An early morning run-in with my (ex) friend

I’m standing in the security line at Sky Harbor Airport with my bright red carry-on bag, clutching my purse in one hand and my ID and boarding pass in the other. Every minute or so, the line crawls forward, slow and steady, filled with gluttonous post-Thanksgiving travelers on their way back home. Every few feet or so, I glance back to the middle of the line. My eyes quickly scan the faces there. Nothing. I then glance further down, to the tail, eyeing the men in line; their posture, hair style. What they’re wearing.

Nope, still nothing. I do not see my ex boyfriend.

Yet I continue to look, because my sixth sense is sending off sirens. He’s here! it says. But where?

I reach the security podium as though it were a finish line. As I am handing over my ID and boarding pass, I glance to my right. And there he is, just about five feet away from me, holding out his boarding pass as well. The timing was impeccable, as though it were rehearsed.

Our stares are a mixture of shock, familiarity, knowing. His face reads, “Oh shit, I don’t believe it.” We laugh.

“I knew it!” I said, “I just KNEW it! I was looking for you.”

“I was looking for you, too. I knew it,” he said, “I got here today and something told me: Something is amuck.”

Still at the podium, a sinking feeling hits me. “Are you,” I ask, “on the 8:30 flight to LAX?”

“Yes.”

Shit.

My flustered reaction is delayed. Suddenly I am aware I’m not wearing a lot of make-up. That I’ve gained 10 pounds. I fix my shirt, smooth my hair. I wonder what he sees.

We take different security screening lines. For me, it’s not to avoid him. The line I choose is shorter and I finish first. I stand awkwardly at the end of his line and when he emerges, I blurt out, “You don’t have to sit with me on the plane, you know.”

“No, Jo, I think it’s time we catch up.” I ignore my urge to ask why he doesn’t email or call if it’s time, why wait for a serendipitous airport run-in? But I keep these thoughts to myself.

He says something about needing to use the restroom and I proceed to our gate by myself. I don’t know whether to sit or stand, so I stand. A good five minutes passes and when he finds me he asks about work. I am a few details in with my update when I tell him, “It’s hard to look at you. I’m not sure if I can.”

“Nope, let’s do this. Right here,” he says, pointing to his eyes. I start again.

And that was all. The nervousness, the awkwardness, it all washed away. It was just liked it had always been. We sit down together on the plane and trade stories about our last year, of family and traveling; of work and friends. It is surreal and familiar all at once to receive an annual update from someone that I used to talk to several times a day.

We laugh about memories. I tell him I remember the one time he ate so much ice cream at Disneyland, it was as though he was drunk. He teases me that I’ve “ruined” certain words for him, words I used often that every time he hears, he thinks of me. We banter back and forth about inside jokes, long ago locked away in velvet corners of our minds. We both are thinking of traveling to Peru next year, ironically.

I observe his face and the way he talks, and I remember. I look into his caramel-hazelnut eyes and I remember a time when that felt like a warm blanket. Now it’s looking into the face of an old friend. I see his two- or three-day unshaven face, how I used to tease him about it! I even inspect his shoes. Yes, I think he wore those when we were dating. I am a sponge, observing. Taking it all in.

But not once did I actually feel. Not once did I feel sad. Not once did I have regret. Not once did I think a wrong decision had been made.

And so, as our plane descends to Los Angeles, with scarcely five minutes left, I casually bring up what I once never thought I would say.

“So…are you…dating?” I say. Casual. Easy. “Anyone?”

He looks out the window. A long pause.

“Jo, let’s not go there.” He stares out the window. It’s a sunny day in Los Angeles. “Let’s not go there.”

“Okay.”

In LAX, things bounce back. We reach the baggage claim area, where he has to scour for his bag and I have to hop into a cab.

“Well, this was actually fun!” I can’t read his face anymore, can’t tell if he’s putting on his charm or being genuine. I choose to vote genuine.

“Yeah, me, too. I’m glad you’re doing well.” I smile. “That you’re happy.”

He gives me not one but two hugs, tight and long.

“Let’s not wait so long next time to catch up,” he says.

And then I’m off, washed away into the stream of people, swept out the door, into the city.

Later that day, I send him an email. I don’t care if he responds. I know we won’t be friends, but I send him a note anyway.

I don’t know if I ever explicitly said this, but thank you for a fantastic three years and for playing such a large part in my move to Los Angeles. I’m very grateful.

And I am.