These little flash forwards have become some of my favorite pieces of this story. I think they show that knowing where you'll end up one day doesn't make the journey any less of one. And that, sometimes, things look a little different than we imagine when we finally get there. ;)
P.S. Are you all liking this format or am I totally ruining everything?
INTERLUDE
Quil
Two hours north of Phuket International Airport, there's a small town I cannot pronounce. Or spell.
And, if I'm being honest, until seventy-two hours ago, I did not know it existed at all.
It's funny—when I saw the name typed out for me, my heart started beating again. It was painful, the way all muscles are when put back to use following a long vacation.
The driver pulls up to my destination.
I do not speak Thai, and I do not have time to waste trying to feed my question through an online translator. I know it will probably bite me in the ass, but I hold up a few bills I don't know the value of.
The driver of the rickshaw—yet another thing that, a week ago, I did not imagine I'd be experiencing—studies me. Maybe he sees my American passport, decent shoes and clothing and what-the-fuck-did-you-say expression.
Or maybe he sees my bloodshot eyes, wrinkled and stained shirt. The letter I have clutched in my other hand. Maybe he just sees my desperation.
Whatever it is he sees when he looks at me, it makes him slip one of the bills from my fingertips and close my fingers in a fist around the other, giving it a gentle push back.
If desperation is universal, so is gratitude.
I traveled light. If she can do it, so can I. That's been my motto for longer than I can remember. I sling the backpack over my shoulder and sink my feet into warm, golden sand.
The restaurant is called Happy Restaurant; I haven't decided if that's ironic or not. During my layover in Qatar, I googled it. A bright, open-air kind of place, with seafood so fresh you can catch it yourself and bring it right to the chef. I imagined her holding a live squid. It almost made me laugh.
Almost.
The restaurant isn't open yet; it's only 8:30 in the morning. I have no idea where she is if she's not here. This is all I have.
As suspected, it's deserted. I could walk to the beach mere steps away and kill time, come back later, but I don't to see it without her. I'm tired of doing things without her.
So I wait.
Around me, the village wakes. Couples on their honeymoon stroll by hand in hand. Friends, families, backpackers head toward the ocean. I count surfboards like sheep. One, two, skip a few…
Two hours later I begin to lose hope. Bethany got it wrong. So many things can be lost in translation.
Directions. Names.
Intentions.
It's ten to eleven when I hear footsteps and excited language draw closer. I've had four false alarms already, and my heart-shaped muscle screamed at me every time. We can't do this again, it would say.
But these noises don't fade. One of them almost sounds familiar. Almost, but not quite. Like when you fall asleep watching television and try to pinpoint what's on without opening your eyes.
Whoever is coming is coming here, I realize. They're going to step around the side.
They're—here.
She.
Her.
Everything.
Her skin is darker, the way I always knew it would be if she ever saw more sunlight. And her hair is long, longer than I've ever seen it. It almost brushes her butt. Her hips are fuller than I remember.
Finally, I find her eyes.
I'm praying for fire, but I find only confusion. Shock. And darkness. A lot of that, still.
"Quil?"
Her voice is cloaked in a year and a half of disbelief.
A year and a half.
I want to go to her, wrap her up.
Only she's not alone.
On her hip is a small child. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark skin. Fuck, he's young enough to still be called a baby. Probably nine or ten months old, if I had to guess.
But the most confusing thing is that he's looking up at her with goddamn hearts in his eyes. Smiling this big, gummy smile as he looks from her to study the newest addition to his surroundings. Me.
And then:
"Papa."
Turns out that's universal, too.