Page 17 of Time Exposure

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.

But I hadn’t moved for several reasons.

Until a week and a half ago, I hadn’t spoken with Cora in years. It wasn’t to intentionally hurt her. More like I thought I was doing the right thing when I couldn’t see me making it back to her. So, I was doing right by her. At least that is what I told myself. I was letting her go. Letting her move on and find love again.

Only I didn’t share that with her. I made the decision all on my own. Because I figured a clean break was the best way. For obvious reasons, I am an idiot. Live and learn, I suppose.

When I get in the Uber, I tell the driver I would like some quiet. I need time to think, to strategize. And I can’t do that while a bored driver shoots the shit with me. Thankfully, he respects my request.

After battling late-day traffic, the driver pulls into Mom’s driveway on the outskirts of Burbank. I thank the driver, grab my luggage and walk up to the house. Mom’s house looks much the same as it did thirteen years ago when we moved to California. The only difference is the paint has faded slightly, the plants have been swapped for more colorful versions, and the tree in the front yard is a little taller and bushier.

Although I have adjusted to Mom living here, this house has still never felt like home. Just a layover until my path realigned.

Maybe I should have messaged Mom before just showing up on her doorstep. She will probably think me crazy. Question me endlessly. Popping up here is nowhere near my norm. Whatever. Perhaps I am going crazy. But if being crazy equals being happy, consider me certifiable.

I punch my code into the door lock and step inside. The moment I pass the threshold, the scent of curry and bell peppers and grilled chicken attacks my nose. A second later, my stomach growls in response. Obviously, the airport food didn’t hold me over long.

“Mom?” I call out.

“Gavin, is that you?”

Every time she asks that, it makes me laugh. Does she have other children I am unaware of? Better yet, is there another guy in her life that could be walking through the door? The latter never crossed my mind until now. I wouldn’t expect my mom to remain celibate after Dad passed, but she still wears her wedding jewelry. Wonder if I need to give her the okay to move on? If I need to tell her it is okay to find love again. That I am okay with her loving someone besides Dad.

Maybe another time.

“Yeah, Mom. Are you in the kitchen?” I ask as I walk in that direction. I figure I will ask a stupid question in return. With all the deliciousness floating through the air, she is either cooking or just sitting down to eat.

The second I round the corner and the kitchen comes into view, the grilled peppers and spices hit me full force. My stomach bellows out and constricts, and I pat my abdomen. Calm down, we will eat soon.

“Hey, honey. What are you doing here?” She smiles, wraps me in her embrace, and I squeeze her a little harder than usual. “Is everything okay?” Concern laces her voice since I have yet to let her go.

I give her one last squeeze, take a deep breath, then let her go. She steps back to the stove, but has her eyes on me. “No, everything’s not okay. I just flew back from Clearwater.”

In front of me, Mom freezes with the spoon mid-air above the pan. Her eyes search mine, looking for clues as to what I am thinking, before pinching tightly with sadness. “Oh, Gavin. Was that where your shoot was?”

“Yeah. I didn’t think I’d see her. But I was so far off base. Mom… she was the photographer for my shoot.”

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