“What’s up, buttercup?” Gabe asks when I let out a deep sigh, scanning the tickets in front of me. The destinations are in the order we pulled them out of the jar.
“Is this a mistake? I’m not sure about the order.” I frown, flipping through the three itineraries. My fingertips leave faint neon-orange popcorn dust smudges on the papers.
“The order’s fine. You’re just nervous.”
“Of course I’m nervous,” I say, frustrated to have to admit it. “This feels fast. I don’t know if I’m ready.” I hold my fingers against the pendant, and it presses into my bony sternum. “I don’t know if this is going to work. I don’t know if—” My voice breaks as a sob catches in my throat. I take a deep breath before going on. “This is going to sound crazy, but maybe I don’t want to get over it.” I’m relieved to finally say it out loud. “Do I really want to feel better? To move on? Because...because...” I stop, gasping against my sorrow.
“Because you’re afraid you’ll forget?” Gabe’s voice is soft, understanding.
I nod, sucking in air. “What if I forget how much I loved...how much I love—”
“You won’t,” Gabe says, interrupting me. Determination floods his voice. “I won’t let you.”
I breathe out through pursed lips and focus on his words. “Thank you.” I rest my head back against the cushioned couch and close my eyes. “I love you, Gabe.”
It’s the first time in four months I’ve said those words.
Thailand
Almost twenty-four hours after leaving Chicago, with a short layover in Frankfurt—from which I was still trying to get the stench of cigarette smoke out of my hair—our plane is minutes away from touching down on the runway at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport. I keep my eyes shut, enjoying the few moments that exist between dead sleep and consciousness. Despite my exhaustion and having spent two days on airplanes with nothing to do but sit and wait for time to pass, sleep has been hard to come by. Especially because of Gloria, our seatmate on the left.
She introduced herself in the airport’s bathroom mirror while I brushed my teeth before takeoff, and as luck would have it, she ended up right beside me for the entire flight. She’s a single mom, late forties, with a generous smile and a wild mop of red hair that consistently reaches beyond her seat and into my face. She works for some travel company in Chicago I’ve never heard of, and is on her way to a conference in Bangkok.
I try to be polite, listening to stories and looking at pictures of her son, who has just been accepted to college, and her cat, that she’s incredibly stressed about leaving behind, seemingly more so than her son. Gabe chuckles in my other ear, because this is what always happens.
I’m a beacon for the talkers. It’s as if I have a flashing sign that reads, “I want to hear all your stories, especially about your pet or disgusting medical issue!” No matter where I am, whether on the “L” train or walking through a shopping mall or sitting at a picnic bench in the park, the talkers flock to me. “It’s your eyes,” Gabe says by way of explanation. “You have curious eyes.”
My eyes, the color of milk chocolate and maybe a little close together, have never seemed special enough to entice such attention. Plus, despite my “curious” eyes, Gabe is by far the more social of the two of us.
“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Gabe whispers. I smile but keep my eyes shut. “The fun’s about to start.”
I crack open one eye and glance out the window. It’s early morning in Bangkok, and a beautiful one at that, the sky just hanging on to the last of the sunrise.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Gloria asks, leaning into me to look out the window. I shift slightly to get out of the way of her hair. “I love Bangkok. The energy is palpable, you know? You’re going to have a great time.”
“That’s the plan,” Gabe and I say at the same time, and Gloria smiles at us and pats my arm.
“I love seeing young people heading out on adventures,” she says. “One of the reasons I adore my job so much. There’s nothing like your first time...in Thailand, that is!” She winks. I laugh, forgiving her for her hair and loose tongue.
“How are you feeling, love?” Gabe asks, as I shift Anna’s book off my lap. I still haven’t cracked the spine, but I had good intentions to.
“I’m looking forward to washing the plane off my face.” I rub my hands over my eyes and wipe out the crusty sleep.
“Here,” Gloria says, nudging me with her arm. She holds out what looks like a baby wipe. “I swear by these. Got them in Japan last time I was there. They smell strange but your face will thank you.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking the moist, white disposable towel and holding it up to my nose. I have no idea what the scent is, but it’s not entirely terrible, just odd. I shrug and wipe my forehead, then my chin and nose.
“Make sure you wipe it around your eyes,” Gloria says, doing just that. “It has some sort of tightener that will make you look ten years younger. Not that you need that. But this old face certainly does.”
“You know it’s probably filled with bird-poop essence or something like that,” Gabe whispers. “Apparently the Japanese are fond of their bird-dropping facials. Superexpensive.” I wipe around and around my eyes while Gloria watches, hoping he’s wrong.
“Ah, that’s better, don’t you think?” Gloria asks. “Feel like I’ve slept all night.”
Just then the flight attendant walks by, handing out hot towels as we taxi down the runway toward the terminal. I grab one for myself and Gabe, but he waves it away.
“No, thanks. I like the plane’s grit. Makes me feel like an authentic traveler.”
“Whatever you do, don’t use this on your face,” Gloria says, unrolling her own towel so it’s a flat square. I look at the towel in my hands, hot and steaming, and see the row of people across from ours all doing just that—pressing the hot towel to their faces.
“Why?” I ask Gloria, thinking it’s probably because then I’ll wipe away the very expensive bird-shit essence I just rubbed around my eyes.
“Trust me,” she says, using her towel to wipe a spot of tomato sauce off her pants. We had lasagna for dinner, which was better than expected. “They’re really low-quality towels.”
I stifle a laugh. Looking at Gloria, with her denim leggings with exposed threads and long-sleeve cotton shirt that seems to have lost its shape many washes ago, I think that her caring about the quality of an airplane towel seems out of character.
“Thanks for the tip,” Gabe says, and I just smile at Gloria. But she doesn’t see it, as she’s still scrubbing at the spot on her pants.
“Listen, if you need anything, anything at all while you’re here, call me,” Gloria says a few minutes later, after she’s packed up her magazines and bottled water from her seat pocket. “I’ll be here for the rest of the week, and know Bangkok like the back of my hand.” I take the business card she holds out and murmur my thanks, though I’m certain we’ll never call. The cabin is full of rustling and action, as we get ready to deplane. My heart flutters and my legs are unsteady when I stand.
“Relax, love,” Gabe says. I take a deep breath. “Besides, if Red gets even a whiff of anxiety from you, we’ll never shake her.” I laugh loudly. Gloria turns and gives us a big grin.
“Sounds like I don’t need to tell you this, but have fun,” she says. Then she steps into the aisle after the other passengers filing out in a line.
“You,