Last Minute Decisions

Last minute decisions almost never work out, and that’s one of the most known reasons you’re supposed to plan everything. But I’m not everyone, I’m an idiot, and I don’t plan things. Instead, I run through the airport with my large travel backpack slung over one of my shoulders, a ticket folded between my index and middle finger, expertly dodging everyone as I make my way to the boarding area. The plane is supposed to be ready to leave in 20 minutes, and I clench my jaw when the boarding area comes into view. I run up to the counter after everyone else, slamming my ticket down in front of the poor lady working. 

“Go ahead and board,” She says after she scans my ticket. I nod, mutter an apology, and walk onto the plane, panting from the exercise, walking down the aisle slowly and opening the compartment above my seat before slamming it shut again, sitting down and buckling my seatbelt. 

Maybe unplanned things will be the highlights of my life. I sure seem to have a lot of them, after he entered my life. 

The speaker announcements begin, asking for people to be seated with their seat belts buckled. After that, the plane begins to move, and I lean back against the seat and close my eyes. 5 hours here, with the cramped leg room, another stranger next to me. 5 hours, with the pressure squeezing my brain and causing a headache, 5 hours of sleep. I need it, after staying awake all night packing after purchasing my ticket yesterday, right after work. Calling in sick for 3 days, without notice. I’m sure my boss and coworkers will hate me. Staying in Colorado for 5 days, just because I got a text from him. I don’t even know if his offer still stands.

I really am an idiot. 

I sigh and attempt to sleep, resting my eyes and ignoring the movement of the plane as we begin down the runway.

When I wake up, it’s not because we’ve landed, but because the man next to me needs up. I stand, moving out of the way and sitting again before staring at the seat in front of me. It’s funny, really, how we’re all travelling together, complete strangers. We know nothing about each other, yet all of our stories are mixed, here, all at the same airport, travelling to the same location, packing up a piece of our life and moving. 

I glance at the bottom corner of the screen in front of me. There’s an hour left of the flight. I look out the window on the right, seeing the clouds below us, and the endless blue of our world. I stand again, allowing the man back to his seat, closing my eyes and attempting to fall asleep again. I succeed at my escape.

When we land, it takes exactly 6 minutes and 47 seconds for me to get off the plane and into the hallway, bag over my shoulder, phone in my pocket, mint on my tongue. He doesn’t know I came. I didn’t tell him. 

I continue to walk, one foot in front of the other as I struggle to come to terms with myself. I did this, I’m here. Without thinking. Of course without thinking. I scroll through the messages we’ve had, the address he has, and I walk to the rental car service. 

After sitting in the front seat of a pickup, key in the ignition, backpack in the passenger seat, I rub my eyes with my fists. I’m a reckless idiot. The reason he loves me, and the reason he hates me. I begin driving, phone shouting the directions as I pull onto the highway, on my way to his house. Of course, it had to be his house. Because no matter where we go, no matter how far apart we are, we’re connected. Our lives intertwined, crossed, tangled together in the past. 

I knock on his door, bag on my shoulder again, phone in my right hand, the gps silenced, our text messages open, and words that should be in my mind completely gone.

He opens the door, and his face changes when he sees me. I can’t tell what it is, whether it’s hate or love, whether it’s surprise or expectancy, whether it’s relief or repulsion. I don’t think he knows either.

“You’re here.” I shift my weight onto the opposite foot.

“I’m here.”

“On impulse?”

“Of course.” He chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“It wouldn’t.”

“Are you going to come in?”

“Only if I’m allowed to.”

“You’ll always be allowed.”

“Even after I hurt you?”

“Mistakes are mistakes. And impulsively showing up at my door should award you some sort of second chance.” He steps out of the doorway, allowing me to take off my shoes on the rug and place them next to his. They used to sit like that back at the apartment we shared in Brooklyn, before the incident. 

We sat down together at the dinner table.

“How was your flight? I know you don’t deal with the pressure well.”

“I have a bit of a headache, but I didn’t come here to talk about me. Well, sort of. I wanted to take that opportunity, the chance I had to fix this. Us.”

“Ah. So it’s because you missed me?”

“Yeah. I missed you, and your presence, and us, and the things we had. I should’ve told you I was coming down, or that I was going to show up, but here I am. I wasn’t going to come until last night.”

“There were still tickets available?” 

“Yeah.”

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

“So…”

“Why’d you send the text?”

“The text?”

“The text.”

“Oh. I wanted to see if you’d come.”

“Well, I did.”

“I wanted to know why.”

“Why what?”

“Why you did what you did.”

“I already said why. Why did you?”

“Because what you’re too important to me for me to be able to let go over a mistake we made.”

“But you didn’t make the mistake.”

“My mistake was walking out that door.”

“Oh.”

We sat in silence, together. I fiddled with the edge of the paper coffee cup in my hand, the cheap brown liquid cold and disgusting, holding no value anymore. Three dollars down the drain, for half a cup of low-quality gas station coffee.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“I’m sorry too.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“To me, I do.”

“Then fix it, so we’re not a couple of sore losers.”

“How do we fix it, then?”

“I shouldn’t go out with a couple of friends and black-out without telling you simply because of the impulse I got walking out of work.”

“And?”

“I’m sorry for making out with someone, right in front of your face, when I’m in a committed relationship, and then call you a cruel word because you got angry,” I continue. “But, you’re very hot when you’re angry.”

“God, you’re insufferable- I’m sorry for shouting at you, even if you deserved it. I’m sorry for screaming and storming out of the door.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“You better not. You’re lucky I’m taking you back after the idiot decision you’ve made.”

“Intrusive thoughts get the better of me, sometimes.”

“So I’ve heard.” I down the cheap cup of coffee, just to feel the coolness slide down my throat. It’s an excuse to break eye contact with him, the piercing gaze of accusation.

“I’ll work on it, I have a therapist.”

“So you’re getting better?”

“That’s the end goal.”

“Then I better see improvement.”

We sit together, just like we used to, on a black couch that contrasts the light colour of the walls. The only light in the room is from a single lamp on a side table, casting a warm glow on both of our faces.

I bring our entwined hands up to my lips, pressing my lips to his skin.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, knowing he’s asleep and that my words fall upon deaf ears. I am going to get better, because that’s what he- and I- deserve.