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Gavin
Present
Isthis what dying feels like?
All the years spent apart from Cora and I never felt as horrible as I do now. Did I miss her every goddamn day? Hell yes, I did. Seconds felt like years and years felt like centuries. Did I want to kick myself in the balls for the choices I made? More often than not. Do I regret my idiocy? More than ever.
But the past cannot be changed. It is what it is. No use dwelling on what has come to pass. The future… now that is something I have more control over. Or at least I hope I do.
My stomach churns as I picture her on the ground crying. I stop breathing. Clutch my chest because it feels like I am having a fucking heart attack. Fear rips through me and shreds my insides. And I let the feeling consume me. Let it slither through my veins and take me over. Let the pain settle in my bones. Because seeing Cora in that state was like having someone throw mace-coated sand in your eyes. And I deserve to suffer for not sharing everything with her.
I will accept my punishment. Will let it weigh me down temporarily. Because our relationship can only go up from here.
Since leaving her house yesterday, I have made a new best friend. The porcelain throne in my suite and I have spent quite a bit of time together. I keep telling her I want to see other people, but she is a persistent bitch. As is my stomach, which has kept nothing down.
I press a loose fist to my mouth as I stand beside the bed. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. For the love of all that is holy, please do not let me throw up again. One—I don’t like it. I loathe it with a passion. Two—my body cannot handle much more of this. My head hurts from all the dry heaving. Lips are dry as fuck and starting to crack. Throat feels as if a carpenter scraped a layer of tissue off with sandpaper.
I take a few more deep, methodical breaths and am thankful when my stomach finally calms.
I resume packing my suitcase, but the whole act is robotic. Pull from hanger. Fold clothing into a shape other than a ball. Put in suitcase. Repeat. Shoes set inside. Brush. Toothpaste. Toothbrush. Razor. Hygiene products zipped in a bag.
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.
