(no subject)
prologue: the desire to move.
118° West:
At first he thinks that he might forgive her, but then he realises that it's not going to be his decision. Not yet. Brad's been in love with Juli since he was twelve years old, but he's had a best friend for longer. On the day she leaves him, puts a few things into a cardboard box and refuses to let him carry them down two flights of stairs, he realises that he is physically unequipped to live life as it now presents itself to him. That, at least, is abundantly clear.
He throws necessities into his backpack.
He picks up his camera and goes.
*
#2: A line of people, waiting to board. Shoes, boots, slippers. Bags discarded. Arrows painted on the floor. One long line. Leaving on a one way ticket (LAX).
There's enough in his account for the open ticket; six thousand dollars buys a lot of miles. There's a letter shoved into the hip pocket of his khakis that he hasn't had the balls to read yet; read the letter, Brad, she said to him. It'll all make more sense. But they've known each other since they were kids, the three of them, so he can't see how any of this is ever supposed to ring true to him.
He isn't even angry, just wrung out and numb.
In the airport, from behind, he sees a girl with white blond hair and narrow shoulders and he almost calls her name.
Everything left in the world is an echo.
His plan is far from exact.
From L.A it might make more sense to go west but he's got no real interest in forging new paths or throwing his luck on the surface of the Pacific. He learned to surf as a kid. Too many times to count, they went down to the ocean together and, afterwards, snuck into his bed, and he kissed chill skin still laced with salt and sand.
He has a need for something else.
He craves unfamiliar things.
He traces the edges of the envelope with his thumb. In line for security, he places a call.
She answers on the fourth ring, and he can tell from the echo and the background noise that she's in the kitchen and, for a moment, he aches to be there, toeing off his boots in the mud-room, leaving his pack in the hall. He's photographed his mom in all parts of his parents' house, but she always looks most at home in the kitchen.
She takes it better than he'd imagine.
"Oh, honey," she says, and he imagines her hands stilled mid-mixing, her wedding ring placed carefully on the sill. "I love that girl, but she can be such a bitch."
"You don't have to say that, Mom," he says, quietly.
"But..."
"Mom, don't."
She asks him if he's got his camera; he promises to call from each new country.
"I'll start in London," he says, because he's worked there, and he's got a couch to sleep on. He's been in London from time to time, hanging out in strange, smoky bars and shooting bands he's never heard of. He'd first picked up a camera dreaming of documenting wars; he's had to make do with drumbeats in place of conflict for a long time now.
"Call me when you get there," she says. "I love you, baby."
"I love you too, Mom."
He hangs up in time to throw cellphone and wallet into the plastic tray. He toes out of boots already loose laced. He slips his netbook out of its case. It stays out while he buys coffee, tucked under one arm, and then he sets up at a table, rubs one hand back through his short hair while he waits for his email to load.
FROM: iceman74@gmail.com
TO:: trustinthebirds@gmail.com
Heading to London for a few days. Going on a trip. Any chance of a bunk for a day or two??
- B.
Airports are transitory places; he sits at the table and watches everybody else swirl around him. He watches a young woman walk through the Duty Free store. She sniffs each perfume in turn. He finds himself comparing her to Juli; shorter, darker hair, fuller through the bust. He makes himself edit some pictures. He wonders how long it's going to be before everything stops reminding him of her.
More echoes.
They call his flight as he's finishing his coffee. He takes his time putting his laptop away. On impulse, he slips his camera out of its case. His phone buzzes in his pocket. The Reporter comes through.
He remembers to turn his phone off before he boards.
*
not going to say it's not you it's me, Brad. We're better than that. You deserve better than that. I will say this: it's easier to love someone when they're here. I know you've got a career (and nobody thinks that's as AWESOME as I do) but I'm sick of going to bed on my own and I got so, so sick of you not being here. And Matt is here, Brad. He's always been here. And he's so kind.
I still love you. Matt loves you too. I'm just not in love with you anymore. I
*
>> Part 1