Hold On
June 26, 1997
The week after Cal’s surprise birthday party was rough. I had trouble falling asleep, and made zero progress on the Pulse & ForeCastr.
But each day I was more sure I’d done the right thing, trusting my instincts. Like with the graffiti—my gut would always tell me when to hold on and when to let go.
I wouldn’t go back to Sausalito.
And life would get simpler, more honest.
I felt it.
I slept until 9:50 Thursday morning, almost missing my rhetoric lecture. But if I sprinted, I’d only be a minute or two late.
I speed-walked across the squeaking front porch, digging in my backpack for quarters. I’d treat myself to a chocolate-chip scone and a coffee after class. Something massive, topped with whipped cream.
“Watch out, lady,” someone said, holding me by the shoulders so we wouldn’t crash.
Gentle hands on my bare shoulders. Warm ones.
Hands that had met mine in high fives over the pinball table in the garage, hands I’d dueled with at the bottom of a popcorn tub, hands I’d watched flying over piano keys, rooting in cassette crates.
He hadn’t emailed for more than a year. The last proof of life he’d sent was a pair of eyeglasses doodled onto a film festival postcard.
And now he stood ten inches away, his J. Press coat thrown over one shoulder, his duffel bag hanging from the other. So close I could see the way the inner edge of his left eyebrow fanned the wrong direction, like a silky brown paintbrush tip.
Eric.