Now
We pulled into LAX under a dark and cloudy night sky. Of course, I had to arrive during the only period of rain forecasted for five days straight in sunny Southern California. Nice Hot Older Man respected my wish not to be bothered. He nodded to me when I returned from the bathroom, but that was it. I began to regret my decision to dismiss him; I knew absolutely no one in California anymore. Well, except for my dad out in the desert, who was rotting away in prison. Maybe Nice Hot Older Man could be my emergency contact or something.
“Um, sorry for… being so rude,” I said, turning to him as we waited our turn to exit the plane.
He smiled and shook his head. “You weren’t rude. I understand needing privacy.”
I quickly smiled back. “Okay. Thanks.” I felt my cheeks burning again. I hadn’t had this much conversation with a man this gorgeous in years.
He cleared his throat as I turned my eyes back to the front of the plane.
“If you ever feel like… maybe you don’t want so much privacy, could I give you my card?”
I turned back to him, feeling like my eyes were popping out of my head.
“Uh—”
“No, I’m sorry. That’s too forward, isn’t it? I feel like a creep,” he responded immediately, clearly embarrassed.
“No, it’s fine,” I laughed. His modesty was endearing. “Sure, I’ll take your card.”
He smiled again. I couldn’t let this man into my life—I would ruin him. Or vice versa. But I could be kind and flatter myself.
He reached for his wallet in his back pocket and pulled out his card. He handed it to me, and I immediately read it: “Elliott Walker. Behavioral Therapist.”
I knew I looked up at him with a scowl on my face. He began to laugh.
“Sorry, I’m not giving you my card as a potential client. I was, um… if you ever want to get a drink or dinner or something.” He seemed nervous, but he surely must’ve done that all the time. I’m sure he had many “potential clients.”
“Thanks.” I waved his card in my hand and stood up, making my way out to the aisle.
I was so lost in my thoughts that I had forgotten all about my overhead bag. I turned around and Elliott was taking it down for me effortlessly.
“Fuck,” I said under my breath. He must think I’m a real fucking mess . “Thanks. Again.” I smiled as I took my bag from him.
I quickly turned around and nearly ran out to the terminal.
I found my baggage claim area and waited as the carousel began to unload bags. I glanced down at my phone, not even really sure why I was checking it. I didn’t give anyone my new number; I wasn’t sure if I would. Maybe LA would be my fresh start and absolve me of all my trauma from New York, even though my trauma started right here in this very city. I’m never going to be a normal person. Maybe I can at least pretend.
I saw Elliott approaching the carousel and looked back down at my phone, hoping to avoid him; I couldn’t keep making an asshole out of myself, and he seemed to just bring it out of me. The nicest guy I’ve ever met, and I can’t even be nice to him. I am obviously unwell.
I glanced up at the bags making their way around the loop and realized Elliott had gone to the opposite side of where I stood, respectfully keeping his distance. Or maybe he just knew I was fucking crazy and wanted to stay the hell away from me.
I grabbed my large purple suitcase, propped my carry-on bag on top of it, and wheeled it out the door. The sound of traffic immediately filled my ears; even at 9 p.m. on a weekday, the airport was filled with non-stop traffic. In the minute I had been outside, the rain escalated from a light sprinkle to a torrential downpour as I desperately searched for the shuttle to my hostel in East Hollywood. I felt like a foreigner already—I didn’t know where the fuck I was going or how to get there.
Someone suddenly bumped into my shoulder, and as we both turned, he apologized. Naturally, it was Elliott.
“Oh, I’m so sorry—uh.” He searched my face as he gestured towards me, as if my panicked expression would tell him my name.
“Jacqueline.” My full name sounded more sophisticated than Jackie, and I had no idea why I wanted to impress this man.
“Like Jackie O?” He smiled, his hair dripping wet as we stood under an overpass.
Exactly like it; of course, my parents thought it would be so cute to name their daughter Jacqueline with the last name Olsen. Jackie O was my nickname for many years in school.
“Yeah.” I smiled and shrugged.
He looked around. “Are you waiting for a bus?”
Run for your life, Elliott , my internal Michael monologue yelled.
“Yeah,” I replied, glancing around, still uneasy about making eye contact with him.
“Oh, um…I can give you a ride?” he started, but his face fell instantly. “Actually, let me just stop my recurrent creepiness right here. I’m sure you don’t want a ride from a stranger.” He raised his eyebrows at me with a disarming smile.
I nodded. I may have been barely living, but I didn’t want to get murdered just yet.
“You’re fine.” I shook my head. “I mean—it’s fine. I think this is my bus anyway.” I nodded over at an approaching bus.
He nodded back. “Okay. I hope you get to your destination safely.” He smiled again. “I hope to see you again, Jacqueline.” He turned and walked away into the rain.
I stood there staring at him until the bus zoomed right past me.
Off to a great start already, Jackie O.