“Yeah.”
“Cool. What’s your e-mail? I can forward you an updated itinerary after it’s ready. In fact, why don’t you text it to me when we hang up?”
“Mm-hmm.” I was speaking in murmurs, afraid to make words or phrases, forgetting how to speak in full sentences.
“And don’t worry about any of the details. I’ll take care of everything. I gotta go now. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Call or text with any questions, Bess. I’m already looking forward to spending time together.”
That was two weeks ago, and I’d never called or texted with anything but my e-mail address, and now I was getting ready to board a plane to see him.
Was there some type of rule book for this type of relationship?
I rushed by lonely souls sitting in airport bars and society women browsing in newsstands on my way to the gate, only stopping for a small cup of coffee. Stumbling over my own feet, I made my way to B4 where I would get on a flying death trap to perhaps an even more fiery death, otherwise known as Lane Wrigley.
As I rode the down escalator after I arrived, the Florida sun streaming brightly through the large windows in front of me, I squinted at the group of people waiting at the bottom. Standing tall, dead center, his black hair a disheveled mess, was Lane. When I neared the bottom of the moving staircase, I patted my hip to reassure myself. Tucked in the pocket of my light pink cardigan was a piece of paper with an address.
Not for family, friends, or even a hotel, but for an AA meeting. Just in case.
No, I hadn’t divulged any of this to my host, but Shirley thought I should have it with me, so she called around and found a meeting for me. They met every night at six o’clock in the basement of a church.
Isn’t that where everyone dreams about going when they visit the Sunshine State?
