35. PAUL

Sitting next to a stranger in business class, I put up the divider panel to shut out the rest of the world. My phone was turned off. I was incommunicado. The only person I spoke to the whole time was a stewardess who, with a warm smile, came and offered me a glass of champagne, but I said no. I didn’t need to be drinking champagne on my own on a flight at barely ten in the morning.

I found myself lost in my own emotions: memories of London, of Jack, of everything we shared. It all weighed heavily, and yet, at the same time, I felt okay. As much as I loved London, to the extent that I could move back there, I was glad right then to be heading home.

But I was escaping, running away, running from him; I knew that.

The plane took off on schedule and very smoothly. In no time, the city was no longer visible as we headed above the snow-white cloud layer.

I looked out of the plane’s little window as we soared upward, gazing over the boundless blue expanse of the sky beyond. How could it rain in London all the time but still be so beautifully sunlit up there?

The parallel almost made me laugh: how could love be so filled with pain, tumult, and sudden change and yet feel like that sunny upland to which we all aspire?

Of course, I was not the right person to ask. At twenty-nine, I had only the sparsest experience of relationships. I had never had anything remotely resembling the visceral feeling, the deep connection that I had shared – physically, sexually, romantically – with Jack. That was part of its rawness now, what I have finally had but lost.

***

The hours of the flight stretched on, the interminable nature of a daytime transatlantic journey alone. The drone of the engines stayed with me, never quitting once, of course. I found solace in the book I had bought with William in Foyles that day, but eventually, I came to the last page, closed it, and still had several hours to fill.

I scrolled through the in-flight entertainment, checking out which movies and which shows were available. Food was served and then cleared away. The stewardess asked me if I was enjoying my flight. She and I made small talk about my impressions of London, and I did not tell her anything beyond what I had seen or places I had eaten. She went off, and I studied the computer map of where we were, how far we had flown, how many miles until I was home.

The number ticked down and down and down.

***

As the plane touched down at JFK, a heavy sense of weariness settled over me. I gathered my belongings from the overhead locker, thanked the friendly stewardess, got off the plane, and went through customs.

Finally, back on the American side, I made my way through the bustling terminal. The journey back to Harlem seemed like such a trek. Was I going to get the Air Train to Jamaica Station, then subway to Manhattan and on to my local subway station at 125th Street?

I don’t normally take $100 cab rides but that day, I couldn’t bear it. I knew I couldn’t really afford to do it, but I decided to get a cab to take me home from the airport. Maybe I should have put it through the company as an expense, but I didn’t want to. I would pay for it myself.

I joined the line for a taxi from the rank outside the terminal. As I settled into the backseat, the driver asked me where I had been.

“London,” I said.

“Ha,” he said. “Bet the food and weather were terrible.”

His eyes were on me in the rearview mirror; I could tell he thought he was being smart.

“No,” I said. “It was great.”

I could see the guy’s brow furrow in the mirror.

“What, greater than New York?”

“Just different,” I said.

I smiled to myself and said nothing more.

The cityscape passed by in a blur. As the taxi weaved its way through the streets up into Queens, I watched familiar scenes unfold: people waiting for buses, waiting outside delis, the New York subway lines rattling overground here and there, the suburban streets growing more and more urban, denser with traffic. The people started changing: how they dressed and carried themselves as we hurtled ever inward to the city’s heart.

We crossed over to Manhattan, and soon, we were passing through the island’s intense skyscraper environment. As the taxi came to a halt outside my building, I stared up at its familiar scruffy facade. A weird dread gripped me: inside was my old life, the one I had wanted to escape, to change. Now I was back, and nothing was different, but everything was different, too.

I was going to be getting up to go to work every morning in this SoHo, not that Soho. I was going to be living in my horrible little studio. Oh, and one more thing: I was still going to be working for Jack, at least for now.

I paid the driver and stepped out onto the sidewalk, hauling my bag onto my back. The journey up to my apartment felt like climbing Mount Everest – the elevator was out. The hallway stretched out before me, its ancient vinyl flooring like a desolate, shiny wasteland.

As I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar sounds of my apartment were every bit as depressing as I had imagined. I went into the kitchen and saw little black droppings.

Oh, man! Did I have mice now, as well? I began to laugh, to laugh and laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Only at the last moment did I remember that I had not turned my phone back on after getting off the flight. I rescued it from my pocket and turned its screen toward me. I pressed the power button until the phone flickered back into life.

I stared at its screen and waited for any messages to show. In the notification, the mail symbol appeared, followed by a text and, finally, some missed call messages.

YOU HAVE TWO MISSED CALLS

FROM

WILLIAM

YOU HAVE FOUR MISSED CALLS

FROM

JACK

I stared at the second notification, then dismissed it.