Sleeping with Mr. Sexy(2)

“I need you—”

“I’ll visit. You’ll visit. Whenever we can, okay?”

I nod my head against his chest, hoping this is true.

My memory is interrupted by the taxi coming to a jolting stop at the airport. I pay my fare, and get left curbside with my large suitcase. Standing there, I look around. San Francisco International Airport doesn’t have the warmth of the city. It feels different. I feel different, at a loss, and feeling a little lost. Raising my chin up, I grab the handle of my suitcase and go inside, leaving this life behind.

After landing, I pull my bag off the luggage belt then stand in line for a taxi. I turn my phone back on, and look up the address again. I haven’t memorized it yet.

I duck into the back of a taxi and give the driver the address, my new address. Scrolling through texts, emails, and finally the missed calls, I decide to deal with the least invasive one first—the text messages.

There are four. I mentally brace myself for the worst, knowing I shouldn’t have snuck out like I did, but shame took over, and then logic. I left not wanting to face the consequences of my drunken actions—too embarrassed by my behavior.

Why did you leave so early? No goodbye? C.

Where are you? We need to talk before you leave town. I’ll drive you to the airport. C.

Lydia, please call me before you leave San Francisco. Please. C.

I look out the window as pain swells in my chest. I should’ve at least said goodbye. I didn’t have time, I justify to myself, though it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I read the last one.

Goodbye. C.

Damn! I throw my phone back into my purse, ignoring what I know I shouldn’t.

“We’re here,” the cabbie says, his arm draped over the front seat, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

“Oh, okay,” I respond, paying. I get out of the car and stand in front of the shiny, mirrored Manhattan high-rise building that towers above me. “My new home.”

~Almost One Year Later~

“So, you’re going back to San Fran?” Mitch asks, surprised by my announcement.

I cringe from the nickname he calls the city I love. No well respecting San Franciscan would ever call it San Fran. “Yes,” I answer then drink the last of my martini, tilting the glass up to make sure I get every last drop.

“How long will you be gone?”

“What is this, Mitch? The inquisition?” My tone is sharp, leaving no room for niceties as I study his short, dark hair. He gets a haircut every other Tuesday at a barber near his office. He’s a trader by day, my boyfriend by night. We’ve dated for four months. I’m not in love, but I wish I was because it seems like life would be easier that way.

“Whoa!” Mitch puts his arms in front of him in surrender. “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to ask you personal questions or be concerned about you. Fuck, Lydia, you sure know how—”

“I’m sorry,” I say, turning to him on the barstool. “I’m just so stressed, and this trip isn’t wanted on my part.” I rub my temples with my fingertips. “I’ve been guilted into it by my parents. My mom’s afraid to fly, and it’s the holidays. I also have some unfinished business I need to take care of.” I whisper the last part, hoping to slip that in without any questions.

He takes my hands in his, and says, “Listen, you’ve been working eighty hour weeks. You’re stressed out. I get it, so stay. I want you to stay with me. Screw San Francisco. It’s your first holiday living in New York. Spend it with me. We’ll stay in the city, and just chill. No airports, no crazy shopping, no chaos. Heck, we don’t even have to exchange presents if you don’t want. Just you, me, and a bottle of Grey Goose on Christmas. Sounds pretty fucking perfect, if you ask me.”

“Yeah, it does,” I say, exhaling. I’m not ready to go home, to see my friends or Chase, so this new option comes as a huge relief.

“So, you’ll stay?”

I respond instantly knowing I’m not ready to face my past. “Yes.”

~Christmas Eve~

I have already ordered the Chinese food from the place around the corner, and just opened the wine when my phone chirps, signaling a text. “If you’re late again, Mitch, I’m gonna kick your ass,” I mumble, reaching for the phone. He’s late more than he’s on time. It drives me nuts, and has lead to more than a few fights. I guess some of Chase rubbed off on me.

When I slide the display on the phone open, I read: Just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas. I still miss you every day. C.

I gulp as memories of the party the night before I left invade my thoughts.

“To the funniest, smartest, and prettiest girl I know. May all her dreams come true. To Lydia,” Chase says, toasting to the gathering of our friends at our favorite restaurant. “New York won’t know what hit ‘em.”