I have always hated Los Angeles. I hate the people, I hate the celebrities, and I hate the weather. The city is built upon money and impersonal interactions. Boston is so different. Boston moves slower than LA; Boston has always been so much friendlier. Boston is home. No matter how hard I tried, I could never make LA my home. God knows I spent five years trying.
LA turns me into a crazy woman. My coworkers were assholes. Most were content doing only a half-assed job so they could leave work on time. They didn't care about the victims; they only cared about themselves. I care, but I find that I have always cared too much. I hate LA.
I walked the streets. I walked to Chinatown in a desperate attempt to find some food that was only moderately overpriced. The streets were alive with people. The sun was sinking into the skyline. It was probably beautiful to look at, but I wasn't paying attention. My mind was lost somewhere between the kiss that never seems to happen and the expression on Woody's face when he rushed off to catch his plane.
It would have been wrong for me to make him give up his vacation. It would have been wrong of my to ask him to miss a concert that had the power to make him forget all the negative things about his childhood. He needed a little happiness; Woody had been through so much in such a short amount of time. He hid his pain and disappointment well. I had to look deep into his ocean blue eyes to remember that he wasn't the perfect, perky Farm Boy that I had always assumed that he was. There was a sadness in his eyes that was so much like my own. I wanted to make it better; for the first time, I was willing to give of myself to make him feel happy again. I had never done that for a man.
I looked into the tiny shops lining the street. The walls were painted in dynamic reds and contrasting teals. The tiny knick-knacks made me think of him. I bought him a beautiful onyx statue; the three monkeys. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. It made me laugh because I knew that had been Woody's approach to me for the longest time. That and I thought that it might look nice on his desk or the mahogany end table in his apartment. Lately, everything made me think of Woody. I hadn't been too good at hiding it either.
I wondered where he was. I wondered if his flight was going well. I worried about him flying; ever since Devan, I had nightmares every time someone I knew was on an airplane. I said a silently prayer for Woody, the pilot, and the airplane. It was childish, but it momentarily put my mind at ease.
When I said that I would wait in Boston, I meant it. I had begun to think it was about time that I let Woody in. He was, after all, the first man that had ever been patient with me and my many moods. It was about time I let someone love me; it was about time that I started thinking about the future rather than the past. I was ready. I repeated that to myself a million times after the kiss that never happened. I repeated it as I daydreamed about the way his lips would move against mine. I was ready.
I looked at my watch. Only four days, ten hours, and roughly thirty nine minutes until Woody and I were both in Boston. I was ready.