Page 53 of When There Was You
Fuck love.
Fuck giving your whole heart to someone—or two someones.
Fuck taking risks when these are the repercussions.
Fuck Mick for throwing away something so special neither of us may ever see it again in our lifetimes.
And fuck Alfred Tennyson for his oft-quoted bullshit, “’Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”
What a crock.
An image appears in my mind: my heart, riddled with holes—bullet-shaped wounds and the resulting shrapnel. Maybe it can’t hold love anymore.
Hours pass as I ruminate. I scarcely notice the landscape or register what song comes on the radio as I drive on autopilot across California.
Finally, my anger crystalizes and wakes me the hell up.Getyour head out of your ass.The Three Musketeers are dead…but you’re not. This isyourtime to shine.
After crossing the state line into Arizona, I exit into the visitor station rest stop. I use the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, then dab a towel from the dispenser to dry it.
Getting back into my Toyota, my resolve hardens. I plug in a Led Zeppelin tape, crank it, and hit the gas. I’m leaving all my angst in California.
The rear view.
The past.
My next chapter begins now, and it starsme. I don’t need a man—or anyone else—to fucking complete my story.
I’m writing it.
Thirty
Iarrive in Virginia exhausted and with little time to spare. Navigating to my apartment building in the sprawling city of Richmond, I find my designated parking spot in the underground lot, haul my belongings inside, and call my parents as promised.
My studio is tiny but adorable—a perfect size for one—and comes with a view since I’m on the tenth floor. The furnishings are sufficient, neither grand nor eyesores. Once I add my personal touches, the space will become homier.
After unpacking, I’m too zonked to do anything but track down some food. Fortunately, I live in a section of the city that’s walking distance to restaurants and shops, and I venture out to weigh my options.
The cool air refreshes me as I stroll the neighborhood, and it’s not long before a pizza joint lures me in with its aromatic promises. The modest décor doesn’t worry me…especially when a pizza whizzes past and I get a glimpse. Yes, please. I order a medium pie with extra cheese and a Coke, then sit at a table and whip out my worn copy ofThe Great Santini, falling into its pages to distract my growling stomach.
It arrives and I abandon my book and inhale four heavenly slices.
Despite my intention to explore the neighborhood further, exhaustion coaxes me home. The reality startles me.
I live in Virginia now.
The following morning,I hit up the grocery store. It’s not a chain I recognize, but neither is anything else I’ve seen, aside from fast food and gas station brands. Speaking of strange, there’s an absence of familiar cars. Instead of American muscle, Volkswagens, Corvettes, Porsches, and Datsuns, there are boxy sedans, scads of pick-up trucks, and a rare sports car sighting. And there’s no sourdough bread in sight.
“Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” I murmur under my breath as I slowly fill my cart with items emblazoned with more unrecognizable brand names.
Later, I walk a broader section of my surrounding neighborhood, getting the lay of the land. Businesses and most of the homes are red brick, with special details like bricked arches, herringbone walkways, and wrought iron fences and railings. It reeks of history and the past, while being quaint and sophisticated. Vastly different from the contemporary architecture in California, I soak it all in.
As I travel farther out, the shabbier abodes and patchy, unweeded lawns have me swiftly turning back, my internal warning lights flashing. I’m alone in the world now, my safety resting solely on my own shoulders. That harrowing night at the Self-Serve when I was robbed at gunpoint resurrected my sixth sense—the one propelling my feet faster now.
I breathe easier when storefronts come into view. I pop into a bookstore, instantly calmed by the familiar smell of books. Their diverse covers beckon to me from displays.Browsing the titles—the worn wood floor creaking in spots, soft jazz playing from unseen speakers—my mood calms.
A few doors down, I treat myself to a double scoop of ice cream, licking the chocolate when it drips down my sugar cone, reveling in all the places to shop and eat as I make my way home.
I can’t wait to explore the entire city and beyond.
