I slept the entire five hours to Miami, the deep sleep that last night eluded me in my own bed. When I woke up, I felt a new sense of purpose, of my trip, of my return, of my life, really. I could make things right.
I was so absorbed in the thought, I almost walked right past the duty-free shop, a silent reminder that I’ve shunned not only Marcus, but also my parents, with their quiet, unspoken disapproval sitting heavily between us, even now, months since I’ve last seen them. I hadn’t bought a single Christmas present this season, and the thought has filled me with guilt. I had always delighted in buying for others, carefully selecting the gifts so they’re just perfect for each person. It’s never about the price, I always say, but about the perfect match; something so unique, they’ll know it could only come from me. But in the Miami airport, there was little to choose from. I looked dismally at the generic watches and scarves, and finally settled for something that I knew my parents would, at the very least, use. A liter of Johnnie Walker Black Label for him, a bottle of Shalimar for her.
I walked aimlessly through the store, dabbing on samples of perfume, one brand on my wrist, another on my inner elbow, another on my hands. I’ve used the same perfume since I was fifteen, after reading about some fabulous star who was always followed by the same scent. I felt like a change now, but I couldn’t find anything that defined me now, today. And anyway, I suppose the right time to change my signature scent would be when I’m coming back, not when I’m leaving.
In the end, I boarded my plane with my duty-free gifts and my single carry-on, traveling so very light and so down in the dumps alongside those overstocked, overjolly holiday travelers. I wondered, a bit guiltily, how many people could have better used this seat that I’ve occupied almost on a whim; people longing to return home for Christmas on this single daily direct flight to Cali, left behind because of my selfish mission.
I tried, ineffectually, to tune out the din around me. The guy behind me was loud and drunk, spewing venom with a Spanish accent, railing about the flight, the stewardess, American Airlines, which sucks, and all Americans, who also suck, and he declared, practically shouting, were naturally stupid and ill informed. Irritated, I put my pen down for a moment, and instead, started turning back the pages.
For the first time in months, I didn’t write. I read. And I cringed at my own words, at how explicit, how unerringly honest they were.
Distance definitely makes you bold, I mused, turning the pages slowly, looking at myself as if from a great distance, as my hand involuntarily went up to the back of my neck, rubbed it, up and down. I suddenly wished I had a jacket to cover myself with.
What if Marcus had read this? I wondered suddenly. With new anxiety, I made my way back into the pages, to where it all began, and grabbed everything between my fingers and pulled. But the clump of pages I wanted to purge was too thick and refused to tear under my insistence.
I looked down at the partially bent page between my fingers, and I saw him again in my mind, surrounded by tendrils of smoke from his cigarette as he drove me through the valley.
I smiled, just a little bit, despite myself, tracing the words on the page slowly. It seemed so long ago now. If I ripped the pages out now, I wouldn’t have anything left.
Tomorrow. “Tomorrow,” I wrote. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”