The waitress clears the dishes and brings me a fresh cup. Jake and I met when he’d come to one of my performances with a group of friends. He was the only one dressed down, in jeans and a leather jacket. It’s what drew me to him. He didn’t give a shit about prestige or proper etiquette.
I’d come outside after the performance, the Chicago wind icy and sharp. He’d taken a drag off a cigarette and pushed away from the brick wall he’d been leaning against. I was instantly attracted to him—so much so, I didn’t even mind the cigarette.
Jake told me he’d missed the entire performance because I was distracting him. I’d bought right into it and asked why. He’d exhaled smoke into the air, and I found myself wanting to lick his Adam’s apple. I’d somehow pulled my eyes back toward his face and he’d said, “Because I realized I was staring at the woman I was going to marry. Which is a pretty important moment in a man’s life, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m not a man.” Though I was making a joke, I’d never had a man say anything remotely that serious the first time meeting me. We had an instantaneous connection—the kind that crackles through your entire body like a sparkler.
“Hungry?” His piercing eyes looked right through me, and I decided right there on that street that I was all in.
“Starved,” I’d replied.
We’d made love that very night, even though he was a virtual stranger. But Jake never felt like a stranger. Not on the first night I met him and not now, eleven years later without a word between us.
I once again banish the thoughts, finish breakfast, and pay. Outside, I check the time: too early.
I hesitate, then call a Lyft, and verbally enter the destination. I make small talk with the driver, and five minutes later, we’ve arrived. “Thank you,” I say. I pull on a sweater from my bag as the wind from the lake picks up. I steady my cane until it bumps into sand, then I fold it and almost run toward the water’s edge. Random voices and barking dogs fill the periphery, but I easily claim my old familiar spot on the sand.
At my feet, the water crashes and lands, churning against the shore. I sit, wrap my arms around my legs, and listen. Why has it been so long since I’ve been back? I realize I’ve been avoiding it because it reminds me of Chris and the life we shared.
My fingers sift through the sand. I remember so many days of sitting here, thinking about the trajectory of my life. Feeling sorry for myself. Feeling proud of myself. All the hopes, fears, worries, and accomplishments. All the unknowns. I should have invited Chris to sit right next to me. I should have held his hand and never let go.
I shouldn’t have stayed away so long.
Much too soon, a timer goes off, alerting me to my upcoming appointment. I stand, wipe the sand from my jeans, and call another Lyft. Back downtown, I gather my thoughts and clear my mind.
Entering and exiting new buildings is one of my least favorite activities, especially in the city. There are so many variables: ladders with workers. Construction sites. Throngs of people who won’t move out of the way for a cane.
Chris was always impressed by how I handled myself on the street once I got the hang of things. My photographic memory was my sharpest tool in the toolbox. It allowed me to see without seeing … a godsend, really.
I press the button for the handicap door and wait for it to open. Someone ushers me to the front desk.
“Take the elevator to the eleventh floor. Here, I’ll help you.” I thank the front desk man for his kindness and exit on the appropriate floor. I memorize the path to Dr. Gibbons’s office and check in. After only a few minutes, I’m called back. Her office smells like fresh pine.
“Come in, Rebecca. Make yourself comfortable.”
Dr. Gibbons—Jan—has a soothing voice, one of those voices that makes you want to fall asleep. I wait for her to show me to the couch.
“Oh, right. Forgive me. Let me just…” She takes my arm and points me toward the couch. “Can I get you water, tea?”
I situate myself and set my purse by my feet. “No, thank you.”