I wake up to the sun streaming in, and I know it’s going to be another beautiful day. Beautiful and silent. It’s been one week and six days since Hank left me standing in his house. Thirteen days without any form of communication from him.
Not that I haven’t tried, because I like to punish myself. Though I still ache from our encounter, it’s more a chafing of the heart. I refuse to accept this finale.
I roll over and check my phone. Nothing. I check my spam mail just in case, nothing there either. To punish myself even more, I flop onto my back and scroll through the e-mails I sent him. It can’t be the silent treatment if one of us is still talking.
On day one, I wrote:
This isn’t over. I’m home alone (that means by myself) and I’m perfectly happy with the exception of you. I miss you, your face, your laugh—everything about you.
On day two, I wrote:
Still feel the same way in case you were wondering.
Day three I try something new:
Today I have doubts. Maybe all I really want is to have you take me around on your Harley. BTW: I drank all your beer before I left.
And because I didn’t know when to shut up, by the fifth day of no return communication, I wrote:
It’s weird having a one-sided conversation. If I didn’t know better I would think something has happened to you. I’ve mulled over the possibilities. This is my list:
1. You are a real life James Bond and incognito.
2. You are a zombie hunter and as I type this you have saved the world, again.
3. You’ve been kidnapped by aliens (hopefully a cool one like in the movie Paul with Simon Pegg).
4. You’ve been hit on the head and forgotten how to read or write this language (and wonder why in the hell you even know Gaelic).
5. You’ve been hit on the head and forgotten who you are (word would have gotten out by now if this was the case).
Funny enough, I still miss you. Not the things you do for me. But talking to you. Laughing with you. I even miss your stupid face.
In case you’re wondering, yes, I’m frustrated that you haven’t e-mailed back and I’m secure in admitting that. So there.
No response scares me out of my wits. Maybe he realizes now he has me, and he no longer wants me. What he wants is the chase, not the prize. Not that I think I’m a prize or anything. Maybe I’ve pushed too hard or have hurt him too deeply. If he felt anything like I did the day he left me standing in his room, no wonder it’s radio silence. I wouldn’t give me the time of day either. Thing is, I’m not so sure I deserve a second chance with Hank.
I groan in frustration as I journey down this path again. This is the same fear and self-doubt that may cost me Hank, cost me this chance at love. I will not let it get me again.
It’s weird to think of Hank in these terms. A few months ago, I would’ve never imagined I could scare him off with anything. Solid is how I would’ve defined us. Uncertain is the word I use now. Uncertain makes my stomach ache.
I toss my phone to the other side of the bed and jump up. There are a few short weeks of summer left. Getting back to work is right around the corner, and I’m going to enjoy what’s left if it kills me.
I shower, eat a light breakfast, and dress in a vintage periwinkle-blue dress, circa the 1950s. The boat neck and flared skirt make me feel pretty and happy and a dose of those right now is what I need.
My destination of choice is St. Augustine, Florida’s oldest town. Its Spanish roots and quaintness is what I seek. I want to stroll the brick streets and shop the eclectic stores. What I get isn’t something I expected. The streets are packed, full of supporters for the Wounded Warrior Project. The finish line of the Wounded Warrior Project 8K is at Castillo de San Marco National Monument, a three-hundred-year-old fort resting at the heart of Old Town St. Augustine.
Amazing people surround me. Men and women with permanent injuries, some visible and some not. People run on a prosthetic leg or even two, others sit in bikes using their upper body and arms to peddle. Next to them are their friends, spouses, and kids. It’s beautiful, wonderful, and crushing in the same breath.
I grab a coffee and a few pastries from my favorite French bakery and head toward the finish line to watch and cheer. As a therapist, I know of the struggles these individuals encounter on their journey of healing. As a girl in love with a Navy guy, I see a whole new possibility. This could be my life.
Could I go through this with Hank? My mind cannot even wrap around how difficult rebuilding a life would be, together. For better or worse you proclaim on your wedding day and this certainly adds perspective to “worse.”
As the last of the stragglers come through the finish line, I continue to cheer. When it’s over, I make my way to the event table and make a donation. It seems the very least I can do. The mood, the euphoria, and the camaraderie makes me hesitate to move away. But, the crowd is dispersing and I’m just a bystander.
I browse through a few stores, art shops, typical tourist shops with shells, sand dollars, and shot glasses, before I find myself standing in a collectibles store.
In the center of the store, a framed chalkboard hangs from the ceiling. Painted in bold orange letters are the words “Fears Erased Here Daily” and the numbers one through five are listed below that. Underneath the sign are more chalkboards with the same inspiration only in a variety of colors and next to those is a large five-tier stand of journals.
I like the sentiment. It calls to me, my new proverb. The idea of putting my fears down on paper, giving them a voice but not allowing their energy to sit and swell and consume, appeals to me on all levels.
I stand next to a lady who looks to be the same age as me, and she’s looking at the journals. She’s dressed in running clothes and her number is still pinned to her shirt.
I reach for a pretty, hardback book, decorated with minty-green chevrons, and flip it open.
“Oh, chevrons are pretty,” she says. “Too bad the pages aren’t lined.”
I didn’t even realize. “Is that bad?”
“For me it is. Especially if you plan on using it as a journal. I need the lines or else it will start to slant off the page.”
“Good point.” I put the book back and pick up a second hardback book, this time in floral.
She picks up one I hadn’t noticed. It’s decorated with a pretty paisley pattern and scrawled across the front is a different version of my new motto, “Fears Released Here Daily.”
“Hey, babe,” a guy behind us says.
We both turn, another runner stands a few feet behind us, holding a squirming toddler on his right hip. He’s got two prosthetics; one is an amputation below his left knee and the other is below his left elbow.
“Yeah?” my journal-seeking friend says as she holds the book.
“I’m gonna take baby girl outside to run around. She’s going to break something in here any minute now.”
“OK, I’m going to get this book and be right out.”
I watch them smile at each other. He turns and carries their daughter out of the store, making her laugh by blowing raspberries on her arms.
“That’s sweet.” I put the floral book back and pull out the last one with paisleys.
“Yeah.” She watches them leave. She looks lost in thought for a moment, then looks at me and whispers, “I’m thankful every day he’s alive.”
I don’t know what to say that won’t minimize such a statement. I’ll take Hank any way I can get him.
“I’m sure you are,” I say. “I watched the race, and it’s inspiring.”
“You know what he told me? Said he wouldn’t change a thing. Even knowing what it would be like going through it again.” She shakes her head as if reliving it and looks at me with watery eyes.
“I use these journals to let it go.” She pats the book. “Without these, I think sometimes I might lose my mind.” She laughs and holds the book close.
“Oh, listen to me getting sappy.” She grabs my arm in a light squeeze, I can tell she’s embarrassed. “Is your guy in the military?”
I don’t know what to call Hank. He’s not my boyfriend, yet. I go with the truth, “The guy I’m in love with is in the Navy. The military is a new world for me.”
I don’t know why two people who don’t even know each other are sharing such personal details. Maybe because it’s sometimes easier to talk to strangers.
“Don’t let this scare you.” She gestures to the crowd. “It’s not only this. It’s more. Most days are very much like your life right now.”
“How do you handle the worry?” I’ve noticed my worry level has increased enormously. Maybe it’s because we have so much unresolved. I hope so.
“You just do. The beautiful thing about living a military life is you treat each day as if it’s the last one before a deployment. You know, we, my husband and I, did a good job of enjoying each other before he was injured. Our lives take more work now but we are tackling this new adventure with the same premise. Don’t get me wrong, there are days when I need these little books more, but most days are like before. Don’t spend your time worrying about when he’s going or while he’s gone. It’s a waste of energy. He could be killed in a car accident tomorrow. Grab on to today.” She gives me a warm smile.
I nod in agreement. There are no truer words.
“Thanks.” I want to hug her.
“This paisley print is pretty, isn’t it?” she asks.
I look at the book I hold. The colors are shades of blue and green and it’s very calming.
“I’m a bit partial to the paisley,” I tell her. “It’s my name.”
“Wow, that’s cool. Now when I write in my journal I’ll think of you and smile.”
“I’ll do the same,” I tell her before we hug. “Thank you.”
She moves toward the register. “Oh, poo. Don’t thank me. If you come to the next 8K, look for me and say hi. I’m Andrea by the way.”
“It’s a deal. I plan on running in the next 8K,” I tell her. I happen to know it’s in Ft. Lauderdale in a few weeks and I already have the brochure in my purse. Josie plans on running it too, she just doesn’t know it yet.
“Fantastic. I’ll see you there.” She pays and wishes me well before she leaves.
I pick up a nice pen to go with my journal. After I pay, I find one of the small bistros for lunch and get an outside table.
I wonder what’s become of Hank’s friend who was wounded some time back. For all I know I may be running with him at the next 8K. I pull out my phone and send Hank an e-mail.
Hi, spending the day in St. Augustine. BOB says hi.
I include a selfie just for the heck of it.
While waiting for my food, I rub my finger over the embossed letters, “Fears Released Here Daily.” Yes, I’m afraid it might be too late for Hank and I, that he’s too hurt to overcome it. So that’s what I write. But I won’t accept that to be true, not yet anyway.
Maybe it’s the wine or the conversation with Andrea, the journal lady, but I know what needs to be done. The plan comes to me with such clarity it could be mistaken for a vision. I whip out my phone and with three simple taps of my finger, it rings in my ear.
“Hello.”
“Hey, Gigi,” I say. “I have an idea but I’m going to need your help.”
“Finally,” she exclaims. “It took you long enough.”