On our drive to the airport, I’m on edge the entire way. I keep asking myself if this new urge to not want to get on that plane to go back to New York is a result of my feelings for Ben or for New York.
I know I told him at the beach that I’m happy in New York, but I’m still almost as unhappy there as I was here. I just don’t want him to know that. I’m hoping my involvement in the community theater will help me make a few more friends. After all, it’s only been one year. But it’s been a tough year. And as much as I tried to stick with the homework he gave me, going on audition after audition is exhausting when all I get are rejections. It makes me wonder if my father is right. I might be dreaming too big. And despite Ben having given me a lot of my confidence back, it doesn’t make an industry built on looks any less shallow.
And Broadway is so far out of my reach it’s laughable. The amount of people who show up for auditions makes me feel like a small ant in a massive colony. The only chance I probably have of standing out is if the role requires someone who actually has facial scars. And so far, I haven’t gotten that lucky.
“Do you need another dramatic airport scene?” he asks as we approach the terminal.
I laugh and tell him absolutely not, so he parks in the parking garage this time. Before we walk inside the airport, he pulls me to him. I can see sadness in his eyes and I know without a doubt he can see in my expression how much I don’t want to say goodbye. He trails the backs of his fingers down my cheek and I shiver.
“I’ll come to New York next year. Where do you want to meet?”
“In Brooklyn,” I tell him. “That’s where I live. I want to show you around my neighborhood and there’s this really great tapas restaurant you have to try.” I type the address to one of my favorite restaurants into his phone. I also type in the date and time, not that it’s easily forgotten. I hand it back to him.
He slides the phone in his back pocket and pulls me in for another hug. We hold the hug for at least two solid minutes, neither of us wanting to let go. His hand is cradled around the back of my head and I try to memorize how his hand feels there. I try to memorize how he smells just like the beach where we spent over three hours together tonight. I try to memorize how my mouth rests right at the height of his neck, as though his shoulders were made for me to rest my head on them.
I lean into him and kiss his neck. A soft peck and nothing more. He lifts my head off his shoulder, tilting my face up to his, scrolling over my features. “I thought I was tougher than a word,” he says. “But I just discovered that having to say goodbye to you is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.”
I want to say, “Then beg me to stay,” but his mouth is on mine, and he’s kissing me, hard. He’s saying goodbye with the way his lips move over mine, the way his hands caress my cheeks, the way his mouth moves to my forehead and presses one single, gentle kiss right in the center of it before he releases me. He practically pushes away from me, as if putting distance between us will make this any easier. He walks backward until he’s at the edge of the curb, and all my words are lodged in my throat, so I press my lips tightly together and try not to let them loose. We stare at each other for several seconds, the pain in this goodbye evident in the air between us. And then he turns and jogs back toward the parking garage.
And I try not to cry, because that would be silly.
Right?
? ? ?
I’ve never liked window seats, so when I hear the woman in the aisle seat say something to the affect of hating aisle seats, I offer her mine.
I’m not scared of flying unless I’m looking out the window. And if I’m in a window seat, I feel I’m taking it for granted if I don’t look out the window. And then I spend the entire flight staring at the world below us and it makes me panic more than if I just don’t put myself in that position.