Forward

Suitcase in hand, you head for the station. You gently close the door behind you, careful not to wake anyone inside. Walking along the phalanx of ranch-style suburban homes, you see the yellow taxi parked in the cul-de-sac at the end of the road, just as you had arranged. As you make your way along the sidewalk and ornate poplar trees, you notice the streetlights turning off, one by one, acquiescing to the blue-grey of dawn’s early light.

You get in the cab, placing your suitcase in the seat next to you. “Bus station, 4^th and Walnut” you say. The cab driver acknowledges and sets off. Your gaze becomes fixed out the window, soaking in one last glimpse of this suburban seascape.

Your mind drifts to the letter, and the disappointment you felt after finally putting it to paper. You had spent the last few years writing it in your head, planning and fantasizing all the things you’d say. You had even written a few rough drafts, careful to immediately burn or shred the evidence. Finally, last night, you let the words and whiskey flow through you as you wrote the thoughts you had kept from her, words you had never said, and could never say, aloud.

When your pen stopped moving and the words stopped flowing, the sense of relief you spent years dreaming of failed to materialize. The sheet of paper seemed to hold no more value than a shopping list, or directions to a nearby restaurant.

You were careful not to blame her for your departure, while making it perfectly clear that you have no intentions of returning. You let her know that you only took enough money from the bank to get to your final destination, the rest – the house, the car, the savings – was all for her and the kids. You figured there was enough money in the bank to get your children through school (your youngest graduates in two years), assuming your soon-to-be ex-wife stays with her job.

The sudden jolt of an unseen pothole brings you back to reality. You ignore the driver’s apology, fearing a response could start a conversation. Once again, your eyes return to the sights of your small, North-Texas town as it passes by. The white walls of the First Methodist Church seem to glow in the early morning light, shining with such intensity you have to avert your gaze. As intense as the sun’s rays are, you think to yourself, they’re nothing compared to the glares I’d get from the people inside, should I ever return.

Looking down, you notice the tan-line on your ring finger, and how the last time you had seen that particular patch of skin exposed was inside that very church, the day you made Nicole your wife. You remember the trembling of your fingers as you put on your rented tux, the flutter of butterflies in your stomach at the sight of her in a white gown, and the clumsy stutter of your voice as you did your best to say “I do.”

You had avoided thinking about that day, fearing that it would make you question your decision to leave. As it turns out, remembering the flood of emotions only strengthened your resolve, reminding you of the soulless automaton the last two decades have made you. 

You could never pinpoint when it began, but you’ve known it for some time. On the day your first child was born, holding him in your arms for the first time, you remember feeling nothing, though you were terrified to tell anyone. You remember hearing your friends and family share their experiences, how the births of their children were invariably the best days of their lives. You imagined the kinds of responses you’d get if they ever found out: What kind of monster doesn’t feel a connection with his own child? Too fearful to confide in anyone, you developed a new mantra: fake it ‘til you feel it. Nearly two decades later, you find yourself still repeating those words.

You did everything you could to be the model father, husband, employee, and Christian you were expected to be, but a lifetime of baseball games, dinner parties, and Sunday services never felt natural.

You recognize the bus station as the car comes to a stop. Exchanging no more words than necessary, you thank the driver and give him his fare. You make your way through the glass door into the dingy lobby, soaking in the stale air and outdated décor. You greet the woman behind the counter with the same cool indifference you showed the cab driver. After confirming your reservation and receiving your ticket, you go to take seat on one of the plastic benches in the nearly empty waiting area. You choose a spot against the wall, avoiding the blaring sunlight coming through the windows but having a good view of clock on the wall.

It’s almost seven, you notice. Nicole should be getting up about now, beginning her Saturday morning routine. You picture her approaching her nightstand and finding a folded sheet of paper under a plain gold ring.

The soft voice of a young woman collecting her ticket can be heard from the counter. She cautiously makes her way into the lobby, sitting across and five chairs down from you. You notice the hurried path of her big, brown eyes as they dart from her smartphone to the departure screen. The 7:30am to Denver still read ‘Standby,’ and likely will for the next twenty minutes, but that won’t stop her from frequently checking.

Suddenly, you notice the subtle aroma of her perfume, a pleasant distraction from the dank mildew of the waiting room. You feel yourself being whisked away to a different a time and place, to a different you. For the first time in years, you think of Jasmine.

You think back to the pita shop where Jasmine worked your junior year of college. You hated the food but went there three times a week just to see her. What a relief you felt when you finally asked her out, knowing you would no longer need to choke down another dry falafel wrap just to see her smile.

Jasmine was everything you wanted but weren’t allowed to have. She was an art student who practically worshipped Frida Kahlo. She was Catholic, though she only went to mass when her parents dragged her on holidays. She was the daughter of immigrants, though neither of her parents had obtained the legal paperwork. She had a tattoo on her left shoulder blade, an ornate dream catcher interwoven with various plants and animals. You had spent many mornings studying that tattoo in the soft morning light of your apartment as she slept next to you. She was a vegetarian, and the only person on earth who could get you to eat a veggie burger.

It was painfully clear that she was the first woman you had ever loved, to light the fire inside of you, to make you think there was more to life than working hard and paying bills. A part of you dreamt of spending the rest of your life with her, following her future art exhibitions as they premiered across the globe.

Yet, despite your obvious feelings, you couldn’t stop thinking about what your family would say. This fear led you to hide Jasmine from your conservative parents, while shying away from talking about any kind of future with her.

Having grown tired of being your dirty little secret, she left you three months before graduation. She got her art degree and headed to San Francisco, and you hadn’t heard from her since.

You spent months wishing you had the courage to stand up to your parents. You rehearsed speeches in your head, cursing them for being so closed-minded while asserting your own independence. You pictured them, sitting at the dinner table, jaws agape and misty-eyed. You pictured Jasmine sitting next to you, her big brown eyes looking up in admiration. Sometimes you pictured yourself standing, pointing a finger at your bewildered father while yelling your manifesto. Other times you imagined yourself sitting, hands crossed in front of you, speaking in a firm, but calm tone. Every scenario ended the same way: your parents admit their faults, apologizing for their conservative views, while Jasmine falls more deeply in love with you.

All those mental rehearsals proved unnecessary, as you met Nicole a year after graduation. She was everything your parents wanted for you, a white, conservative protestant from a good family. She taught third graders at the local elementary school. She wanted nothing more in life than to be a good wife, mother, and Christian.

You loved having a girl you could take to your parents’ house on Sunday evenings, to accompany you on day trips to small towns in the hill country, to lie next to you on a cold winter’s night. You loved having someone to share your home, pack your lunch, and raise your children. You loved all the roles Nicole played, though deep down, you never really loved her, no matter how hard you tried.

You notice the girl with perfume putting her phone away as she stands and makes her way to the door. You glance at the clock: 7:20 on the dot. Through the window, in the back parking lot, you see your chariot, a faded grey coach bus with dusty windows and the scattered remains of unfortunate grasshoppers dotting the windshield. You grab your suitcase and head for the door.

You show your ticket to the driver as you try to scope out an empty row. Though only a few passengers are getting on with you, a good number of the seats are filled with riders who had boarded earlier in Waco. Luckily, you find an empty row and take a seat in the back by the window.

A young man takes the aisle seat next to you, and though you were hoping to have the row to yourself, the blaring static of death metal from his headphones lead you to believe he’s not much of a talker. 

The bus sets off, making its way through the center of town and on towards the highway. From your window you catch a final glimpse of your office, almost smiling as you imagine your boss’s reaction come Monday. You had spent the last week making clandestine preparations for your departure, working extra hours to get all of your affairs in order. Account transfer notes, protected documents, customer birthdays, every piece of institutional knowledge kept in your brain was left behind in an easy to read, organized folder. The final step was a carefully crafted resignation email, which should reach your supervisor’s inbox at eight o’clock sharp on Monday morning.

An hour passes, and the young man sitting next you has apparently grown tired of his music, and now his eyes are bouncing around the bus interior. You’ve seen this behavior before, and you fear that an attempt at small talk is imminent, and rightly so.

“Where you headed?” he asks.

After a brief pause, you look over at him. “Forward,” you reply. A smile takes shape as you return your gaze out the window.