22.
Rich
I can tell immediately that something has changed. I can see it in her face, can see it as clear as anything in the way she’s looking at me. Or not looking at me, I should say. Her eyes are red; it’s apparent she’s been crying. As I approach our table, I can indeed make out fresh tear streaks upon her cheeks.
“Good morning, beautiful,” I say, for a moment wondering if perhaps I’m imagining things. I bend down and kiss her cheek. She’s like a statue; not a single muscle moves. “How did you sleep?”
I drop into the seat opposite her and reach across the table for her hand. Just as my fingers are about to make contact with hers, she pulls back her arm.
“Fine,” she says, her voice as icy as a New England winter morning. “You?”
“Great. Especially after someone woke me up by climbing on top of me.”
She’s still not looking at me. The waiter, a woman I can’t remember if I’ve seen before, comes by and pours some coffee into the cup on the table in front of me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, my eyes fixed on Becca’s face. I know she can feel me looking at her. For a split second, her eyes flash over to mine. The look she gives me is the look of a stranger.
I want to ask her what’s wrong but can’t bring myself to do it. Maybe it’s her mother again. It’s not uncommon for grief to strike at odd moments.
No, I tell myself. This is personal. This is directed at you.
I push through, chattering for a few minutes about this and that, doing my best to draw her out of the shell she has so tightly wrapped around herself. But it’s no good. I can’t break her. Finally, giving up, I go over to the buffet. I half-expect her to be gone when I return but she’s still seated in exactly the same position when I get back, her hands folded in her lap. She hasn’t moved an inch. She looks utterly defeated with how she’s sitting. Her shoulders are stooped, her eyes dead and lifeless.
Had she found out about me? But how could she have? Unless Cal…
No. Cal wouldn’t do that. I was sure of it. Then what? Why was she suddenly so far from me? I wrack my brain, all the while picking absentmindedly at my food. Not a single plausible explanation presents itself.
I can’t take the tension anymore. It’s too much. Not once has she looked at me, not since that first icy glare she gave me shortly after I first sat down.
“Becca,” I begin. “What’s the—“
“Excuse me,” she says quickly, pushing herself up from her chair, her voice quivering. “I need to go.”
I watch in silence as she practically bolts out of the garden. I think of giving chase but know I can’t. Long ago, I promised myself I would never chase a woman again, not even if the woman in question was someone I felt more for than any other woman I had ever met. After all, if she had wanted to talk, she would have talked. So why try to force her? If anything, I knew it would only push her further away. She would come to me in due time. Or she wouldn’t. The choice, as hard as it was to accept, wasn’t mine to make.
I sit there for a long time after she’s gone, my mind going back and forth over what has happened, what could have happened, what I could have done differently to make it not happen. Had I done something to offend her? Was she angry because I had gone back to sleep? Was it her mom, or something else? She had told me the day before yesterday that she had been stressed about her lack of direction in life. Had it finally become too much? But what would that have to do with me? Why would she treat me any differently?
My appetite is gone; I can’t get down another bite of food. I push away my plate in disgust. My stomach is churning. I feel like someone has reached into my chest and ripped out my heart.
The sense of loss I’m feeling is surprising, though it probably shouldn’t be. And I wasn’t even sure I had lost her! Something is telling me though that I have. My premonition was saying I wouldn’t be seeing much of her again.
Calm down, kid, I tell myself for the millionth time. You’re overreacting. You don’t think she’d just walk away, do you? Surely she feels the same thing about you that you feel about her. So why then would she just walk away?
Except she has, and all without a word of explanation. How much more clear does she need to make it?
No, Becca wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t just…
And round and round it goes in my head. I was beginning to drive myself crazy with all of this chatter. And all of it was useless. Why not just ask her? Of course, there was that whole promise of never giving chase to a woman who didn’t want to talk to me. But this was Becca. This was different. I had never felt for anyone what I felt for her. It would be stupid to just let her go like this, to not even try to get her back. What kind of idiot would let what might just be the most important thing to ever happen to him disappear without a fight?
I push myself up from my chair, determined now to discover the truth. I’m dizzy on my feet so sick with worry I am.
Screw your promises! I weave my way through the tables of vacationers chatting and laughing over their breakfasts. Screw your rules!
I’m almost in tears by the time I reach her villa. I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t take this pressure! I wanted to go back to the day before, or even to this morning. I wanted to hold her, to confess to her my love. What had changed? What could possibly have changed???
I hesitate before her door, of a sudden nervous as I’ve never been. Not even for my very first championship game had my heart been beating like this.
Steeling myself, I raise my hand and rap three times on her door. A minute passes. I knock again. Nothing. Frantic now, I walk around to the backside of her villa. The door to the balcony is closed, the curtains pulled tight. I try the door, knowing it is locked even as my hand reaches for the handle. My heart sinking, I tap on the glass.
“Becca,” I call, my voice hoarse and shaking. “Becca, darling. Open up.”
No answer. I stand there for some minutes, not knowing what else to do. She’s inside; I just knew it! A wild thought enters my head. Just burst in. Make her tell you.
I take a deep breath. What are you thinking, Rich? That’ll only make things worse. There’s nothing you can do now. It’s hopeless.
Defeated, I stumble back to my villa. Inside, I begin to pace back and forth, my hands tearing at my hair. There had to be something I can do. Something!
There was nothing. All I could do was wait. Wait and hope that she would come to me.
I flop down onto the bed, my face buried in the pillow.
I’m too antsy to stay here for long. In a flash, I’m up again, my pacing resumed. I wasn’t going to be able to stay in this room much longer. If I did, I was going to go crazy. Absolutely insane.
Grabbing a pair of sunglasses and trying desperately not to look at her cover-up wadded up at the foot of the bed, I run out the back door and down to the beach.