Thirty-six
Friday. Finally. I hadn’t slept much so I was up early folding a pair of jeans, two pairs of shorts, some capri pants and two shirts and placing them in my suitcase. The weather was in the eighties, Patrick had said. I had no idea what we would be doing. Kayaking? Hiking? Lying on the beach? I threw in a bathing suit and a long skirt that could be casual or dressy with the right top and accessories. The air in the bedroom shimmered around me and I felt lighter than I had in weeks, maybe months. I packed a pair of tan sandals, some black strappy shoes, my running shoes. What else did I need? Something to sleep in. But what? I folded an oversized T-shirt and laid it carefully in my suitcase, and at the last minute I added a sexy, short nightgown. Just in case.
Traffic on the Kennedy Expressway was heavy and as the taxi inched along I imagined my reunion with Patrick. In my mind I could see him standing there waiting, a big smile lighting up his handsome face. I could see us hugging while people moved all around us smiling approvingly. I couldn’t picture what would happen next or where this would lead, but there was a balloon of anticipation all around me.
The terminal was crowded as I walked to my gate: businesspeople off to work, vacationers in T-shirts and sandals, families happily heading toward their adventures. I walked briskly, smiling at little children passing by, admiring the glazed doughnuts in the cases along the concourse. Bright sunlight shone in through the windows, freshening the tile walls. At the gate the ticket agent told me, “Sorry, but I only have center seats left. In the back.”
I smiled brightly. “That’s great, perfect, thank you so much,” I said, as if I’d just scored a front-row seat for a Paul McCartney concert.
As we flew over North Carolina I thought about Patrick when we were young, clearly remembering the details of his eighteen-year-old body—his jutting hip bones, smooth muscular back, firm butt. I thought about how his narrow, hairless chest felt against mine, and the size and hardness of his penis, the first I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help comparing it to Michael’s, thinking it was a little smaller but appreciably harder. But how fair is it to compare the erection of an eighteen-year-old to that of a sixty-year-old, especially when thirty years had passed to distort the image?
There was a sob from the woman beside me and I turned to look at her. She was looking out the window, wiping her eyes and shoveling food into her mouth from an assortment of snack-sized bags.
“Are you all right?” I asked. She stopped chewing and shoveling, and was completely still as if waiting for me to vanish. When I didn’t she turned to look at me.
“Are you talking to me?” she asked in a small voice. She had messy dark hair that framed her small face. Her skin was elegant and unlined. Baby skin. She’d cried all of her makeup off except for small smudges of black under her eyes.
“Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude, but are you okay? Can I do anything for you?”
“I’m fine,” she said and attempted a smile. It failed, and tears trailed down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face as if that would make the tears disappear. She had a southern accent and a musical voice. Her fingernails were chewed up and her red nail polish chipped off.
“Want some?” She offered me one of the bags. The one with the Gummi bears.
“No, thanks.”
“Triscuits?” she said, offering another bag. I smiled and shook my head.
“I always eat when I’m upset,” she said. “I can’t help it. It’s the only thing that helps.”
“It doesn’t seem to be working.”
She laughed briefly but just as quickly the laugh was gone. “Ice cream is really the best, but it’s kind of hard to bring on an airplane.”
“I’m sorry you’re upset. Do you want to talk?” I asked.
Her face crumpled again and she put down the bags to pull a tissue out of her purse and wipe at her eyes.
“My boyfriend and I broke up,” she said.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it was my idea.”
“Then why are you crying?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice rising. Her eyes welled up and she reached into one of the bags and shoveled Gummis into her mouth. “I don’t know if it was the right thing to do,” she said with her mouth full. “I feel so awful. If it was the right thing, why would I feel so awful?”
“Change is hard,” I said. “Why did you break up with him?”
“He’s boring,” We looked at each other. And then I laughed, a big “Hah!” escaping from my throat before I could stop it.
“I know,” she said. “That’s terrible, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s not,” I said. “I was just expecting something more concrete, like he cheated on you or he beat you or something.”
“I wish he had. Well, not beat me, but something that would give me a good reason.” She chewed heartily and wiped at her eyes.
“How long were you together?”
“We’ve known each other practically our whole lives.” She pronounced it lavs. “We started dating in high school, six years ago. I never dated anyone else.”
“Oh my,” I said. She was so young. She had her whole life ahead of her. If she was bored with the guy now, what would happen in ten years? Or even five? He wasn’t likely to get more interesting. “You really should,” I said, freely dispensing advice. Me, the relationship queen. “Even if it’s just to make sure he’s the right guy. You’re too young to stay with someone you’re not sure about.”
“But everybody thinks we’re perfect for each other,” she said.
Isn’t that always the way?
“It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks. It only matters what you think,” I told her.
“But I don’t know what I think. He’s a really good guy and we have a lot in common. And our families are really good friends.”
“Well, that’s all very nice,” I said in my new role as Dr. Phil, “but you’re the one who’s going to have to live with your decision.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I know. But I have to live with my family, too. What they think is important to me.”
She turned her face back to the window, crying again. “He really is a good guy,” she said without turning.
We arrived in Tampa a little early and I drummed my fingers on the armrest as we sat on the runway waiting for our gate to open. When we finally parked at the gate, passengers stood patiently in the aisles while my stomach fluttered. People who hadn’t said a word to each other for two and a half hours now chatted amiably.
“Are you here for business or pleasure?”
“How long have you lived here?”
“Oh, you should try this great new restaurant while you’re here.…”
“Really? What high school did you go to…?”
The young woman in the window seat had packed up all of her little bags and zipped up her tapestry carry-on. She stood. She was less than five feet tall and fit neatly under the plane’s low ceiling by the window.
“I hope you’ll be happy whatever you decide to do,” I said.
She nodded and smiled. “Me, too,” she said. “But how do you ever know if you’re doing the right thing?”
She was asking me? She had no idea who she was talking to.
“You don’t,” I said. “You just forge ahead and hope for the best.”
* * *
Finally we disembarked and I walked through the terminal, moving quickly past slow-moving families and dawdling travelers. Didn’t they know I was in a hurry? As I got closer to the main terminal I saw people waiting ahead, just beyond security. The fluttery feeling in my stomach came back and I took a breath to calm myself.
I focused on a woman in front of me, her big butt jiggling softly underneath her silky floral-print skirt. Bad outfit. She should have worn something less clingy with a long jacket. I looked down at my own ensemble: gray pants, white blouse, black vest. Had I worn the right thing? Should I have worn something more feminine? More festive? More casual? Sexier? Oh god.
I squinted, looking ahead for someone with a handwritten sign, but didn’t see him. Maybe he forgot. Or changed his mind. Maybe he had an accident on the way to the airport.
When I got past the security area I stood, searching the crowd, seeing some smiling faces, some anxious ones, occasional shouts of recognition, waving, hugging. But no Patrick.
I checked my cell phone but there was no message. No text. So I waited, tapping my foot, wondering what I’d do if he didn’t show up. Perhaps he was waiting outside by the baggage claim area, but I worried that if I went down there he’d show up here and we’d miss each other. So I stayed put, trying to be patient. Not my strong suit.
I pulled out my compact and checked my reflection. My face was flushed and shiny, with fine wrinkles around my eyes and mouth that made me want to rush right out and get a shot of Botox. Since I couldn’t do that I applied fresh lipstick, checked my hair, made sure nothing was hanging out of my nose or stuck in my teeth, and put the compact away. Then I heard someone shouting, “Libby!” and turned around to see Patrick weaving his way through the crowd, waving his sign. CARSON PARTY, it said, and I laughed out loud.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he said, standing in front of me looking casually handsome in jeans and a salmon-colored T-shirt.
I could feel my smile taking over my face. “It takes a real man to wear pink,” I said.
He flexed his muscles. “You bet,” he said, and grinned.
“For a minute there I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I know, I know. Traffic was nuts. I was going crazy.” He wrapped me in a big bear hug, just as I’d imagined. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered in my ear.
It felt good to be in his buoyant presence. He smelled of shampoo and a slightly spicy aftershave. His hair curled softly on his neck. So far so good, I thought. But who knows? Maybe by tomorrow we’d be on each other’s nerves. Maybe I’d find out he chewed with his mouth open and belched at the dinner table. Maybe he spit in public. Maybe he was a total slob. Maybe he left the toilet seat up.
I laughed at my thoughts and Patrick pulled back and looked at me.
“What?” he said. His eyes sparkled, fine lines fanned out happily in the corners.
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m just glad to see you.”
He kissed me fully on the lips, a long, lingering, head-spinning kiss that made me feel seventeen. I felt the color rise to my cheeks. It reminded me of the excitement I’d felt when he kissed me so many years ago. It had made me tingle with the rightness of it. There was promise in the air back then, a promise unfulfilled. Maybe that was a little of what I was feeling now, even though I knew there was a huge chance it wouldn’t work this time around either. But you never knew, did you?
His hand caressed my cheek as if it were made of the most delicate glass. “Come on,” he said, taking the handle of my rolling bag in one hand and draping his other arm across my shoulder. “I promised you soft-shell crabs and drinks with umbrellas in them.”
“On the beach?”
“Absolutely.”
There would be waves lapping at the shore and the setting sun painting the sky with shades of orange and red. We would toast to whatever this would be. Right this minute it felt so easy and right, like being on a picnic or playing catch in the backyard. But that could change in an instant. If I hadn’t come to see him, though, I’d never know. And the thing is, there’s no rewind button in life. If you don’t take advantage of the opportunities when they present themselves, they’re lost to you forever.
I couldn’t help thinking of how Michael had looked on Wednesday as he left my house, the disappointment in his eyes, the straightness of his spine as he walked out, and it made me sad. The young woman on the plane had asked how you ever know if you’re doing the right thing. I was surely the worst person in the world to answer that question but I thought my advice was valid: just make your best guess, forge ahead and hope for the best.
As we walked to Patrick’s car I had a little fantasy of us sitting in front of a fireplace somewhere twenty years from now in matching La-Z-Boys, sipping steaming cups of tea, companionably reading the paper and glancing up occasionally to smile at each other. And then the warmth of the sun and the tantalizing pressure of his arm on my shoulder brought me back to the present. It was surreal to be walking by his side, and exhilarating, and I felt a gladness I hadn’t felt in a long while. It made me appreciate that I still had an entire undiscovered life ahead of me.
Fifty wasn’t a death sentence, it was just a number. Just a word. And it didn’t have to be a holy-shit kind of word. I could still plant possibilities in the garden of my future. Some of them would take root, others would not, but nothing could grow if I didn’t plant it there.
What I knew in that moment was that I would enjoy being with Patrick for as long as it would last: a day, a weekend, a lifetime. And if it didn’t work out I would be fine. I didn’t need another person to make me happy. Maybe love was in my future or maybe I’d depleted the relationships the universe had allotted me. Still, I had a good life, wonderful family and friends, a good job with interesting clients. I had Rufus. Maybe I’d get a dog. Maybe I’d sell my house and move downtown. Maybe I’d audition for Project Runway.
It was all out there if I wanted it.
I felt a lifting in my heart, and sighed. Patrick smiled down at me with such pleasure that it made me blush. “It’s going to be a great weekend,” he said, opening the door of his SUV.
He stashed my bag in the back and then climbed into the driver’s seat. He put the key in the ignition and slapped the top of the steering wheel with both hands, a look of pure joy on his face. “Ready?” he asked.
I laughed. “Ready,” I said.