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After everything from the closet, dresser, and bathroom are packed up, I walk around the remainder of the room and do a small search. Inspect the kitchen area and small living space. When I get to the couch and table, I lift the cushions like I usually do when I travel. All it takes is one time losing something to develop weird habits like this. And when I hold the seat cushion up, something shiny catches my attention.
I reach for it and discover the shiny object is a hair clip. One that had been in Cora’s hair earlier and she took out when we got to my hotel room. She must have slipped it in her pocket and it fell out when we were watching television.
I turn the small clip over in my hand again and again, studying the intricate design. It’s nothing girly. Just a simple metal clip with a simple purpose. But it belongs to her.
Cora has never been a girly-girl. But she has never been a complete tomboy either. She resides somewhere in the middle and is absolutely perfect. A girl... A woman not afraid to sweat or get her hands dirty or belch around her friends. A woman who gives as good as she gets and isn’t afraid to speak her mind and sees the world as a piece of art. A stunning woman that still puts on a dash of makeup and occasionally wears dresses and fixes her hair with hair clips.
I stare at the clip—a mix of girly and punk rock and hard rock. One-hundred-percent Cora.
I tuck the clip in the pocket of my jeans in the suitcase. When I get home, I will add it to our box. A box that isn’t as full as it would have been if we had kept in contact over the years. If I had kept in contact with her.
Once my temporary life in Clearwater is packed up, I roll my suitcase to the elevator and press the down button. I step into the car and head for the ground floor. I walk past the front desk and give a courtesy wave on my way to the exit. This is it. After I walk out this door, I am headed back to California.
But not for long.
“Did you already schedule a ride, sir?” the valet asks.
“Yeah. They should be here soon.”
“Very well, sir. Have a safe trip home.” My body recoils a little at the word home.
“Thanks,” I tell him, not wanting to be impolite.
When I return to Cora, I will be home. We will be home once I fix my mess and we are together again. Because Cora is home. Always has been. Always will be. Nothing can change that.
The Uber driver picks me up and heads for the Tampa airport. He shoots the shit with me during the entire ride. More than once, I want to tell him I would prefer a quiet drive. But I don’t. It’s not this guy’s fault I am in a foul mood. It’s not his fault I left out important details of a favor I did for a friend. And it’s not his fault that my so-called friend took said favor and used it as a weapon, attempting to kill the best thing in my life for her own selfish reasons.
Unforgettable. Unforgivable.
When he pulls over at the airport drop-off, I thank the driver after he hands me my suitcase. The doors whoosh open and a wall of cool air hits me as I enter the airport. Weaving through the sea of bodies, I head to the baggage check area. Once I finish checking my luggage, I head upstairs to the gates and TSA checkpoint.
Thirty minutes later, I slip my shoes back on and walk toward the gate. I stop at one of the restaurants and order something small to eat. While I wait, I open the text history between me and Cora. Does this make me a glutton for punishment? Probably, but I don’t fucking care.
I have messaged her several times since she got in her car and drove away from me on the beach two nights ago. Most of them say the same thing. I’m sorry. How are you? I miss you. I love you.
But she never responds to a single one of them. Not that I really expect her to. If our roles were reversed, I wouldn’t do anything different.
Regardless of her lack of response, I type out another text to her. And I will type out many more between now and when I return. Because I will return.
Gavin: Just wanted to let you know I’m at the airport. When I get back to Cali, I’m fixing all this. All of it. Then I’ll be back. I love you. I miss you.
My food arrives and I eat it, not really tasting it. But I repeatedly tell my stomach to keep it down. At least until I land in Los Angeles.
Minutes later, the airport announcement over the intercom says my plane has started boarding. I file into the boarding line and shuffle onto the plane. Once in my seat, I put my earbuds in and shut my eyes. My stomach twists and my palms break out in sweat, but for very different reasons than when I left Los Angeles. This time, the panic forms out of fear.
Fear that I won’t be able to fix my mistakes when I land in California. Fear that I won’t be able to return to Cora like I desperately want to. And worst of all, fear that she won’t take me back when I do return to Florida. Because no matter what happens, I am coming back. Even if it means I have nothing.
The moment I deplane in California, I am a man on a mission. After I text Cora and let her know I landed safely, I bolt from the terminal and head for the baggage claim. As per usual, the airport is a madhouse.
When people bump me along the way, I am more vocal about my irritation than usual. “Fucking asshole” leaves my lips far more often than not. People need to learn some damn etiquette—like moving aside if you plan to text or check apps on your phone. For the love of God, show some fucking respect.
And the second I step foot outside the airport, for the first time in years, Los Angeles feels nothing like home. Like the very first time I arrived. If anything, now it feels like a cesspool of hungry and desperate people. A façade disguising itself as reality. And I have no desire to be a part of it.
I was brought here out of obligation, but why did I stay so long? This question has cycled through my head countless times over the last week. Haunted me every waking minute.
Why?
I have been financially secure for years. So why didn’t I leave then? Why didn’t I pack up everything I own and move back to Florida when I could have? Moving would have been easy. Too easy.
