“You know,” I began, “I appreciate all that you’ve done for me. And apology accepted,” we smiled, “but I can’t.”
“Sure? I can still show you how big my heart is,” he grinned.
I didn’t know how to register that. Whether or not it was an innuendo or just a figure of speech, I continued to decline. He still offered to take me home in his Royce, but I felt it somewhat inappropriate at that point. I was ditching the guy, I sure as hell didn’t want to duck out from his own Royce.
I took a cab, and even though the night wasn’t entirely a bust, I managed to still have fun. And despite all oddities, Christopher Wallace was still a nice guy. Just not the right guy for me. It’s strange, I pegged the night as an apology and somehow it turned into a date with an invitation. Am I that gullible? I’d like to think I was smarter than that. Even though it’s a half-vague-date, I considered it parallel to my other dates in California. I know a person shouldn’t be comparing everything with everything and anything, but I couldn’t help it. Hey, it could help at least. Knowing just how high my standards are were dependant on comparisons and learning from new experiences. This new experience, my first date in New York (much easier to call it a date now), wasn’t as great as I had hoped. In New York, there’s magic, there’s bustling life, there’s even a full spectrum of smells that can keep people busy with confusion for the whole day, but I guess New York just can’t handle a first date with a Californian Soul. But then again, this ‘first-half-assed-date’ shouldn’t be counted as nothing more than a flimsy attempt at getting laid. Sorry Christopher Wallace, I’m an easy-going kind of girl, but I ain’t that easy!
I was actually looking forward to spending time with Adam. Even though he still left me in a state of bewilderment, I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, we had something there. But did that mean we were going to wait until Adam felt that I was sufficiently ready? That I had gone through enough life experiences to be ready for us? Or was I kidding myself?
When I entered the apartment, I immediately called Adam. I figured he was in the shower or something, but the bathroom was empty. As was his bedroom. I had never felt more alone in his apartment, with a heart drumming so loudly I feared the neighbours will bang on the wall.
I plonked on the couch, and dug for my phone, calling Adam. After a few rings, he wasn’t picking up. Adam was generally home at this time of night, and he didn’t leave a note or anything. I wasn’t expecting him to; I mean, I didn’t exactly notify him of my whereabouts, but still, I felt something was up. As I waited for Adam to call me back, I remained still on the couch, going through all the places in my mind of where he could be. It was no use. I wasn’t exactly buzzed, I had full brain function and all, but all of it was just so strange. I wondered and wondered and wondered until finally…I stopped. I found it. How could I have been so stupid? Earlier on, he told me, that he never had girls sleep over. He was always the one to go over to their place, to make for an easier getaway I guess. I sighed; I couldn’t blame him. I never waited for him in California. I fell in love with Daniel, not him. I went on dates with other men, not him. It was never him. So this time, it wasn’t me.
I delved in an odd state of melancholy after my unfortunate revelation. In some way, I guess I figured my little ‘date’ with Christopher Wallace was enough of a life experience to get me through to Adam. But I think it’s going to take a lot more than that, and a lot longer than that. Months? Years? Decades? Who knows. No one could ever time these things.
I spotted a fresh set of sealed envelopes on the coffee table and put my mind to them. None were for me, of course. I barely lived here yet. Then I skimmed past an envelope, unmarked, addressed to me by name only. Adam wrote me a note? I set the others down and ran my fingertips over the rough paper. I turned it over and slipped my finger underneath the flap, lifting the seal. The paper inside was grainy and had a yellow-tinge to it; it didn’t look like just any paper, but the antique-ish old-looking and feel to it didn’t exactly feel manually manufactured. I had a bad feeling, only because that’s just where my mind tends to go, inevitably (and unfortunately).
I opened the letter and read:
I know you probably don’t want to hear from me. Most likely. What am I saying? You definitely don’t want to hear from me. Of course you don’t, especially after the way I treated you. After all this time, I hope you don’t take our last encounter as the definitive collapse of our relationship.
I’m writing this to you because, selfishly, I need you.
My mother died.
I know she loved you. So much. So, so much.
There’ll be a funeral service for her, I’m asking you to come.
If not for me, then for her.