“Iwantthis,” I say, but even as I say it, a part of me has no idea what that means.
Do I want marriage?
Do I want to have kids?
Do I want to live in a seventies quad-level in Linfield, Ohio?
Do I want any of the things that Alex craves for his life?
I haven’t thought any of that through, and Alex can tell.
“You don’t know that,” Alex says. “You just said you don’t know, Poppy. I can’t leave my job and my house and my family just to see if that cures your boredom.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that, Alex,” I say, feeling desperate, like I’m grappling for purchase and realizing everything under me is made of sand. He’s slipping through my grip for the last time, and there will be no packing this all back into form.
“I know,” he says, rubbing the lines in his forehead, wincing. “God, I know that. It’s my fault. I should’ve known this was a bad idea.”
“Stop,” I say, wanting so badly to touch him, aching at having to settle for clenching my hands into fists. “Don’t say that. I’m figuring things out, okay? I just... I need to figure some things out.”
The gate agent calls for group six to start boarding and the last few stragglers line up.
“I have to go,” he says, without looking at me.
My eyes cloud up with tears, my skin hot and itchy like my body’s shrinking around my bones, becoming too tight to bear. “I love you, Alex,” I get out. “Doesn’t that matter?”
His eyes cut toward me, dark, fathomless, full of hurt and want. “I love you too, Poppy,” he says. “That’s never been our problem.” He glances over his shoulder. The line has almost disappeared.
“We can talk about this when we’re home,” I say. “We can figure it out.”
When Alex looks back at me, his face is anguished, his eyes red ringed. “Look,” he says gently. “I don’t think we should talk for a while.”
I shake my head. “That’s the last thing we should do, Alex. We have to figure this out.”
“Poppy.” He reaches for my hand, takes it lightly in his. “I know what I want.Youneed to figure this out. I’d do anything for you, but—please don’t ask me to if you’re not sure. I really—” He swallows hard. The line is gone. It’s time for him to go. He forces out the rest in a hoarse murmur. “I can’t be a break from your real life, and I won’t be the thing that keeps you from having what you want.”
His name catches in my throat. He bends a little, resting his forehead against mine, and I close my eyes. When I open them, he’s walking onto the jet bridge without looking back.
I take a deep breath, gather up my things, and head to my gate.
When I sit down to wait and pull my knees into my chest, hiding my face against them, I finally let myself cry freely.
For the first time in my life, the airport strikes me as the loneliest place in the world.
All those people, parting ways, going off in their own directions, crossing paths with hundreds of people but never connecting.
33
Two Summers Ago
AN OLDER GENTLEMANtravels with us to Croatia as the officialR+Rphotographer.
Bernard. He’s a loud talker, always wearing a fleece vest, often standing between Alex and me without noticing the funny looks we exchange over Bernard’s bald head. (He’s shorter than me, though throughout the trip, he often tells us he was five six back in his prime.)
Together, the three of us see the ancient city of Dubrovnik, Old Town, with its high stone walls and winding streets, and further out, the rocky beaches and pristine turquoise water of the Adriatic.
The other photographers I’ve traveled with have all been fairly independent, but Bernard’s a recent widower, unused to living alone. He’s a nice guy, but endlessly social and talkative, and throughout our time in the city, I watch him wear Alex down, until all Bernard’s questions are answered in monosyllables. Bernard doesn’t notice; usually his questions are mere springboards for stories he’d like to share.
The stories involve a lot of names and dates, and he takes plenty of time ensuring he’s getting each right, sometimes going back andforth four or five times until he’spositivethis event happened on a Wednesday and not, as he first thought, a Thursday.