Disclaimer-
I own nothing. 'Cept the plot.
Okay. So remember when I ran out of the pizza parlor onto seventh avenue and sprinted back to my apartment, narrowly escaping almost certain death by the hands of many an irritated cab driver?
Remember? The big romantic gesture? Very dramatic?
Right. Well that was a week ago.
No, for christssake. I'm not getting cold feet. But let's be realistic here. I'm a college student. A college student who lives off campus. A college student who waitresses at Artie's Diner. A college student whose budget does not include spur of the moment plane tickets to California.
And besides, I have this pesky thing called a conscience that staunchly refuses to let me take off without warning and stick my roommate with a months rent to pay all by her lonesome. Have you seen New York rent? For awhile when we were looking for apartments the best we could find was a one bedroom in Harlem for 1,000 bucks a month. 1,000 bucks. Stupid real estate market.
Anyway. So not the point. Point is I was totally planning on hopping on a plane and tracking him down, using, you know, Ghostbusters equipment that I would have somehow acquired during the plane ride and modified to track only Jesse. Really. That was my strategy. I was even planning on sitting next to some wise looking old man who would ask me why I looked so nervous and tell me exactly what to say to my dead boyfriend whose heart I broke.
About that. I'll explain later, I swear. And yes, I, Susannah Simon, am scum. Leave it at that for now.
In my fantasy the aforementioned wise old man would even turn out be a ghost and by the time we were done talking the entire plane would be staring at my like I'd grown six heads. But would I mind? No. See? Totally true love.
But my plan failed, completely and utterly, and after a week of fund-raising, here I sit, at long last, on a Greyhound bus bound for L.A., next to a guy who could give any sumo wrestler a run for their money. He's holding two small fluffy white dogs in a bag in his lap. I won't describe the smell. See? Again, true love.
Yah I know. Shut up. You don't have to tell me. I'm babbling.
Because the fact is, I am getting cold feet. I'm terrified that once I get there he'll be waiting for me, sitting on my windowsill, and he'll turn on me with those eyes of his and he'll want answers that he deserves and I won't know what to say.
Or worse, he won't be there. He won't be there because this is all some elaborate hoax, engineered by someone who really, really, really, really, really wants to hurt me.
That's what's running through my head over the three days and eighteen hours it takes to get from New York to California. What if I don't know what to say, what if this is a joke, this is a joke Suze, there's no way, the dead are dead, forget them and start living, what if he's there, oh fuck he better be there, turn around now, it's a trap, the dead aren't dead, I'm a mediator, no one dies, nothing about death is certain, he could come back, he could be there, you can't lose this chance Susannah Simon, that'll kill you, this will kill you, this is Paul isn't it, this is totally Paul relieving high school glory days, probably doesn't even know Jesse is dead, or gone, or whatever, the dead won't stop dying.
When I get off in L.A. I'm pretty sure I'm losing my mind. I wash my face in the bathroom, brush my hair, teeth, apply makeup, change clothing, ready, set, go.
And I'm off. The cab drops me off in front of my old house and I stare up at it, reluctant to go inside and face reality. To late though, David had spotted me, is running outside and tackling me with, what I assume, is his version of a hug. He's tall now, by the way. It's weird.
"Suze! What're you doing here?" he asks, grinning, "I thought you said you weren't coming home for Brad's birthday!" I grin, and abruptly stop my frantic search for a believable lie. I forgot. Brad's twenty first birthday. I have never been so happy that Brad was born. I probably won't be again. I should savor this moment.
"Change of plans. New York's gross this time of year." I say, shrugging. He smiles.
"I've got to go to school, but I'll be back around five," he says, "Mom and Dad are gone for the weekend. Obviously. Don't worry," he says when he sees the look on my face, "I locked up all the valuables."
A quick hug goodbye and then he's in his car, driving away, and I'm still staring up at the house.
I avoid going upstairs right away when I get inside. I pour a glass of water, wander around the kitchen, trying to see if anything's changed, but eventually I can't avoid it and I go up.
Don't worry. He'll enter soon.