Adult Rachel sees him—finally sees him. And she understands. Ross was made for her. She was made for him. And no amount of time or distance or circumstance can change that.
The two lock lips, and a giddy Phoebe repeats her heartfelt declaration from earlier. “See…he’s her lobster.”
As the episode ends, I get it. I finally get what Ally meant that day. And without rhyme or reason, I laugh.
Like, really laugh.
I laugh so hard that I’m doubled over, holding my side. The barista backs away slowly, startled by my sudden burst of hysterics. She probably thinks I’m high as a kite, and maybe I am. I don’t even care. It feels good just to release…something.
“Damn you, Phoebe Buffay,” I say out loud, shaking my head with a stupid grin on my face. “Damn you.”
Abu Dhabi
I HAD BEEN contemplating going home for weeks. But every time I thought about returning, I was left with the same bitter realization—I didn’t have a home anymore.
Oasis was/is still mine, yet it’s been tainted by paparazzi and tourists, hoping to get a peek at Justice Drake. It’s no longer the refuge I found after being extricated from the city as soon as I graduated high school. I used to blame my mother for taking the money in exchange for her silence, but then I realized that she did what she had to do to survive. Going against the Carrs would have been suicide, and I don’t mean that figuratively. If they truly wanted us to disappear, there’s no doubt in my mind we’d be struck down by some convenient “accident.” And even as a young Polish immigrant, with big dreams in the big city, she knew the kind of clout the Carrs held. So they bought our silence, and I learned the power of the almighty dollar. You could buy happiness, buy love and buy your freedom. And me? I bought a new life.
So here I am, trading one oasis for another, still trying to figure out what’s next, and exactly who I was before people even knew Justice Drake existed.
I feel like him—I am him. But I’m also Sean Michael Dovak too, the kid that was named to be a movie star. The kid that once slightly resembled Winston Carr, II and his son, Evan.
In an attempt to separate myself from that stigma, I did everything I could do to not to look like them. I cut my hair shorter, bulked up while the Carr men had naturally slender frames, and spent every moment I could outdoors, enhancing my inherited, tanned skin. Luckily, my mother’s strong European features erased mostly all remaining traces of Carr genetics as I grew older. Yet, every so often, someone would squint their eyes and tilt their head to the side curiously after seeing Evan and I together as children. And Mrs. Carr, the devil’s surrogate herself, did not appreciate the speculation.
Being Sean Michael always held a negative connotation. So, I became Justice Drake. And there was no shame in that.
The apartment I’m renting is about 1/3 of the size of the mansion at Oasis, but it suits me. Grandiose has never been my thing, and I fell in love with the clean, modern design of the space the moment I saw it. And since I really had no immediate plans to return to Arizona, I thought, What the hell? What better place to start over than an entirely different country?
That was about a month ago, and my little slice of Abu Dhabi still doesn’t feel like home. And part of me thinks that maybe it never will.
I make my way down from the luxury high rise and out into the morning sunlight, taking in the scents of car exhaust, spiced foods and incense. I bypass the nearby souks and tourist areas, and head down to a local café by the beach. Luckily, it’s early, and I nab my favorite table outside right away. One of the waiters recognizes me and hurries over to bring me a cup of coffee.
“Fresh fruit today, sir?” he asks, remembering my usual order.
“Yes, please,” I nod.
He bows with a knowing look and heads back into the restaurant to retrieve my usual platter of melon, grapefruit, mango and pear.
“Hmph. Figures you would order something healthy. Question: if you could only eat fruit or chicken and waffles for the rest of your life, which one would you choose?”
I freeze, nearly dropping the steaming cup of coffee just as it touches my lips. I set it down as carefully as I can muster and turn toward the voice. Toward the woman draped in all black, from the hijab covering her head, to the long, silken abaya touching her sandaled feet.
And I'm home.
Home in those eyes that aren't quite blue, and not quite green. Eyes that are too wild and too bright to possibly be real. A single ringlet of fiery hair breaks free and falls into those animated eyes. She tries to blow it away, causing her niqab to billow, and she laughs. She laughs, and it sounds like the sweetest music ever composed after suffering for years in deafening silence.
I don’t know what to say.
I just laugh too.