Last night was one of those nights when you just can't sleep – and you start thinking impossible, or maybe unwise things. Of course, those unwise and probably unlikely thoughts all centred around one Oliver O'Toole. (Note to self, I must do a little research and find out what his middle name is – some occasions call for a full designation.) I like to think that I am a patient person. I don't need to have everything I want instantly. I don't want to pressure Oliver. I know that he is trying to put his life back together after it was chewed up by the terrible poet and awful human, Holly. He deserves time. I understand that he needs to know himself as a single person before he moves on. But some nights, and I will admit that this was one of them, I need to know where I stand. What would Oliver do if I called him, right now, at one fourteen in the morning, and asked him where we were heading… was there any point waiting and hoping… or was I completely 'friended'? The problem is, I know that he would react to such an impulsive act badly, but I also know that I don't know what he would say. A porch swing, a couple of intense looks… and then two months of awkward, stilted nothing has left me confused and fearful.
My bed was a twisted wreck as I wondered if I was ridiculous, pining (what am I, some Southern Belle?) for a man who may never be ready? I must be some kind of human magnet for unavailable or commitment adverse men. First Steve, now Oliver. Funny. I had put Steve well and truly in the past. I have too much self-respect to wait around for someone who is never going to make me a priority. Steve had his chance, and he blew it. Except, am I doing the same thing with Oliver? Waiting patiently until he is ready to make a decision? Speaking of Steve, at after two thirty seemed like the right time to figure out why have I kept his birthday card. I mean, I am not interested any more … is it just a need for someone to show some interest, given that Oliver is basically displaying none? Great gong McInerney! You never wanted to sleep did you?
As today unfolded, I realised that travelling with my fellow postables was probably going to be an experience. How is it that none of them know that suitcases have wheels now? I mean, vintage is great (like a vintage designer scarf or an antique lithograph of some iconic artwork) but it is possible to not actually live like you are the antique artefact! Have I been in the DLO too long? Will Washington think I am anachronistic too?
I also wonder how Oliver came up with a printed itinerary? It gave me some pause. First, I want to know why he thought that I needed a printed document, rather than some reminders on my phone; but also, how did me manage to get a printed itinerary? Surely if he wanted something printed, he would have asked me to prepare it? Has he stepped out on me and sought tech support somewhere else? And why did our fearless leader think that I needed a curfew?
After some last minute weirdness from Rita and Norman, miraculously we made it to Denver International, and made our way to Ronald Reagan Airport. Seeing (on that very detailed itinerary) that we were flying into Reagan rather than Dulles or Thurgood Marshall, I had asked for a drive passed my original home to be added to the program (in yellow). I regret that addition now. Seeing our home erased from existence was a blow I was not expecting, and struggled to deal with. For eighteen years, that house in suburban Alexandria was my fortress. As a child it was the castle I sheltered in after Dad left. During college, it was the escape I needed. Now, it is like it never was. I know it is a little unreasonable, but I blame Alex entirely. Oliver must have known that I was falling apart a little. I decided that I didn't care if it was just an attempt to take my mind off my house, I was going to make it absolutely clear that I was willing to move things alone. I said yes to his invitation almost before Oliver had finished offering it. Yes, O'Toole, I want to go out with you!
And then, a wormhole connecting past and present, personal and international, opened before me. Harper and Phoebe were here in Washington trying to see someone in authority who could give them information about Randilynn's fate. And typical for Washington, no one was there to given them the help they needed. But I knew someone who might be able to help … someone I had been determined to avoid … someone who would probably take reaching out as encouragement… Phoebe and Harper are more important than me though, and so I called Steve, leaving a message that caused my past and present to collide.
Embarrassing. Awkward. Uncomfortable. Disconcerting. Unsettling. I am sure Oliver, the lover of words, would have more descriptors for whatever tonight was. What was Steve thinking? I asked him to call me, not turn up and accost me in front of Oliver! Accost! Sweet baby James, where did that come from?
Dinner with Steve was surprisingly okay. It gave me the clarity I needed to put him into the past completely. I was not interested in him at all – and I felt good with that. I still needed him to help find Randilynn though, and thankfully Steve has such a high opinion of himself (as well as a patriotic streak that might be useful) that he will want to keep in contact with me thinking he can change my mind. He can't. He probably isn't that interested anyway, just territorial.
Drinks with Oliver was less okay. How is it that he has not given one sign in months that we are going anywhere, but one hug from a past boyfriend (in typical showy Steve style) has his suspenders in a twist? He was snippy, then downright snarky when he found out that Steve was an intelligence agent. He was miffed, and so was I. I am not a toy that boys can argue over then discard when they lose interest.
I also wasn't completely honest. I told Oliver that my 'flames' were none of his business. He could hear all about them if he wanted to … and know how in the past they were … if he wanted.
My head is spinning! This must go down as the least relaxing holiday ever – and we are only one day into it.