He never told me what was wrong, only that he needed me. He begged, and eventually, I agreed. Apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment, because something hit me hard, besides the desperation in his voice. The fact he’s never once called me since he left. Not to shoot the shit or talk about the weather. Not to curse me out for not going with him. Not to tell me about his first win. And to me, that fact spoke louder than any other reason.
So here I am, waiting to board a flight to whisk me away to sunny California. I people watch, as I always do, to help pass the time. Anything to keep my mind off the fact I’m mere hours away from seeing Mack again. Instead, I focus on the couple in love sitting across from me, most likely heading on their honeymoon, or the young mom and dad chasing a toddler around the terminal while an infant sleeps in a stroller. I wish I had my camera out to capture these moments. They’re real and often raw, and that’s what I love about taking photographs.
Finally, we start the pre-board process. Mack reserved my seat, sent over my travel confirmation by email. It’s in first class, which still makes me roll my eyes. Leave it to Mack to pay way too much for a first class seat, when one in coach would have worked just fine.
I send off a quick text to my dad.
Me: Getting ready to board.
Dad: OK. Let me know when you land.
Me: I will. Love you, Dad.
Dad: Love you more. Let me know if you need anything.
I fire off a reply and pocket my phone. When I told Dad about the phone call, he didn’t have too much to say. He just sat there and listened to my arguments with myself about why I shouldn’t go, and to those about why I should. Ultimately, he let me make the decision and supported whichever I made.
I know Dad and Mack have talked. Hell, for a while, Mack called Dad after every race, running through it piece by piece, talking about what happened and what he should have done differently. Mack relied on my dad’s knowledge and friendship long after he left Brenton. I knew, but I never asked for details. If I was there when he called, I simply left the room or went back to my apartment. I never asked how he was doing or where he was, and Dad never offered. I think he knew how much it hurt, so he left me to deal with the loss in my own way.
And my way had been to take more pictures.
Just like now.
So it doesn’t surprise me he’s letting me go, to figure it out on my own, my way. Dad told me he loved me and drove me to the airport with a vow to be there when I was ready to come home. Considering I have no idea what I’m walking into and the return ticket was open-ended, I still have no idea when that day will be.
And that scares me.
But I made a promise. I’d go to LA and help him, whatever that may be. Once I’ve done my duty, I can head back home, and hopefully, on with my life. Hell, maybe seeing him again will finally be what I need to take that step forward. Every time I feel like I’m ready, there’s a stark realization that I’m not.
Maybe now it’ll actually work.
When I board the plane, I’m handed a small bottle of water. A flight attendant with a friendly smile is eager to take drink orders for those of us at the front of the plane. I order a Dr. Pepper, even though I’d love something with a kick. I have a feeling I’m going to regret not ordering whiskey, but the last thing I need is to have my head and judgment clouded by alcohol.
The flight is pleasant, and I try to pass the time by reading a book. Unfortunately, I can’t focus on the hero as he tries to save the damsel in distress from being kidnapped. Usually, I’m completely invested in the romantic suspense genre, but not today. Not when all I do is wonder what I’ve gotten myself into and what is waiting for me when this plane lands.
When the wheels touch down, my heart starts to beat a little faster. I begin fidgeting with the bag on my lap as the plane taxies to the terminal. It’s a little cloudy on this Sunday afternoon, and I can practically see the smog and thickness hanging in the air. Los Angeles is nothing like Brenton, Kansas.
I’m with the first group allowed to disembark the plane, and as I make my way up the jetway at Burbank, I start to people watch again. Those scurrying to meet their flight and those pacing around, as if they have all the time in the world. I follow behind the first few off the plane as we make our way toward baggage claim.
I pick my spot and wait for the conveyor belt to move. Other passengers arrive, spreading out, and waiting. A man comes to stand next to me. He’s not carrying anything, just has his hands shoved in his pockets. His hair is wild on top of his head and his blue eyes smile brightly. When he glances my way, he offers a wide grin I’m sure could melt panties. Unfortunately for him, it has no effect on my cotton hipsters.
“How are ya?” he asks with a slight Southern twang.
“Fine, thank you,” I reply politely and turn back as the conveyor belt starts to move. I take
