surrounded by tiki torches and fairy lights, with kids darting in and out of the house seemed oddly natural.
Before we stopped at Trey's house though, Galvin and I devised a plan we called Operation Wipeout. We found the closest toy store and bought the biggest squirt guns we could find, a bag of water balloons, and an umbrella. As Galvin mingled with the crowd, Leah and I hid out in their mud room to fill a laundry basket with water balloons.
Then Leah enacted step two of Operation Wipeout and switched places with Galvin, and told Phoenix that I was in the front yard. She also told him that I would love nothing more than a big, soaking wet hug. As Galvin and I went to the front yard, Leah brought the tub of water balloons into the backyard, where all the adults were.
I couldn't help but giggle when I saw Phoenix and a few other kids, dripping wet, jogging down the side of the house. “Christie! You came back!” he said, jumping into my arms, soaking my sundress.
“I did!” I said, releasing him and crouching down to meet him in the eye. “And I brought you a joke.”
He turned up his lip. “A joke?”
I nodded. “It's the funniest joke in the whole world that Uncle G told me.”
He eyed Galvin who stood against the house, near the bushes to our right. “Okay, what is it?” he asked as the other kids caught up behind him.
“Knock, knock,” I said with a smile.
Phoenix shifted his weight as if knock-knock jokes were beneath him. And was that an eye roll? Geez, they grow up so quick. “Who's there?”
“Me my.”
He tilted his head like this was ridiculous. “My my who?”
“Me my little friend!” Galvin said, tossing me a squirt gun from the bushes and then he sprayed the kids with his power loaded, super soaking pistol.
The kids went running into the backyard, screaming with delight.
Some of the good-humored adults were ready with water balloons (the rest of them sought refuge in the house). The kids grabbed water-filled buckets, commandeered water balloons, and puny little squirt guns that lied around the swimming pool and ran back into the front yard, chasing me.
The final stage in Operation Wipeout was Galvin. As the kids chased me into the front yard, Galvin stood with an umbrella as a shield and the garden hose as his sword, spraying (the nozzle turned to full power) any child who came within reach.
It was the most fun I had had in ages. Even Galvin, being taken over by ankle-biters and getting soaked to the bone, was laughing hysterically as Phoenix jumped onto his shoulders and Lexi dumped a small cup of water on his head.
When the water balloon supply was exhausted and squirt guns ran out of water, the kids ran gleefully back into the pool, leaving Galvin and me soaking wet, with mud and grass stains on our clothes, on the front lawn.
Lying on my back, my sundress completely ruined (and not entirely sure where my flip flops ended up), I couldn't stop giggling. Galvin, with a grin plastered across his face, made it to his feet and stood over me, holding out a hand. He was beautiful there in the sunlight. The white button-down shirt he wore clung to his frame, accenting his broad shoulders and the curves of his arms. His hair, now that it was drenched, seemed longer and clung to his face, except for the hair behind his ears that curled a bit; I forg
ot about that.
Taking his hand, he pulled me to my feet effortlessly. “I would call Operation Wipeout a success,” he said tugging me closer for a kiss.
With my arms wrapped around his neck, I agreed.
“You do realize,” he said, brushing sopping wet hair from my eyes, “that he's going to expect this every time you visit, right?”
“Oh, I'm looking forward to it,” I said, truthfully. “Operation Tidal Wave is already in the works.”
He laughed and grabbed my hand as we started walking to the back of the house. “If only Operation Wipeout remembered a change of clothes,” I said, leaning on his shoulder, dirty and dripping, but utterly and completely happy.
The next day started Galvin's 3-day marathon of rehearsing, finalizing, and recording in the studio with Aaron Young. When we pulled up, Galvin looked a bit tense in the passenger seat. I slipped my sunglasses onto the top of my head and asked, “Are you sure you don't want me to stay?”
Galvin hardly slept and inadvertently woke me up at three in the morning when he was playing the guitar, softly, in the living area of our suite. He decided that he was going to take a leap of faith and go to the studio by himself, taking my advice to have fun. The sole proclamation of bravery made him anxious and I fell back asleep to him humming a slow rendition of “Here Comes the Sun”.
He shook his head and grabbed the door handle. “No, I'll be fine. Go have fun with Meadow.”
Pushing the car door open, letting a whisper of heat into the air conditioned interior, he leaned over to kiss me. “I'm only a phone call away,” I added as he let go. Looking deep into his eyes I saw a spark of determination in a cloud of anxiety. “Or a text.”