I’VE ONLY BEEN TO the airport three times. Once for the Model UN conference we went to in Washington, DC, the farthest I’ve ever been from Phoenix. Then once coming home from the same Model UN conference in Washington, DC. The third time was picking my dad up from a business trip.
Which means I only vaguely remember the emptily modern details of the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. The cream-colored carpet, the long ceiling tiles, the rows of gray chairs. For somewhere evidently meant to be manageable and streamlined, it’s doing nothing for my stress.
I pace in front of the baggage claim carousel. The place is packed with people flying in last minute for Thanksgiving. Over the stainless-steel conveyor belt, the screen reads Patrick’s flight number. Next to it: ARRIVED.
Any minute now, Patrick will walk through the doors across the room. He’ll be here, in person, for the first time in months. The thought has me jumpy. It’s taken over from the personal identity crisis I was having yesterday.
“Siena, would you sit? You’re blocking the exit,” Mom says from the chairs.
It’s not the least bit true. I know not to say this out loud, though—my mom will notice I’m on edge, and we’ll have a passive-aggressive fight. I settle for rolling my eyes so she can’t see. Joining her on the gray chairs, I fold my hands in my lap, hopefully showing no signs of what I’m feeling.
I don’t know if I want to see Patrick again, and my uncertainty is wreaking havoc on my emotions. Our texting and phone calls over the past few months have been pleasant, like the neutral cheer of the airport decor. I enjoy texting Patrick, I do—just, in the way I enjoy texting friends.
Other friends. Who I haven’t been dating for three years.
Patrick is my close friend, obviously, and conversation comes naturally with him, if sometimes predictably. I just don’t think it’s how texting my boyfriend should feel. Like we’re . . . just pals. My pal Patrick.
When my mom told me that Patrick’s mom, Mel, wanted to buy Patrick plane tickets for his birthday, I agreed to the plan mostly because I knew if I was going to break up with Patrick, I owed it to him to do it in person. Two and three-quarters years together shouldn’t end in a text message beneath a conversation about homework or what we had for dinner.
My doubts about our relationship haven’t faded since he left for Austin. In fact, they’ve gotten worse. Not just because of the strains of separation, either, the conversion of walks home and unconscious handholding to laboriously organized FaceTimes and time-zone forgetfulness.
The problem is, even with the distance, I haven’t managed to start rediscovering myself. It’s not Patrick’s fault, but it’s just . . . not working. I’ve started to wonder if maybe holding on to this relationship is making me hold on to pieces of myself that no longer fit.
It’s like somehow, even from half of the United States’ distance, our relationship is squeezing out room in my life I need for myself.
So I’m forcing myself to give us one final chance. This visit, I’ll decide whether there’s enough holding us together to keep us together—enough friendship, enough spark I couldn’t feel over long distance—or whether I’m now ready to say goodbye to him. When the end of this weekend comes, I’ll make a decision on whether we’re breaking up.
Obviously, I’m not looking forward to it.
I bounce my leg in my seat, which leads my mom to look up from the historical romance she’s reading on her phone. “You excited?” she asks gently, if not without genuine curiosity.
I look over, not sure how to respond. No, Mom, I’m not would prompt questions I don’t want to voice out loud, questions I’ve wrestled with plenty on my own. I’m not even sure what I’m going to do with Patrick for the next few days. It’s near-impossible to reconcile the fundamental pressure I’m placing on this visit with figuring out the mundane logistics of how we’ll spend each unstructured hour.
My mom watches me with hazel eyes like my own. Some people don’t look like their parents, or they look half like one parent, half like the other. I’m not one of those people. I’m a weird carbon copy of what my mom looked like when she was my age. Even now, we’re unusually similar, down to our perfect golden tans and our small noses. Besides our ages, the only difference between us is our haircuts, hers shoulder-length while mine spills lower. In moments like this, it’s like I’m being interrogated by myself.
She continues without waiting for my reply. “Of course you are,” she concludes. “I remember when your father and I did long distance for a few months.”
“You and Dad? When? Why?” I welcome the distraction of the questions. My dad’s worked in insurance here in Phoenix my whole life. Until now, I’ve never had much curiosity for my parents’ dating life pre-me. I don’t know why she’s only mentioning this months into my own long distance relationship. I guess the airport is stirring up memories.
“It was when we’d just met,” she says. “We didn’t realize we lived in different states. He had been in Phoenix, visiting Uncle Al when we . . . Well, I’ll tell you that story when you’re older.”
I grimace. Okay, now I would prefer my nerves.
“We really hit it off,” Mom goes on. “For a while we saw each other every couple weeks while he lived in Los Angeles. It wasn’t easy. I hardly knew your father and I already hated the distance. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you and Patrick.”
I shift my eyes from hers. “Yeah, it’s . . .” I cast around for words. “Not great,” I finish. While I know the not great my mom’s envisioning is me heart-stricken and hugging Patrick’s photo to my chest instead of serious existential soul-searching, I choose not to clarify. “But if a relationship is meant to be, the distance doesn’t matter, right?” It’s a more revealing question than I intended. Nevertheless, I’m hungry for the answer—for someone to just tell me whether I should break up with him or not. What if long distance is like the natural selection of relationships? If it only kills the weak ones? Does the fact that it’s hurting Patrick’s and mine mean we’re not right for each other?
“Oh, I’d like to believe that,” Mom replies. “But I think it requires maturity. Dad and I were thirty when we met, and we really wanted this to work. So we made it work. You and Patrick are young, but you have an incredibly mature relationship for your age. Most young people wouldn’t even consider long distance. I know I wouldn’t have when I was seventeen. I really admire that.”
While it’s a compliment, her words don’t warm me. In fact, they only increase my doubt. I shouldn’t be in this relationship because I’m capable of doing long distance. I’m not thirty. I’m not married. I shouldn’t have to act like I am.
Just then, my concentration is shattered by an ear-splitting shriek.
My head spins in its direction. My mom’s does the same. I find a girl in a Harvard sweatshirt rolling her suitcase with her. Her pace picks up, until she runs into the arms of a well-dressed young man waiting near the carousels. He catches her, sweeping her off her feet while her suitcase clatters to the floor. They kiss like they haven’t seen each other in months. Her hands rise to his face while his encircle her waist. It’s like something from a movie, like few kisses I’ve ever seen. None I’ve felt in a very long while. My face heats.
My mom clears her throat, then returns to her phone.
It’s several whole minutes before the guy pulls back, grinning widely, the kind of goofy grin I wouldn’t have imagined on his sleekly handsome features. I’m in earshot of their conversation. “Wow,” he says, lightly goading. “You really missed me, Sanger.”
The girl looks indignant. She’s pretty, with perfect, understated makeup. A collared shirt peeks out from under her sweatshirt, and her high-waisted black pants are somehow unwrinkled despite her having just gotten off a flight.
“I did not,” she protests. “I’ve been way too busy. No time to waste on missing you.”
I watch them, entertained. Despite the obvious insult, the boy smiles wider. Neither of them releases each other. “I’ve been busier,” he scoffs. I hear something practiced in his playful haughtiness, like it’s not the first time they’ve had this sort of conversation. “While you’ve been in class”—he tugs gently on the hem of her Harvard sweatshirt—“I’ve been chasing leads and writing an incredibly important piece of investigative reporting.”
“Can I read it?” the girl—Sanger—asks. She quickly hides her obvious eagerness. “You really should let me edit what you have so far. Knowing you, you’ve stuffed your lede into the sixth paragraph.”
I don’t understand what’s funny. Nevertheless, the guy laughs. Finally, he grabs her luggage, and they walk hand in hand toward the sliding doors. “I know it’s hard for you to accept,” he says with mock seriousness, “but you’re not my editor anymore.”
Sanger waves a hand, her nails painted pale pink. “Only for this year. Next year, you’ll be a lowly freshman on the Crimson.”
Watching, I fidget. I can’t put my finger on why. It’s probably just nerves.
“Oh, and you’ll be my superior?” The boy raises an eyebrow, watching the girl out of the corner of his eye.
“Obviously, Ethan,” she replies.
He stops instantly, then pulls the girl in for a kiss, no less passionate than the first. “I missed you,” he says, his voice filling those three simple words with emotion. I don’t know how I know they’re words he’s wanted to say for weeks, maybe months. Ones he’s said into his computer’s camera, or whispered to the text messages on his phone screen for no one but himself to hear.
The girl softens. “Fine. I really missed you, too.”
They stare at each other, their squabbling faded under affection so apparent I can hardly stand to look at them. It makes me intensely jealous. Somehow, this realization stops my fidgeting. I clasp my hands in my lap while I sit, not wanting to examine what exactly I’m jealous about.
“Siena?”
It’s Patrick’s voice. I turn, finding . . . him. The real him. Not the version on my FaceTime or in my fading memories of summer. I freeze, my mind short-circuiting. I’d gotten so used to not seeing him that seeing him is something I can’t react to immediately. Then, clumsily, my body unlocks. I stand, dropping my hands to my sides.
“Hey. Hi,” I say. “You’re here.”
Patrick is grinning widely. His hair is shorter, the way I’ve seen on our past few video calls. Still, seeing it in person is somehow entirely different. He shifts on his feet in shoes I don’t recognize. The contrast is jarring. It hits me suddenly, the only visual I’ve had of him for the past three months has been on my thirteen-inch MacBook screen. I haven’t seen his feet or his knees or his legs in months.
He lifts a hand hesitantly. In view of my mom, we lean forward for a hasty brush of lips. Our arm placements and face-tilting are uncoordinated. We’re out of practice.
“I’m here,” he replies.
We stand still, not knowing what else to say, until my mom’s voice cuts in. “Do you have luggage, Patrick?”
“Nope.” Patrick holds up his duffel bag. “Only this.”
Mom deposits her phone in her purse. “Perfect. Then let’s get back to the house. I’m sure you two have so much to catch up on, and I have to check on the turkey. How was your flight?”
I follow them out, noticing how my mom is having an easier time making conversation with my boyfriend than I am. I can’t help comparing us to the couple whose reunion I very not-creepily just watched. Ethan and Sanger. Their fire. Their kiss. Their obvious happiness.
Nothing like us.