I'm driving home from the mall in Scottsdale yesterday when I get a call. "Maren's moving," Lisa says. "On Saturday." Saturday was just two days away. "Wait, is this a joke?" I asked. Nope. And like some sappy chick from a Hallmark commercial, I start bawling in the car.
"I don't even know why I'm crying," I sniffled, searching in my purse for a tissue. "I don't even live here anymore!"
"I know," Lisa said.
"God. Why am I crying?!" And where were my tissues? "I just feel....I feel like everything's fallen apart. I'm in LA. Noelle's in London. Tiffany's always gone. And now Maren's in Chicago."
"I know," Lisa said.
"Why am I crying?" I asked again. Then I had to rationalize. "I love Chicago. Maren's gonna love Chicago. This will be great for her. This is exciting."
That night we did dinner at a Mediterranean tapas place in oldtown Scottsdale. We met at Lisa's, and when Maren walked in, I had trouble looking at her eyes. We talked about Lisa's new furniture; Maren tried out the couch. "It's comfortable," she exclaimed. I pulled my jacket in closer to me and grabbed my car keys. "I'll drive, let's go."
We sat in the bar as we waited for a table. I tapped on the stem of my glass of pinot noir and Maren told me, "I don't know you did it, Jo." Her eyes filled with tears.
I told her she could always come home. I told her to think of it like it was a year abroad. I told her that the world is too big to stay in one place; there's too much exploring to do. I told her to imagine herself when she's 80 and wouldn't she regret not moving? Isn't there some truth behind that saying "You'll regret the things you didn't do more than the ones you did?" I explained that she'd make friends fast. I asked her how she would feel if her and her boyfriend broke up after she moved there, would she have regrets? No. I told her I knew I wouldn't either, before I moved to Los Angeles.
"Then go," I said.
I pictured her trudging through the snow. Did she have enough scarves? Gloves? What about a warm jacket? Would she walk to the grocery store or drive? I imagined summers in Chicago, that breeze that nearly knocked me over when I stood by the lake, how the night air would get chilly around me. I thought of the people I met when I was there; that one jolly bartender on State Street, the waitress at the pizza place that remembered me as I came in with a friend for a slice...for the third time in a short weekend. I thought about visiting her for long weekends and exploring the city on my own, like I did in New York. A part of me, a small part, was almost envious of the move; Chicago's always been on my list of cities to go to.
Over hummus and salad we talked about normal things. About Lisa's boyfriend, the guy I'm dating, what to do for New Year's Eve. When we finally left, the crowd at the bar had thinned, the parking garage nearly empty.
"So is this goodbye?" I asked Maren, as I parked outside of Lisa's place.
"I think so, I guess so."
The three of us hugged and shivered in the driveway, in the crisp desert winter air, underneath a sky sprinkled with golden stars. I choked out a few words about how I'm proud of her and told her we'd still have these nights, just not often. And then she was gone.
And then I thought about moving. About how big and wonderful this world is. I thought about where I'd end up with I grew tired of sprawling Los Angeles, with its sand and waves, flip-flopped crowds, its stories and hills and Hollywood secrets. I wondered if I ever would want to settle down, if moving could be addicting, like getting tattoos. And if one moves so much, are they moving to something or moving from something?
"I don't even know why I'm crying," I sniffled, searching in my purse for a tissue. "I don't even live here anymore!"
"I know," Lisa said.
"God. Why am I crying?!" And where were my tissues? "I just feel....I feel like everything's fallen apart. I'm in LA. Noelle's in London. Tiffany's always gone. And now Maren's in Chicago."
"I know," Lisa said.
"Why am I crying?" I asked again. Then I had to rationalize. "I love Chicago. Maren's gonna love Chicago. This will be great for her. This is exciting."
That night we did dinner at a Mediterranean tapas place in oldtown Scottsdale. We met at Lisa's, and when Maren walked in, I had trouble looking at her eyes. We talked about Lisa's new furniture; Maren tried out the couch. "It's comfortable," she exclaimed. I pulled my jacket in closer to me and grabbed my car keys. "I'll drive, let's go."
We sat in the bar as we waited for a table. I tapped on the stem of my glass of pinot noir and Maren told me, "I don't know you did it, Jo." Her eyes filled with tears.
I told her she could always come home. I told her to think of it like it was a year abroad. I told her that the world is too big to stay in one place; there's too much exploring to do. I told her to imagine herself when she's 80 and wouldn't she regret not moving? Isn't there some truth behind that saying "You'll regret the things you didn't do more than the ones you did?" I explained that she'd make friends fast. I asked her how she would feel if her and her boyfriend broke up after she moved there, would she have regrets? No. I told her I knew I wouldn't either, before I moved to Los Angeles.
"Then go," I said.
I pictured her trudging through the snow. Did she have enough scarves? Gloves? What about a warm jacket? Would she walk to the grocery store or drive? I imagined summers in Chicago, that breeze that nearly knocked me over when I stood by the lake, how the night air would get chilly around me. I thought of the people I met when I was there; that one jolly bartender on State Street, the waitress at the pizza place that remembered me as I came in with a friend for a slice...for the third time in a short weekend. I thought about visiting her for long weekends and exploring the city on my own, like I did in New York. A part of me, a small part, was almost envious of the move; Chicago's always been on my list of cities to go to.
Over hummus and salad we talked about normal things. About Lisa's boyfriend, the guy I'm dating, what to do for New Year's Eve. When we finally left, the crowd at the bar had thinned, the parking garage nearly empty.
"So is this goodbye?" I asked Maren, as I parked outside of Lisa's place.
"I think so, I guess so."
The three of us hugged and shivered in the driveway, in the crisp desert winter air, underneath a sky sprinkled with golden stars. I choked out a few words about how I'm proud of her and told her we'd still have these nights, just not often. And then she was gone.
And then I thought about moving. About how big and wonderful this world is. I thought about where I'd end up with I grew tired of sprawling Los Angeles, with its sand and waves, flip-flopped crowds, its stories and hills and Hollywood secrets. I wondered if I ever would want to settle down, if moving could be addicting, like getting tattoos. And if one moves so much, are they moving to something or moving from something?
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