The Bench

My eyes shoot open, ears ringing from the blaring, siren-like sounds coming from my phone that beckon me out of my dream state where everything was perfect and right and blissfully blind. I scramble to turn off the alarm, desperate for peace and quiet, when I realize I didn’t need to set it in the first place. It’s New Year’s Day, a Monday morning. The office is closed. Wonderful, I think, an entire day to throw myself a pity party. Great start to the year.

I’m summoned out of bed by Finn (or Huckleberry Finn when he’s being bad and prancing on the kitchen counter, so most days) who’s staring up at me, half-meowing half-screaming, begging me to feed him. I set out his bowl and check my phone for new messages while Finn eats, every bit of hope quickly dying off when I see the only text I received was from my best friend, Blair: Janeeee I missed you last night! Hope you saved a midnight kiss for me ;)

Her Instagram stories display it all, and I’m relieved that I passed on yesterday’s New Year’s Eve party at the Franklin’s. Blair is a glorious hot mess in every post but doesn’t seem to compare to the others at the party. Though I’ve never been much of a partier, I fought the intrusive urge to accept Blair’s invitation, let myself loose for one night, and drown out my feelings. Deep down I knew this wouldn’t exactly be classified as “healthy coping,” as my therapist puts it, so I stayed in and read my book to its last page before tucking myself into bed at a reasonable hour. Not much different than any other night, really.

It’s past 7:00 a.m., yet the sky still streaks dark blue with only whispers of light. Typical winter day in Seattle. I’m pleased to see, however, that the rain has let up after many dreary weeks. I take this as a chance to visit my favorite place and, suddenly excited, I’m eager to get dressed and get out the door. I throw my tote bag over my shoulder and give Finn a goodbye squeeze before heading out. A hopeful thought pops into my head that maybe today—and this year—won’t be so bad after all, but the thought leaves as soon as it comes. Who am I kidding?

There’s a note on the elevator door that reads, “OUT OF SERVICE,” and I’m left to walk down the seven flights of stairs. Just a minor inconvenience, not the end of the world, Jane. I step outside into the glistening streets of downtown, burrow my hands into the warm pockets of my coat, and beeline to the coffee shop two blocks down, hoping it’s open on the holiday. 

The open sign on the window beams and I’m greeted by Jeff, the stereotypically-Pacific Northwest barista with his orange beanie, Carhartt jacket, and traditional tattoos. He’s always been a friendly face in the neighborhood—something that is surprisingly hard to come by in the city—and I’m sure he’s noticed by now that I’ve started coming here on my own the past couple weeks. Thankfully, he hasn’t brought it up. 

“Morning, Jane. Hey, happy new year!” He smiles and leans against the counter. “What can I get ya?”

I smile back at him. “Happy new year to you, too. I’ll take an oat milk chai, please. Up to anything fun last night?” 

Jeff begins on my drink, filling a cup with milk then steaming it. “Nothing crazy. Took my girlfriend out to dinner on the pier then met up with friends at a bar afterwards. What about you?”

I cringe inside at how different our evenings were.

“I stayed in. I’m kind of over the whole staying-up-til-midnight thing,” I simply say. “My cat kept me company.” The words are out before I realize how utterly miserable it must sound, but Jeff plays it off.

“Yeah, I’m getting to that point, too. I’ll probably do that next year,” he shrugs, and I’m grateful that if he did pick up on my embarrassment, he didn’t make a big deal out of it.

That’s the thing about being in your 20’s. You’re insecure about what you’re doing or not doing, constantly seeing other people living lives much better than yours. Social media doesn’t help, of course. Surely this feeling will fade when I’m older.

When Jeff hands me my chai, we exchange goodbyes and I’m once again out the door. By the time I start heading toward the waterfront, the sun is making its appearance through the clouds yet the streets remain quiet and still. Seagulls swoop through the air above me, weaving their way between high rises. I take in the sight and feel a wave of calm wash over me. It’s been hard for me lately to appreciate where I am because I’m haunted by what should be. What was and isn’t anymore. But this insignificant scene of seagulls dancing in the sky stops me in my tracks, and I acknowledge that I’m allowed to be angry and hurt and disillusioned. I’m also allowed to move on. Eventually.

I reach the pier on Alaska Avenue and continue down the waterfront path marked for pedestrians. It’s the reason I moved to this city: I love being near the water. Too many afternoons have been spent watching ferry boats hauling passengers across the Sound, stopping at the market on Pike Place on the way home and getting lost in the crowd of locals and tourists. The same crowd where I first met Steven four years ago and crashed into him with such force after abruptly turning a corner, knocking the both of us to the ground while I hopelessly watched my sack of tomatoes burst open and scatter onto the ground. 

“I’m so sorry!” I shrieked as I raced to pick up the tomatoes before they got trampled. It took a brief moment to register that my eyeglasses broke from the impact and I’m struggling to see past the dozens of bodies moving around me. I decided to let the tomatoes go. The five-second rule doesn’t count in heavily populated downtown areas.

The stranger muttered a curse word under his breath, and before I had time to think it was anger directed at me, he gently touched my elbow and fished out a napkin from the to-go bag in his hand. “You’re bleeding,” he said, bringing the napkin to my cheek. My glasses left a cut on my face. 

I’m overwhelmed with guilt. “I’m really sorry. I should’ve looked where I was going.”

He stopped, his eyebrows knitting together in concern. “Why are you apologizing? You’re the one who’s hurt. Let’s go find you a bandage.” 

Even with my blurred vision I could see how gorgeous he was. “Okay” was all I said, placing my trust in him as he led me through the crowd.

I shake myself out of the memory and come back to the present, where I’ve now reached my favorite place: the bench that sits across the water, just yards away from the sculpture park. This bench isn’t particularly unique in any way, just that it’s the spot I always come to in search of some peace. I take a seat and watch the water lap onto the beach in slow, successive waves. A seagull hops onto a rock nearby, and in the distance a ship sounds its horn as it leaves the port. The air feels chillier by the water, but I don’t mind. I cradle the drink in my hands, letting its heat radiate through my bones. 

The familiarity of this little corner of the world puts me at ease. I’d always been selfish with this place, never inviting anyone, even Steven, to join me for a rendezvous. Never giving anyone the power to stain it with memories, only to someday leave…the memories alive like ghosts. Half the city is full of them, those ghosts. But here is where I’m safe. 

It’s only been three months since Steven called off the engagement. I still hear his name in the crunch of yellow leaves below me, feel him in the chill of morning. Forever associating autumn with my heartbreak. To say it came as a shock would be an understatement, but it wasn’t exactly uncharacteristic of him, either. Steven was always a fan of surprises.

It was for the best, and we were so young, I remind myself, knowing that the real grief I’m overcome by is from the loss of the person I used to be before all this. Before him. She had hopes and dreams that were slowly replaced by the hopes and dreams of another. I know one day I’ll be able to forgive Steven. It’ll be the forgiving myself part that will take time. 

A sense of resolve creeps in and stays awhile. Though this year may look different than expected—the wedding would’ve been this summer—it offers a fresh start. I daydream of the possibilities this new year could bring and see them splayed across the sea before me. Maybe I’ll gather up the courage to go after the things I was once too afraid to pursue before.

The sunlight glints off the water, and the songbirds change tunes from the trees above. This year can be good if I let it, making a promise to myself.

Something about this place—about this bench across the sea—makes me believe I will keep it.