Eleven

I am beginning to realize, at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, that one of the problems I have in life is a tendency to completely romanticize how things will be in the future, which inevitably leads to disappointment because it’s pretty much never, never, what I expect.

Not that I dwell on the bad stuff particularly. If anything, I tend to move on pretty damn quickly, but sitting on the plane as I make my way over to meet my family on the island of Nantucket, I’m alternating between thinking about Jason and how disappointed I am that things haven’t worked out the way I was so certain they would, and imagining what it is going to be like having my dad pick me up at the airport, meeting my sisters, being embraced by this new family.

First, Jason. He came to see me before Mum picked me up to take me to the airport. In a very short space of time he has become someone I know I can absolutely rely on. He said he’d drive me last week, although there’s no way my mother would allow anyone else to take me when this trip is so momentous, and even though I know we’re just friends, I’m also pretty sure I’m not imagining the chemistry between us. And even though I know he will not do anything about it, at least not until I’m sober a year, my God, how am I supposed to wait a year? And more to the point, how is he? I know something’s going to happen soon, and something should happen soon, and once it does, there’ll be no turning back.

So in my fantasies, I had thought the great send-off might be the time something would happen. I could see him helping me out to my mum’s car with my suitcase, putting it down next to me and hugging me—which isn’t unusual, because we’re big huggers—and as we pull apart he stands, a little closer than usual, just gazing down at me. Then maybe he reaches up and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear (I told you I had a tendency to romanticize), and there’s this jolt in my stomach as the smile leaves his face, and then he’ll shake his head with that twisty smile he does, and his face will move closer, and although he knows this is a bad idea he just won’t be able to help himself, and then we’ll be kissing, and he won’t want me to leave.

Of course, I will leave, and then he’ll miss me so desperately that by the time I get back from Nantucket he will realize he has fallen madly, but madly, in love with me, cannot live without me, and the rest of my life after that will be one great big fairy tale, lived together, in sobriety and love.

Then there’s the second part of my fantasy, which is landing in Nantucket to have my family all come to the airport to meet me, maybe with homemade welcome signs, which I would find completely mortifying but would secretly be thrilled about.

My dad’s going to take me in his arms and I’m going to feel safe, and exactly where I belong, and Ellie and Julia are going to be instant best friends, we’re going to sit in the car on the way to the house and none of us are going to be able to stop talking, unable to believe how alike we are, and the rest of my life will be … well. Yes. You probably already guessed, one great big fairy tale.

I have to say, the farewell with Jason didn’t quite go as planned. He’d been haranguing me slightly about making sure I find meetings on Nantucket, but honestly, there’d been so much to do I hadn’t actually got round to it. I did find a number for some AA service place in Massachusetts, and I had been meaning to call to find out more info, but life got in the way, and I had looked it up online, but I forgot to go back and revisit the site, and all in all it hadn’t been a priority. Even though he apologized this morning and said he wouldn’t ask anymore, that it was up to me and he couldn’t control what I did or didn’t do, I could tell he was pissed off.

All of which didn’t feel very good. I hate that feeling of knowing someone is unhappy, particularly the man you are pretending is your new best friend when actually you have a giant crush on him.

We chatted, obviously, as I raced around my flat, making sure I had my passport, my money, but it felt perfunctory, and a little forced. When my mum phoned to say she was on her way, he apologized. He said he was just nervous for me, that going away on a big trip, particularly one with such an emotional component, was a much bigger deal than I seemed to realize, and he was worried I’d fall off the wagon and lose everything I’ve gained in the weeks we’d spent time together.

I reassured him I was going to be fine, and things were easier after that, but our hug good-bye did not involve any simmering, longing looks, or tucking hair behind an ear, or anything other than a completely platonic hug and kiss on the cheek.

Yes, I was disappointed.

So now I’m on the plane replaying all of that stuff, and when I’m bored of that, I’m projecting meeting my family, but I’m realizing I really have to stop, because there’s absolutely no point, and all that I’m doing is setting myself up for disappointment.

I pull out the book I bought at the airport and, with great effort, manage to stop the squirrels in my head for the next hour.

I love flying. I love airplane food, in compartmentalized trays. I even love puffy synthetic sponge cakes for dessert that taste of little other than chocolate that has been artificially manufactured in a factory somewhere. I love gloppy sauces on chicken breasts, and dull, overcooked green beans.

I love that you have absolutely nowhere else to be other than captive on a great big soothing plane. I love how friendly the stewards and stewardesses are. I love that sometimes they hand out ice cream. I love that you can step onto a plane not knowing anyone and emerge a few hours later with a new best friend.

And I love that they keep pouring wine. At least, I did, before I met Jason. I shake my head when the stewardess offers wine the first time around, as the people on either side of me have a glass of white.

Oh, for God’s sake. Why would I not have a glass of white wine on a plane? It’s tantamount to orange juice. I’m on holiday. Ridiculous that I wouldn’t celebrate a trip with one glass of white wine. It’s only one. Maybe two. Three at the most, but hardly three, in those little plastic cups. Three of those might equal one and a half glasses of wine. Hardly excessive.

“Excuse me?” I call down the aisle to the stewardess, who turns, bottle poised in hand.

“Actually, I will have a glass of white wine. Thank you.”

The guy sitting next to me smiles his approval and gives me a “cheers” when my glass is in my hand. I’m not becoming best friends with the guy next to me today, that’s for sure, but we raise our glasses before I let the cool wine slip down the back of my throat. It is more cloying than I would have chosen, but delicious nonetheless. It is the perfect addition to this flight; I have my book, my magazine, movies, and the task of stilling the fantasies in my head, which, I’m very clear, are to hide the fact that I’m actually nervous as hell. And I will take any distraction over my thoughts.

Because what if they don’t like me? What if we have nothing in common? What if they find my Englishness obnoxious? Or superior? Or alien? What if Brooks Mayhew turns out to be difficult? Or arrogant? Or drunk?

He doesn’t sound like he’s going to be any of those things, from our phone conversations. He doesn’t sound like he was ever any of those things, from what my mum has now told me about her summer with him, even though, as she kept pointing out, it was such a very long time ago.

I’m not going to think about it anymore. I’m just going to try to focus on the flight, the movie, the book, the food, the wine. I’m going to focus on getting to JFK and finding my connecting flight to the tiny airport on Nantucket. I’m going to try to focus on staying in the moment and not, absolutely not, allowing a single fear, or fantasy, to creep in.