Jenson

 

My whole body sighs upon seeing her. She is a demure picture in an unruly frame, with her simple black dress and her loose, wild waves. And as I take her in, she does the same. It could be seconds, it could be hours, but when she takes the smallest step toward me, I enfold her in my arms. Lavender flavors my next few inhales. Then I release her and withdraw, too many questions fighting to get out for me to stand still and silent.

But the questions are at war with each other and all I manage is a sad “Where did you come from?”

She smiles. It accentuates how she’s filled out. Her cheeks are rounder, elbows less knobby, and she’s glowing with sun even though it’s dark out. “Everywhere,” she says. “Do you want to take a walk?”

I nod and follow her lead, turning left and continuing past dark shops locked up for the night. But the unfamiliar landscape does nothing to steal my attention. I can’t stop looking at her. She smiles shyly back at me.

“Sorry, it’s a little weird seeing you after all this time. And after. . .” I jab my thumb over my shoulder, and she lets out a giggle.

“I’m sorry for blindsiding you. I wanted to get your attention.”

“You did do that.” I follow her pointed gaze down to the photo I’m still holding. “Sorry. Probably not art gallery etiquette and all, but this is the one photo that didn’t fit. I thought it meant something.”

“It does. I owe you an explanation; for that, and for everything.” She takes a long breath before continuing. “For so many years, I told myself I wasn’t afraid of anything. Like saying it would make it true. I took pride in that. But I was so afraid of you.” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I would’ve died rather than admit it.”

“Afraid of me?” I point at myself in disbelief. I’m probably the most harmless person on the planet. I’ll hurt myself before I hurt anyone else, and I’ve been doing that regularly for much of my adult life.

“I guess more what you represented. Your self-awareness. Because even though I acted like I knew everything—myself, most of all—I was lost. I threw myself into work without asking what it was all for. I found the answer to that question in the middle of a music festival in Marseilles.”

“At the café?”

“Yes. After the guys performed, I ditched the after-party for somewhere quiet. I just wanted to think about the path my life was taking, the work I was doing, the days we spent on the road. And what I left behind. I realized something then: you’d lost your passion but made damn sure you put your heart into everything you did, and I had all the passion and wouldn’t invest any heart. We were both searching for the other without even realizing it, throwing half of ourselves at our work while wondering why things weren’t quite right. But you were starting to make me see differently, that the thing that fulfills you won’t leave you feeling empty, whether you make compromises for it or not.”

The words anchor themselves in my skin with a permanence that rivals my tattoos. She’s back to speaking my language, as if the time and distance between us over the past five months have dissolved into nothing. It’s a tricky position to be in, not knowing where I stand or my reasons for being here.

“No passion, you say?” I ask with false humor, though she’s hit the nail on the head. I can’t even pinpoint where I lost it. Somewhere amid the business and politics, where my goals became less about the music and more about the charts. Years later and I’ve finally caught hold of it again.

“Am I wrong?”

I shake my head.

“Are you any closer to finding it?”

To that, I answer with a single nod. “I guess we both figured things out after you left.”

“I’m sorry about that. I was a mess then. Still am, but maybe less so. I’ve tied up some of my loose ends.”

“You don’t need to apologize.”

She stops me with a hand on my arm, and I face her. “But I do need to thank you. Without you, I might’ve still been torn between Rhythm and photography, working myself to the bone and living off snack food.”

“Nah. Someone would’ve snatched you up.”

“Maybe eventually, but I wouldn’t have had the time to realize what I know now.”

I duck my head. I’m not great at accepting praise, especially when I feel it’s undeserved. “And what’s that?”

For the first time tonight, she looks away from me in shame. “I didn’t want to admit I was wrong for shutting out my dad because I wanted to believe he’d failed and love didn’t. And I didn’t want to admit I was wrong for keeping in the words I needed to say to you but was too much of a coward to.”

“What are those?” I ask, and it takes everything in me to rein in my mind from where it wants to go. The girl in front of me is both strange and familiar. I don’t know how much of her is the same as the version I fell in love with.

“That I love you. Desperately. Painfully, sometimes,” she releases a sharp exhale. “I hope you can forgive me for not being ready to tell you.”

I let her words settle around me, like the dust after a detonation. Then I tip my head toward the sidewalk before us, and we continue walking. “I forgave you as soon as you left. I’m happy now.”

The column of her throat shifts as she swallows. “I’m glad.”

“I’m in a better place than I’ve ever been.” She nods again, her eyes tightening as if this news is painful to hear. “And I’d like to take you on a date.”

For a second, her expression is frozen, thrown off. But when her smile appears, it shows up full-force. “Really?” When I nod, she says, “Okay, but I need to do something first.”

“What’s tha—” I don’t have the chance to get the words out before she’s on me, all lavender-smelling and soft skin and heaven in my arms. The momentum propels us into a shop window, and I welcome the impact against my back, lifting her against me, embracing the person who so completely changed my world. Her thighs wrap around me and I groan into her mouth, sure we’re putting on an indecent public display but not giving a damn.

“I love you,” she breathes, detaching from me just far enough for the words to come between us. I’m positive they’ve never sounded sweeter.

“I love you,” I say, and it is comforting and powerful. Not even five months could diminish its strength. I lower her to her feet, planting one last kiss on her bee-stung lips.

“How about now?” she asks coyly.

“What do you mean?”

“You said you wanted to take me on a date.”

“Now?” I ask, eyebrows raising.

“I don’t want to waste any more time.”

Through my growing smile, I say, “Me neither.”

I take her hand in mine, and we walk. Toward dinner or greasy bar snacks. Toward forgiveness and uncertainty. Without any illusions or presumptions or expectations. Just us.

The dream catcher and the destroyer.

Just me and the woman who proved my fire could ignite fireworks instead of futures.

And no more smoke and mirrors to hide any of it.