Chapter 57 Los Angeles
What exactly happens to a teleportation journal after it’s sacrificed? Is she born again from the ashes? Does she commence stalking someone new? Should I be jealous? Is there a secret underground club of ex-teleporters grieving her omniscient presence?
These are the questions that plague me during my five-and-a-half-hour airborne odyssey to California. I also spend an excessive amount of time dwelling on the conundrum of what the hell is going on with Reed.
It’s been two weeks.
I know I was an asshole, but I’m trying to apologize. I texted. I spilled my heart out via book chapter. It’s gotten to the point where I think I’m allowed to spin this back around on him.
I’m annoyed. Thrilled that work has brought me to Los Angeles because, don’t get me wrong, I want a future with that man more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life, and right now, I’m a thousand percent confident that we can work this out.
But we will be having words. We both need to work on being more forthcoming with our communication.
Reed said he “needed a second” when he left my apartment building two weeks ago.
It’s been many, many seconds!
I know he sent the breakup text, but he didn’t send the forever-breakup text!
I can’t fathom a reality where we don’t talk this through.
I refuse to be a miscommunication trope.
So whatever the case may be, I’m done waiting.
I’m calling him once I’m settled in my LA apartment.
Not once I’m all unpacked and the place is pretty.
Settled, as in, I’ve received my key, and my suitcases are in the unit. Tonight.
Micah negotiated his ass off for me this week.
Love Today season one will be thirteen episodes.
As far as The Minute, I’ll continue to cover the Love Today column through December, after which I’ll pass the torch.
I’m going to finish out the year, hosting The Minute podcast remote, and come January, the podcast will be mine pending a slight name change.
If The Minute wants to relaunch their version of a Love Today podcast, they will have to relaunch with a slightly rebranded name as well.
I jolt to attention, smiling like a goof, as the plane touches down on the tarmac at LAX.
An intoxicating cocktail of hope and excitement pounds through me as I hobble up the center of the seat numbers with my carry-on.
A driver’s going to pick me up at baggage claim! I’m going to be driven and shown around to my new (provided-by-work) prefurnished apartment!
And I’m going to reach out to Reed. I could see him tonight. There’s a chance that today we finally hash out this lingering bullshit.
I’m smiling as I cross the threshold into the airport.
I beam at the exhausted people waiting to get on the plane I just vacated.
I beam at the people in the queue for Habit Burger and Starbucks.
I grin at the people sitting at Gates 85, 84, the people boarding their flight at 83.
I’m about to move on to Gate 82 when my eyes snag.
My heart stumbles over itself as I latch onto a familiar turquoise–neon green.
I reverse a few steps. Searching the crowd of travelers. My eyes home in on the WordArt gradient moving through the herd. The Sunrise Away bag.
I crane my neck and rise onto my tiptoes, tracing it up to the back of a man’s head. A man in line for group three of the United flight boarding for . . . I glance at the digital sign: Newark.
No. It can’t—
He steps into full view to scan his ticket. My heartbeat is in my eyeballs as he strides on toward the jetway.
What in the actual—
“Reed!” It comes out as a full-on frantic scream. A few people in my vicinity startle before they continue on.
Reed stops short at the mouth of the jetway, looking over his shoulder for the source. I awkwardly throw up my arm to wave.
His eyes widen as they cut to mine. We’re a good sixty feet apart, but he sees me. He holds my gaze in shock for three eternal seconds. I feel his attention all the way in my fucking toes.
Then someone bumps his shoulder. He rocks sideways, realizing he’s blocking the flow of traffic onto the plane. He walks backward a few steps before swiveling his head as he bumbles into the jetway. Swept up with the mounting horde of people trying to get to their seats.
I swallow, panic constricting in the back of my throat as I watch, hoping he’ll swim upstream and come back out here so we can talk.
I’m rooted to the spot, outside the gate where the carpet meets the tile, staring at the jetway.
Five minutes pass.
Ten minutes pass. He doesn’t appear.
What the fuck.
Ten more minutes, and they’re sealing the door.
I’m still here, frozen, because something in me has cracked, and if I move, I’ll fall apart.
He saw me, right? Maybe he didn’t see me?
Was he going to Newark to visit me?
But he ignored me.
Maybe he didn’t see me?
But he saw me.
Maybe it wasn’t him?
But it was.
I’m locked in a dissociative haze as I’m given the keys to my new apartment. As I unpack and unload my things. Run errands for the items I couldn’t fit in a suitcase. I’m in HomeGoods hunting for a comforter when my phone pings.