Instead, I’d reacted with my old self—the one who still thought she was weak. The irony is, it was that fight that showed me I’ve come farther on my journey to healing from bulimia than I thought. I just hadn’t taken that final step to realize my own strength and that I can let older coping mechanisms go. Because they’re no longer needed.
Conor’s gesture to purchase the ticket forced me to express my will rather than suppress it. Proved I’m no longer vulnerable to being a doormat, that I can trust that I’ll speak out when my desires aren’t being considered. I just wish I had recognized my own strength in time to not go all tantrum on Conor, marking my territory, scared to not be in control of every single aspect of my life.
Because if I had? I’d have seen that Conor wasn’t trying to control me, only help.
And I know I’m closer to being recovered, because despite wanting to be with him, I took an action I knew would drive him away in order to protect myself. I’m no longer someone who rolls over when I have feelings for someone. And I didn’t purge earlier.
I do a mental check. And I’m surprised to find that my walls are still there. But instead of having them crumble, Conor’s on the inside of those walls.
The shock of that realization has me falling back against my seat.
I can be strong. Be myself. And…
I can have Conor too.
Conor
Jaysus. I’m gone in the head for doing this, but I put myself back on another plane.
Heading to bleeding Denver.
I have no idea if Claire even used that ticket I bought her. For all I know, she’s now boarding the plane to Sarasota.
But I’m wagering she’s not. And d’ya know, I fair hope I’m right. Here’s my thinking—no matter what’s going on in that clever head of hers and even with her acting like a hurt animal backed into a corner, she’s tough. She’ll want to prove herself capable of facing whatever it is that has her scared.
And if I’m right, I want to be in Denver too. To face whatever has her scared with her.
If I’m in the wrong of it, then I might have buggered my chance for the promotion for nothing. I bunked off work, telling them I had to reschedule due to a family emergency.
They weren’t happy.
But Claire’s more important than chasing money. The bonus, while a fine thing, isn’t something I’m needing—I’m making plenty and putting enough aside.
So, yeah, here I am, on a plane to Denver.
Somehow, I manage to take a kip for the rest of the flight, and soon enough I’m pushing through my fellow travelers to exit onto the concourse. I aim straight for the digital display showing incoming flights. I’m going to risk letting my duffel circle in baggage claim so I can stay in this section of the airport and meet Claire at her gate. I could text her, but I’m worried her mobile will have given up by now, and she might not have had a chance to recharge it. I don’t want to risk depending on that, plus I’m feeling as if I need to take a fucking risk and be showing her how I’m feeling. If she thinks I’m near, she might avoid me altogether.
I scan the display until I find her layover flight from Chicago.
On time.
I look at my mobile.
Shite.
Not lashes of time. Thirty minutes until it lands.
Of course her gate is on the far concourse. I rush through all the travelers, feeling like a salmon swimming upstream.
I near one of those stores that sells every-fucking-thing a traveler might need and duck inside, hoping in the few minutes I have that something will inspire me. For a gift, you know? I still have no idea what I’m going to do.
My mind’s churning in a mad panic. I’m searching the aisles. What’s fucking romantic?
But would Claire even want something sappy? She doesn’t strike me as someone who’d go for the overly sentimental.
Jaysus, I’m screwed.
Maybe if I’d dated more, I’d have a better idea.
Then I see them. I grab the gift and head to the register, even though part of me is thinking, What the fuck, ya tool?
Bloody all if I’m understanding how my brain is working just now, but I grab some red heart balloons too, in case this is a rotten idea.
Chapter 18
Claire
I bump onto the gangway from the plane and clutch my purse tighter to my side with one hand while the other pulls my carry-on.
Folks crowd the space in front of me with their rollers, their free hands thumbing away on their phones, some still doing the ding-ding-ding of repeated incoming alerts that happens when you turn airplane mode off. Through the tunnel weave the strains of some guy singing, which is really weird, but to each his own. I can’t make out the lyrics.
I pull out my phone too and open Lyft to see if they’re in this city. I booked my hotel room while I was on layover in Chicago, so I just need to take each step as it comes. First, get to hotel. Second, call Conor and apologize. Third, see my mother.
A wisp of worry seeps in at that last step, but I straighten my spine. I’ll be fine. I’ll be okay. It also reminds me of the distance between us, because I don’t know why she’s in Denver.
It’s only as I get closer to the gate that the singer’s lyrics penetrate. My hairs stand on end. The guy’s voice is clearly singing the lines from "Total Eclipse of the Heart." Memories of Conor and me playing that weird form of strip poker swamp me.
God, my throat. It’s getting all swollen and shit.
I must be allergic to something in this godforsaken tunnel.
Ha. Who am I kidding?
Regret hits me, deep and hard. Conor and I parted so horribly. Hearing those lyrics—now—man, that has to be a sign.
Whoever the singer is, he’s trying admirably to hit those gutsy notes, but it’s not quite working. He doesn’t seem to care, though, as he keeps going gamely on.
When I clear the door of the gate, I stop.
Holy shit.
I swear, my heart does this weird swoopy thing and then falls straight through my stomach. It’s probably a big, throbbing, bloody mess on the floor, because the guy singing is Conor, and he’s looking at his phone as he belts out the lyrics, a plastic bag in his other hand.
He’s also holding a bouquet of heart balloons. Several women are standing around watching, wistfulness in their gazes. Some of them are chiming in with the “bright eyes” chorus at the appropriate moments in the song.
I choke on a half-sob, half-laugh, which he hears. He looks up, smiling hugely, but even through the glisten in my own eyes, I can see the worry and vulnerability in his light green ones. My heart squeezes right then and there. He’s obviously unsure of his welcome, but he doesn’t let that hold him back.
Conor
Mother Mary, I’m trying to project confidence as I belt out this tune, but inside my guts are tied in fucking knots. There’s more riding on this presentation than I’ve ever had before. Add to that the fact that I have not a ball’s notion how it’ll go over and I had bloody all time for prep.
But sure, I’m feeling as if I have to do this, not only for her but for myself.
Shite. She’s just standing there. Unmoving. Her eyes wide. I glance back down to get the next line from the song, and my voice is faltering, but I’m not quitting.