LOVE, WILL
Well? Was he kidding? He basically fell off the face of the earth with no explanation except that I ruined him. I had resorted to scanning the faces of homeless men, thinking I would find him drenched in drunken sorrows at the street corner. I thought I was solely responsible for destroying a great musical talent, not to mention the love of my life, and here was his writing, perfectly legible, hoping that I’m well, signing off with love. It was just enough to break my heart all over again. I scoured the envelope for a return address, but there was nothing. Clenching my jaw, my fists balling in anger, I decided I needed to do something I hadn’t done since Jackson died. I threw on a pair of sweats and tennis shoes and started running. I ran until I couldn’t run anymore and then I collapsed on the bench overlooking the playground at Tompkins Square Park.
A familiar face caught my attention but I struggled to place it. I stared at her long dark hair, dark eyes, and alabaster skin, similar to mine. It wasn’t until I saw her reach down to hand a young boy a water bottle that I realized it was the woman I had helped at the airport over a year ago, just after my father’s death. It was the day I met Will and the memory was still vivid. I walked into the playground area and took a seat next to her on the bench. She glanced over and smiled, but there was no sign of recognition on her face. I was feeling bold and intrigued that I ran into this woman again. I turned toward her and stuck my hand out,
“Hi, I’m Mia. I don’t know if you remember me, but I helped you in the security line at Detroit Metro last year?”
She smiled, then pointed at me and nodded. “Yes, I do remember.” I could see in her face that she did recognize me and there was something else, she recognized herself the same way I had. “I’m Lauren.”
“I remember—hi. Wow, your boys have grown so much in just a year.” She nodded and smiled. “How old are they?”
“They’re four and five—fifteen months apart and very busy I might add,” she said, laughing. “Which one is yours?”
“I don’t have kids, I just love this park. I used to come here with my father. So, you must be very busy with two little active boys?”
“Yes, fortunately I work from home so I get to spend lots of time with them.”
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m a writer.”
“Really? That’s so cool. What do you write?” I realized I was being really nosey, but she didn’t seem to mind. I looked down at my appearance and wondered briefly if she thought I was a homeless person or an asylum escapee. I must have been quite a departure from the put-together Mia of last year.
“I write fiction. I wrote a book called Bountiful Lies that was just recently published.”
“You’re kidding me?” I looked at her like she had three heads.
“Oh no, you didn’t like it?” I could tell she was bracing herself for criticism.
I sat there, stunned at the coincidence. “I literally just read an excerpt in the New Yorker this morning.”
“Well?”
“It was great, I’m gonna buy it for sure.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that, Mia.”
“Is Isabelle you?”
“Oh good lord no, it’s purely fiction. But I suppose all the characters have a little piece of me.”
She was kind and seemed a bit lonely like me, which gave me the urge to tell her my entire life story. I ended with my heartbreak over Will and how he had thrown away a promising future, which led to our breakup. I told her how I missed everything about him, but mostly our friendship, the music, and the way he took care of me. She listened attentively while I tried to explain how my life had been turned upside down. I said I felt like I was drowning in a huge chasm created by some obsession I have with getting things right. She seemed unusually interested in what I was saying, and I wondered if I was providing her with some fodder for the next book. Oh no. That’s not good. My story would certainly be a cautionary tale. I turned the conversation back to her.
She told me how her husband was a writer as well, Pulitzer Prize winning, in fact. She believed that the passion they shared was the ultimate catalyst in the relationship. She didn’t believe opposites attract. She said, “My husband is my soul twin, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Was he a writer when you met him?”