Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
I just hope they aren’t fans of mine.
I’m not feeling like the kind of man who deserves “fans” this morning.
By the time I finally clear the X-ray machine, the urge to run is almost irresistible, but I have no idea where to run to. I pause in front of the large digital board announcing the departures, scanning the destinations, trying to imagine where Beatrice might be headed.
Finally, I roll the dice on one of the tropical destinations leaving from the B concourse and jog in that direction.
White tee. Green ball cap. White tee. Green ball cap.
I scan the crowd with the same intensity I use to read an opposing team on the ice, but so far, the airport isn’t telegraphing its next play. I check the B gates down one side and up the other. I check the coffee lines, the charging stations, and the crowded kiosks selling candy and headphones.
Every flash of white beneath a messy brown bun makes my heart lurch into my throat, only to drop when the woman isn’t Bea. Not Bea, not Bea, not Bea. All too tall or too old or too young or just…not her. Not the woman I have to find.
I have to find her. She has to still be here.
I move on to another concourse, eyes aching from the strain, nerves raw from the certainty that time is running out and the constant flood of sound. Announcements squawk through the airport speakers, old men watch videos at full volume on their phones, mothers cry out to misbehaving children, and babies cry.
Babies.
It’s not just Beatrice I might be losing today. It’s our baby, my baby, the son or daughter I was so ready to let fear steal away.
What the hell is wrong with me? How on earth could I have thought that I’d healed from my past? I’m clearly still scarred, still covered in open wounds that need urgent attention before the past ruins my future.
I reach the far end of the terminal, where the floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the tarmac. A Delta plane is pushing back, its nose turning toward the runway as it heads for…
I check the display at the gate.
Glasgow, Scotland. If I were a pregnant woman in search of peace and sanctuary, would I look for it in Scotland?
I don’t know, but I know Beatrice isn’t in the terminal.
Her magic isn’t here, either.
Maybe she’s on that plane, or one of the other ones taxiing toward the runway, carrying everyone on board to Argentina or New York City or just a short hop over to Dallas.
It doesn’t matter really.
What matters is that she’s not here, and it’s my fault.
I linger for another half hour, pacing back and forth, but deep down, I know it’s an exercise in futility.
And then, I do something completely out of character.
I look down at the ticket in my hand, the one to Key West, and decide…fuck it.
I call the university and leave a message, telling them I won’t be able to teach the skills camp, after all. Something’s come up. A family emergency.
I could have had a family, but I fucked it up before it even got started.
If that’s not an emergency, I don’t know what is.
Then I buy some clothes at a store in the concourse, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a hair brush, and gel at the convenience kiosk, and head to the lounge. I shower, change, grab a mediocre, but plentiful, breakfast of ham and cheese croissants and fresh fruit, and make a list. By the time my flight boards two hours later, I have a new charger, a backpack, a journal, fresh pens, and a reservation for a week at a bungalow by the sea, where I plan to do some serious soul searching.
Turns out, I don’t need a week.
I reach clarity about what has to come next before the plane’s wheels touch down in Key West. It’s like I’ve woken up from more than a bad dream. Like I’ve woken up to the last of the shit I need to face before I’ll truly be able to leave my past behind.
And face it, I do.
I face it on the pages of that journal and in therapy.
I face it on the yoga mat every day for the next couple of months.
I face it in the epic text messages I send to Beatrice that I’m pretty sure she doesn’t receive, even though it looks like they’re getting through.
I hope she isn’t getting them, anyway. If she isn’t, there’s still a chance all the soul I’m baring might make a difference.
But if she is…
If she’s reading them and choosing not to respond…
Well, there might not be a happy ending to this story. Which is the way life is sometimes. I know that better than most. And, eventually, if it becomes clear a relationship—any kind of relationship—with Beatrice and our baby isn’t in the cards for me, I’ll deal with it.