LYRA

07.17.15

By the time I let myself into my fifth-floor loft, my arms and legs feel like limp noodles, worn out from hauling my backpack and suitcases around the always-busy JFK airport, through the crowded subways, and then the three-block hike to my building. All with sore and bruised fingers on my right hand, nonetheless. I still can’t believe I fell over my own feet at the winery. Always such a klutz, Lyra.

Dropping the bags just inside the door, I flip the light switch and illuminate the contemporary, open-concept space I call home. Not only is my nine-hundred-square-foot apartment on the larger side of Brooklyn lofts, especially for the three grand a month I pay for it, it’s also within walking distance to four different parks and the Brooklyn Bridge. I spend hours weekly taking pictures of the city and people around me, testing out innovative lighting techniques and new lenses. I absolutely love my place and don’t plan on ever leaving. Well, not unless a certain someone asks me to move to Philadelphia.

Don’t be ridiculous, Lyra. He’s not going to ask you to move to be near him. At least, not before….

I shake my head and push the grim thought from my mind, reminding myself this is supposed to be a fresh start, where I focus on the positives instead of the negatives. I should be thankful for the time I did get to spend with Tavian, for the twelve-day journey of personal discovery he took me on. Not thinking about life without him. Unfortunately, old habits are hard to break.

Suddenly, I remember the letter in my backpack—the one Tavian told me he slipped in while I slept during the flight home—and I drop down to my knees to hurriedly retrieve it. I hadn’t wanted to read it until I was in the privacy of my own home, in case I broke down in uncontrollable sobs. But now, I can’t wait a minute longer.

At first, I don’t find anything as I scrummage around inside, pushing the camera and lenses to the side. But just as the panic of having somehow lost my only tie to Tavian burns in my chest, I locate a folded-up napkin with blue ink bleeding through both sides of the small paper square. I chuckle, and a blanket of relief smothers the flames of anxiety.

“Jeez, Lyra, get a fucking grip,” I scold myself aloud as I plop down on the gray shaggy rug just inside my entryway, having not yet made it more than a few feet past the door.

My discolored fingers tremble as I unfold the napkin and flatten it out on the floor in front of me. I have no idea what to expect. This could simply be a short and sweet “Hey, I had a great time and here’s my email to send the photos to” type of note, or it could be more. And it’s my overwhelming desire for the more that has my heart flapping faster than a hummingbird’s wings and my stomach tied in a double knot.

I lean back against the wall and inhale a deep breath for courage, curiosity trumping fear, then take the plunge and read his neatly printed words for the first time.

Lyra,

There isn’t enough room on every napkin on this plane for me to write out everything I’m thinking and feeling right now as I sit here and watch you sleep next to me. Beautiful both inside and out, you drew me in me from the word go, and no matter how hard you tried to push me away, there was nothing either of us could’ve done to fight the inevitable. There are 7.2 billion people in this world. Over 1 million of them attend the San Fermin Festival each year. And I found the only one I didn’t know I was looking for. You and me… we were written in those stars of yours.

My vision blurs as tears pool in the corners of my eyes and I swallow hard, flipping the napkin over. It’s only been two hours since I watched him get on that plane to Philadelphia—back to his real life—and I already miss him more than I thought possible. I just want to be back in the hidden house in the mountains, in our own little bubble.

I don’t know what the future holds for us, but I do know I’m not ready to say goodbye. These last couple of weeks have only been the tip of the iceberg of what I want to know about you. I will never get enough. I’m leaving you my email and phone number at the bottom, fully expecting to hear from you soon. Don’t let me down, Buttercup.

To Jupiter and back,

Tavian

By the time I get through the note, I’m forced to move the napkin off to the side to keep it safe from the waterfall cascading down my face. I’m not even sure why I’m crying; I’m happier and more hopeful than I’ve been in more than a decade. It must be because of jet lag and lack of food.

My stomach rumbles loudly to prove at least half of my theory is right, and I laugh dryly as I wipe the wetness from my cheeks for the second time today. Pushing up to my feet, I dig my phone out of the bag’s front pocket and consult the assorted menus from food delivery places I keep on the refrigerator. Cooking for one is never fun, so I order takeout most nights from a couple of my favorite local places.

I call the first name I see, Rayna Rae’s Cafe—a little restaurant at the corner of my block—and wait for Adam, the owner, or his wife Jaclynn to answer. I’m not 100 percent sure, but I think they’re the only people who work there. At least, they’re the only ones who ever answer the phone. I’ve never actually been inside the restaurant, because I’ve never wanted to see the numbers in their eyes, too afraid to see the date of their death, but now… well, maybe I will one day.

Just not tonight. I look and feel like something the cat dragged in. If I had a cat, that is.

“Lyra!” Adam answers the phone, recognizing my number on the Caller ID. “Where you been, girl? Jaclynn was just yelling at my ass yesterday, sayin’ I must’ve burnt your bacon last time and run you off to one of those new hip places that’s moved in.”

I hear her yelling something I can’t make out in the background, and I snicker to myself. “Never, Adam. I’m loyal for life. You guys should know that. I went out of town on a job assignment and ended up staying a bit longer than I expected.”

“Ooh, impromptu vacation, I like it. Where’d you go?”

“Europe. Spent most of my time in Italy.” I keep my answer vague, not quite ready to share the nightmare of the terrorist attack, nor my trip with Tavian. The memories—both good and bad—are too new, the emotions fresh and raw.

He whistles through the phone and says, “Well hell, that’s badass. And I’m glad to hear you’re safe from all that craziness that’s going on over there. But I bet you been missin’ us and your super special double-decker club, haven’t you? A girl can only eat so much spaghetti and meatballs.”

“You know it,” I chuckle, not bothering to tell him I didn’t see spaghetti and meatballs on a single menu while I was in Italy, “but I think I’m actually going to order something different tonight. Do you make Philly cheesesteak sandwiches?”

“A Philly cheesesteak sandwich?” he gasps. “Who is this? And what have you done with our Lyra?”

I laugh hard this time. “Yes, I know it’s not my norm, but I’ve been travelling all day and haven’t eaten much. I wanted something warm and filling.” And reminds me of Tavian.

“Well, lucky for you, I happen to make the best Philly cheesesteak sandwich on this side of the East River. But it may be about thirty or forty minutes before I can drop it off. I just had a big group walk through the door.”

“No problem.” I shrug and look out over the bar to my abandoned luggage in the entryway. “I’ve got a ton of unpacking to do anyway.”

“Total is eleven dollars even. Money under the mat and text once I’ve left it at the door, like usual?”

I tense slightly at how bizarre that sounds when he says it. What kind of freak doesn’t even open the door when a food delivery person comes to their home?

“Umm… you can knock and I’ll answer. It’s fine,” I squeak out over the anxiety crawling up the back of my throat.

“Oh, uh, o-okay,” he stammers, clearly as surprised as I am with my answer. “Well, I’ll see you in a bit then, I guess.”

“Sounds good.” I hang up and sigh, my shoulders slumping forward when I notice it’s only 8:20 in the evening. I want to try and get back on New York time as soon as possible, so my plan is to power through the next two or three hours and go to bed at my normal eleven or twelve. And since my food won’t be here for a bit, I have time to start a load of laundry in the washer and take a shower to get the sticky layer of daylong traveling off my skin, which will hopefully wake me up some, too.

I pick Tavian’s napkin note up off the floor and set it on my coffee table along with my phone, still unsure of how long I should wait to contact him. I don’t want to seem clingy and annoying, but I’m already dying to talk to him. I miss him like I shouldn’t.

Grabbing the handles of my suitcases, I drag them over near the stackable washer and dryer I have hidden in a corner behind a four-panel changing screen. I unzip the largest bag and open it up, and immediately my eyes are drawn to the wadded up gray T-shirt in the center of all the other smooshed but uniformly folded clothes. I snatch it up and shake it out, reading the familiar words printed on the front in bold white letters. “I hate gravity. It keeps on bringing me down.”

A huge smile creeps across my face. Tavian’s T-shirt. The one I slept in every night of the trip… except the last two, when I didn’t wear anything but his body draped over me.

I lift it to my nose and take a long, hard whiff of the collar, thankful hints of his spicy cologne are still embedded in the cotton fibers. Just the faintest scent of him warms me from the inside out, and even though I’m slightly annoyed with him for putting it in my suitcase even after I insisted he take it back while we were packing, I’m glad he snuck it in anyway. I may need it to get through tonight.

After tossing the shirt to the side, not ready to wash it quite yet, I shovel the rest of the clothes into the washer with a detergent pod and turn it on. I store the suitcase itself under my bed—this apartment has taught me to be the queen of space utilization—then strip, dump my clothes in my hamper, and jump into the shower for a quick head-to-toe wash.

Half an hour later, I’m dressed in his oversized T-shirt with a pair of black leggings, and my long, wet hair is brushed and pulled back. I thought about leaving it down, to hide behind when I answer the door, but if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. My left hand has become quite dexterous over the last few days, and thankfully so, since I don’t have Tavian to dress or feed me anymore. I’ve almost finished unpacking the smaller duffel when I hear a knock on the door. My gut dips low as my pulse shoots up, a combination of excitement and fear swirling through me.

Just act normal, Lyra. All you have to do is take the food, give him the money, and say thank you. Don’t make it more than it needs to be.

I grab my wallet off the table and lumber barefoot across the room, taking a deep, courage-seeking breath before unlocking and opening the door. My gaze meets the friendly yet curious brown eyes of the forty-something, dark-haired man who must be at least six-and-a-half-feet tall. And though I see the numbers 082944 lit up in his pupils, I don’t stop and think about how many years, months, and days that is from now. Instead, I glance down at his toothy, lopsided grin and give him one of my own.

He cocks his head to the side and holds the plastic bag out in my direction. “Your sandwich, Miss Lyra.”

“Thanks, Adam,” I say as I hand him a fifty-dollar bill in exchange for the food. “I can’t wait to try the ‘best Philly cheesesteak on this side of the river.’”

His green polo is stretched out and covered in grease and his faded, frayed work pants have definitely seen better days. I’ve always liked Adam and Jaclynn when I’ve talked to them on the phone—they go above and beyond being friendly when I call in, and often throw a sweet treat in with my order—but I’ve never stopped to think of who they are as people. The life they live outside making my dinner three to four times a week.

“You won’t be disappointed. I guarantee the hell out of that.”

Reaching in his pocket, he pulls out a wad of money and starts to count off my change. I hold my hand up and shake my head. “That’s all for you. Thanks again.”

“But…” Adam does a double take at the bill in his hand then pinches his brow in confusion. “This is a fifty.”

“I’m sure I owe you guys a small fortune in baked goods. Just accept it as a sign of my appreciation for you and Jaclynn always taking care of me.”

“Wow!” he exclaims, his smile growing brighter. “Thanks so much. And I think the missus packed you a little something special tonight for dessert, too. I hope you love it.”

We exchange a quick goodbye before I retreat into my apartment and make a beeline for my couch. The savory aromas wafting up from the food demand my immediate attention.

See, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Lyra? Just two humans being nice to each other.

“No, it wasn’t bad at all,” I answer aloud, further proving exhaustion has rendered me senseless, as I’m now talking to myself.

I set the bag on the folding tray I use to eat most every meal and pick up the remote, turning the TV on for background noise. Though I usually revel in the silence the thick cement walls of my loft offer, tonight I don’t want to think about being alone.

Grumbling to myself about how much summer programming sucks, I flip through the channels and finally settle on a rerun of Modern Family, then pull out the two Styrofoam containers. I set the smaller one to the side, knowing I’ll eat the dessert first if I see it, and open the larger one, excited to see what Adam has prepared. Instinctively, my stomach roars like a ravenous lion standing over its fresh kill as I gawk at the giant hoagie roll filled with at least a half a pound of piping-hot, gooey steak and cheese goodness, all sitting atop a bed of seasoned fries.

The electric blue ink of Tavian’s note catches my attention from the corner of my eye just as I’m about to dig in and become a gluttonous beast, and a thought crosses my mind. Before I can continue to overthink how long I should wait to contact him, or whether or not this might seem pathetic, I reach over and grab the napkin and my phone from the coffee table then snap a photo of the colossal sandwich. My hands shake as I punch in his phone number and the accompanying message, and then I hold my breath and stare incredulously at the text screen as my thumb hovers over the send button.

Me: Wish you were here to help me eat this. I hope you made it home safely.

Once I press it, I toss the phone on the cushion next to me like a hot potato then try like hell to not think about when, or if, he’ll message me back. Shoveling the food into my mouth, I feed my doubts and insecurities throughout the rest of the episode and the entirety of another, but the phone never buzzes with an incoming text. Even though I’ve checked numerous times to make sure it is indeed working.

It’s almost 11:00 when I finally scrape my lethargic body off the couch to throw my trash away and brush my teeth. As I crawl in between my cold, lonely sheets, I sneak one last peek at my phone, making sure I haven’t accidentally missed any alerts. My hope sinks at the empty discovery, and to keep the tears at bay, I squeeze my eyes shut tight until sleep claims my disappointed heart.