Bess
My hands shook as I removed my watch, my slim bangle bracelets, and my belt. And not without a small tremor.
My jitters were blatantly obvious to the naked eye, which was probably why I was relegated to the extra-long search and pat down in the security line. Little did they know, I wasn’t trying to sneak any contraband on the plane.
The truth was, I was trying to reconcile putting myself onboard.
My whole body shook as they instructed me to take off my cardigan, revealing skin that had not seen the sun in years and a tattoo I tried to keep hidden. Both now peeked out from my tank top, hence the sweater.
“Please put your feet here and raise your arms in the air,” the TSA officer instructed me, waving his detector wand as he spoke.
I stood as he told me before letting my thoughts consume me once again.
In a weak moment, I’d called Lane two weeks ago. The package had been looming in my kitchen for a month at that point. The ticket continued to haunt me, infiltrating every one of my thoughts until I realized I wasn’t going to be able to let it go. I hated myself for calling, but I despised myself even more for what I did to AJ.
Blanketed in self-loathing much like my porch was covered in snow, I was like a self-destructive missile, burning down bridges and ruining relationships.
I’d never been vindictive. I’d spent years hurting myself instead of disappointing others, and then I used AJ in a way I couldn’t even think about. Just the thought alone caused my heart to drop into my gut.
Of course, I’d cooled it off right away, but without much of an explanation.
Worst of all, I’d not been able to say “I’m sorry,” and that fact was plaguing me. Apologies became a way of life in the twelve-step world, and I needed to take responsibility for what I’d done. Even though I felt strongly he never should have encouraged us being more than friends, I had to own my behavior.
Rather than calling AJ and apologizing like I should have done, I went on to make a further mess of my life with my phone in one hand and a sheet of paper in another.
“Okay, ma’am. You’re free to go to the gate,” I heard before snapping back to reality. After shoving my carry-on bag back together and zipping it, I moved toward the gate, tentatively putting one foot in front of the other.
I was working through some of my current shit with my new sponsor, so I tried to conjure up some of her wisdom as I stepped onto the moving walkway, struggling to envision her face and hear her words.
I’d met Shirley at the morning meetings; she’d been in recovery for twenty years and was a waitress at the local diner. Shirl, as everyone called her, had been married to Wayne for sixteen years, and she said she saw a lot of herself in me. Over the course of the last month, I’d become close to the forty-five-year-old woman after pouring my heart out one morning over a cup of coffee while sitting at the diner counter. Revealing all my dark secrets for the first time in years, I’d let it all loose on Shirley. And she hadn’t batted an eyelash.
Rather than pass judgment, she’d simply said, “Aw, honey, don’t make yourself sick over this. You’re too young for that. So you made a mistake and thought you liked AJ. But you didn’t. You found yourself a Prince Charming, and it’s about time you go for it. Do it for me!”
Seemed that was all the encouragement I had needed, because that night I picked up the phone and dialed . . .
“Lane Wrigley,” he’d said upon answering.
“Hi, Mr. Wrigley, I mean Lane. It’s Bess Williams. I know it’s a bit belated, but thank you for the holiday gifts.”
“Bess, hey! How are you? Hold on one sec.”
I’d heard a door close and he was back. “Good to hear from you, Bess. Seriously, no thanks needed. Actually more than good, it’s great to hear from you. Hope you’re calling to say you’re going to take me up on my offer for a visit?” I could almost see him winking on that note, the teasing nature of his words traveling through the phone.
“Well, I wasn’t sure if the offer still stood,” I’d said quietly.
“Why? Of course it does. I made it,” he answered. I could hear him moving, the sound of his pacing on what sounded like a hardwood floor coming through the phone.
“Okay. Well, I think I’d like to come.”
“Great. When? Actually, I’m in Denver right now, working at a ski resort. I’ll be here through next Tuesday. How about next weekend?”
Again, I went with, “Okay.”
Then I heard a knock on the door and a muffled, “Excuse me, Mr. Wrigley?”
“It sounds like you’re busy,” I said, stating the obvious as I mentally cursed myself for my stupidity.
“It’s no problem. There’s a time difference, so we’re still working here, but they can wait. So, next weekend, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool. What’s your e-mail? I can forward you an updated itinerary after it’s ready. In fact, why don’t you text it to me when we hang up?”
“Mm-hmm.” I was speaking in murmurs, afraid to make words or phrases, forgetting how to speak in full sentences.
“And don’t worry about any of the details. I’ll take care of everything. I gotta go now. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Call or text with any questions, Bess. I’m already looking forward to spending time together.”
That was two weeks ago, and I’d never called or texted with anything but my e-mail address, and now I was getting ready to board a plane to see him.
Was there some type of rule book for this type of relationship?
I rushed by lonely souls sitting in airport bars and society women browsing in newsstands on my way to the gate, only stopping for a small cup of coffee. Stumbling over my own feet, I made my way to B4 where I would get on a flying death trap to perhaps an even more fiery death, otherwise known as Lane Wrigley.
As I rode the down escalator after I arrived, the Florida sun streaming brightly through the large windows in front of me, I squinted at the group of people waiting at the bottom. Standing tall, dead center, his black hair a disheveled mess, was Lane. When I neared the bottom of the moving staircase, I patted my hip to reassure myself. Tucked in the pocket of my light pink cardigan was a piece of paper with an address.
Not for family, friends, or even a hotel, but for an AA meeting. Just in case.
No, I hadn’t divulged any of this to my host, but Shirley thought I should have it with me, so she called around and found a meeting for me. They met every night at six o’clock in the basement of a church.
Isn’t that where everyone dreams about going when they visit the Sunshine State?