I Promise it Will Be Different

I arrived half an hour before the time we agreed upon. At first, it was an attempt to snatch some control but when I got here, I realized I needed every minute. I hopped from table to table. Every chair felt too hard against my rear and every table had a spotlight. I finally settled on a table with a pair of chairs, at the back, nestled against the wall. From here, I will be able to see when he arrives. He won’t be able to see me though. Not until I stand. Gifting me with the time I need to conceal any joy he evokes. I look down at my lap and then to the empty chair meant for him. This is way too intimate. I fumble my phone, trying to gather my things. Again, I’m on the hunt for the perfect meeting place. A spot that says “I’m over you.” I shovel lies over the knot in my stomach that tries to convict me with the truth.

          As soon as the hot phone settles in my hand, it chimes.

I’m here.

          I sigh and sink into my chair. I can’t surrender before the battle has even started so I shelve my defeat and stand with my shoulders back. His smile is wide when I wave him over. It marks his face until he’s in front of me.

“Hey,” he says.

The smile isn’t erased. His lips move to form the word then return, as if to their natural state.

           I made a list before I arrived here. Written out in bold letters on a sheet of paper that sits in my purse, are all the reasons he’s wrong for me. I should retrieve the list, cement objection to his olive branch. But here, ensnared by the magnetism of those lips, I don’t want to dig for that list; and I can’t remember a single item on it. So, my own lips begin to long for the tenderness of his.

The knowledge of the firm but tender press, draws me in. I manage a step before memories freeze me and I’m suspended between fear and desire. The toes of the eager foot are just shy of brushing against the front of his polished loafer. But my shoulders are pulled back. Towards the chair…towards the wall. Away from all I can’t remember from my list.

I withdraw the forgiving limb. My eyes drift about the room admiring people scarfing down burgers and fries. I envy their freedom from the knot that occupies the space food should fill. As I study the room, I whisper a prayer: I hope this isn’t another place I lose to him. I wish he says the right words so that the smell of grease wafting on the air always triggers a smile as big as the one he now wears.

I stretch a limp hand to him, uncertain what the acceptable greeting is, for someone who promised me the world but never delivered. The hand must not be weak enough because he closes in for a hug. His heart pounds a gentle greeting. I inhale deeply the “welcome home” but when the smell of his cologne reaches my nostrils it’s too much and my breath gets caught on an exhale. To others, he smells like cedarwood and lavender. To me, he smells like distant peace, happiness, and warmth. Another kind of heat creeps to my eyes, tries to leak out. I bury my face in the hardness of his chest and hope the things I’m attempting to hide don’t leave a stain.

“I still love you.” His words that started us on this journey to reconciliation. I’ve told myself that I only came for closure, a proper end. The truth is, I have read and reread those four words in a wild attempt to conjure up his voice from my memory. I try to convince myself that I’m here to say, “We don’t work as a couple,” but I’m really here to hear the words drip from his lips like honey. Or poison to contaminate me afresh.

I had forgotten how good it felt to be held by him. The way he slides his hand down my head, smoothing my hair. The way he caresses my back before enveloping me in his arms. He now reminds me of that comfort and protection. Someone edges past us to get to an empty table and I grow restless in his embrace. I start to think of all the people I’ve told of the betrayal. How weak they’ll think I am if they see me here surrendering again to his will.

I break free.

“Are you OK?” he asks.

I revert to old lies and nod yes before my mind can think and my mouth formulate a response.

“We should sit,” he says. “We have a lot to talk about.”

I lock eyes with him while I slip into the seat. Lips may lie, but eyes hold the truth. His eyes guard his truth as well as his lips do. Maybe this is his truth. Maybe he is finally ready to be all he claims he wants to be to me. I want to ask. I force my mouth to work but it only manages a half-smile. Maybe it’s exhausted. Aching and depleted from all the years it spent trying to extract love.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

I wait for the rest. The apologies. The promises. They never come.

         He reaches for my left hand, strokes the ring finger.

“Let’s do this,” he says. “I want to start my life with you.”

          I place my free hand over his. Our hands are stacked together, sealing the pact. My spirit pledges it will be him – always and forever – and hopes he takes a similar oath. I finger the scar on his wrist. A reminder that though he acts impenetrable, something was able to reach him. I tell myself I can do the same. I can reach all the scars that I can’t see.

I give in to the lingering urge to taste his lips. When I do, all illusions of resistance are consumed by the fire that has never been put out. It had been reduced to crackling kindling but it wasn’t extinguished. And here he is with the gentle breeze needed to fan the flames.

         On our way out, I reach into my bag, and without looking at it, I dump my list in the trash.