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Keep listening. You’ll see.
* * *
When I zig, love zags.
When I stand up, love sits down.
And when I fall, that little bitch puts a boot in my ribs, lest I get comfortable while prone for even a second.
Love and I are not on the same page. Not even in the same book.
But as much as I’ve gone through on my journey to stumble upon some glass slippers and Prince Charming, it’s taken me a little longer to link all the trouble together…to link it, quite frankly, to me.
So let’s go back a few months, to May 30th…to the exact point in time when I started to realize just how big of a problem I have with love.
A big, fat fuck—
[audible gasp]
Whoops.
[laughs]
Am I allowed to curse in these things?
[muffled response from producer]
Okay, well, I’m not sure of the actual rules, so I’ll just go ahead and apologize in advance. There’s no way in hell I’m going to get through this story, my story, without dropping some f-bombs. I suggest you consider your listening carefully if you’re particularly sensitive to language.
I mean, I don’t plan to be an absolute heathen, but really, you’ll see, an expletive or two will be highly necessary for the telling of this tale.
[deep breath]
Okay, so where was I?
[distinct pause]
Oh yeah, May 30th. That’s right.
I’d driven to JFK airport that day with a heavy heart and a head filled with doubt and uncertainty.
Goodbyes have never been my strong suit, but goodbyes amidst horns honking, airport security yelling, and the stench of sweat and gas fumes are markedly worse.
Sure, in the movies, the swoony goodbye on the sidewalk of a bustling airport is a picture-perfect representation of how two people can seem like the only people in the world, even among a crowd. But JFK, on its best day, will never be the best setting for real-life romance.
Sounds of luggage wheels scraping across the concrete. Spit, dirt, and grime on the sidewalk…it’s not exactly a regulation bed of roses, guys.
Summer hadn’t even officially started, yet it felt like we were right in the middle of it. A record-long heat wave by May’s standards appeared to be running full steam ahead, without any sort of reprieve in sight.
It was one of those days where if I’d managed to keep my makeup from melting off my face, it would’ve been a God-ordained miracle.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t. But the need for a quality setting spray is absolute peanuts compared to the way I would need Jesus to keep me from committing one of the cardinal sins when the rest of the shit with Tiago played out.
[laughs]
Yeah, you’ll see.
Anyway, the early summer sun was glaring—real, steal your vision and make spots dance The Nutcracker behind your eyes kind of shit—so by the time I stopped squinting and made it outside, I was just in time to see Tiago lifting his suitcase out of my car.
My heart clenched at the sight of it all.
As I’ve established, I hate goodbyes. But this goodbye…well, it felt way too permanent. For the first time ever, I was ending a relationship on good terms, and for all intents and purposes, before I was ready.
This was it. Most likely, the last time I’d see him. Sure, we’d only been dating for six or so months, but I’d really grown to enjoy, and even anticipate, his companionship.
And now, I’d be back to square one.
Back on the dreaded dating scene.
He wheeled his cracked, dark leather suitcase a few feet from my white Honda Civic and lifted it up onto the sidewalk, and when his dark, nearly black, brown eyes met mine, I had the urge to cry.
“So, I guess this is it?” he asked, and I hated the way that Brazilian accent of his caressed my skin.
It had the power to make my knees weak and my heart race and my damn panties disappear into thin air. Combine it with those endless eyes and that sexy smile, and I was a goner. A woman with a complete lust-induced brain malfunction.
“Yeah.” I shrugged and glanced down at my feet when my voice clogged with discomfort. “I guess this is it.”
“I’m going to miss you, Luciana Wright,” he whispered, and my full name rolled off his tongue like he actually loved saying it.
“I’m going to miss you too,” I whispered back. “Call me when you make it to Brazil, okay?”
He smiled. I swooned. It was a regular romantic drama playing out before hundreds of New Yorkers’ eyes. “You don’t even have to ask. Yours will be the first call I make, gatinha.”
Gatinha. Tiago’s Portuguese term of endearment for me meant kitty or kitten—or something revolving around cats. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what it stood for—in fact, I’m still not—but it sounded good leaving his lips, and that was all the moony, pathetic version of me cared about.
