Three more days went by, with still no word from Matt. I dragged myself out of bed, too tired to cry and too sad to eat. I went to the lounge and called Tati.
“Hello?”
“It’s Grace.”
“Hey, how are you?”
“Can you come over?”
“I’ll be there in a bit.” She could hear the pain in my voice.
She came thundering into my room fifteen minutes later. I held the article about Matt and Elizabeth out to her. She read it to herself. All she did was shake her head and offer me a cigarette.
“I’m okay, Tati.”
“Don’t overreact, Grace,” she said.
“I’m not overreacting.” By then I had stopped crying. “Just let Dan know I’m in. I’m going on tour with you guys.”
Tati grinned back at me. “Good. You won’t regret it.”
Third Movement:
Now, Fifteen Years Later
20. You Remembered . . .
Grace
The present is our own. The right-this-second, the here-and-now, this moment before the next, is ours for the taking. It’s the only free gift the universe has to offer. The past doesn’t belong to us anymore, and the future is just a fantasy, never guaranteed. But the present is ours to own. The only way we can realize that fantasy is if we embrace the now.
I had been closed off for a long time, and I hadn’t allowed myself to imagine the future because I was still stuck in the past. Though it was impossible, I had tried to re-create what Matt and I once had. I wanted nothing else; he was all I could imagine.
But Orvin once told me that time is the currency of life. And I had lost so much of it. It was that idea of lost time that finally made me realize I needed to move on, that I would never have what I once had with Matt. I had to mourn our relationship and move on.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
Two months ago I was walking around in a thick fog of regret. I was going through the motions but I wasn’t feeling anything. I’d stare at my new wrinkles in the mirror and wonder where they came from. I wasted more time, repeating the same thing day in and day out, barely present in my own life. I wasn’t looking to break out of the cycle in search of anything meaningful.
Until I saw Matt in the subway station.
Everything changed. I could see in color again, every image vivid and crisp.
Over the last fifteen years, the pain of what had happened to us waxed and waned. Many times I tried to force myself to stop thinking about him, but there were too many reminders. I thought, if I ever saw him again, he’d look right through me, like I was a ghost from his past. That’s how he made me feel that summer after college: someone who no longer existed.
But when I saw him in the station, his eyes locked on mine. He recognized me instantly, and all I could see in his face was pure wonder. It was like he was seeing the sunset over the ocean for the first time. As my train disappeared into the tunnel, his expression turned to desperation, and that’s when I knew there was a missing piece to our story. What was behind his desperation? What happened to him in the last fifteen years that would send him running down the platform, his hand outstretched, his eyes full of longing?
I needed to find the answer. I had an idea of where I could find Matt, but I was too scared to look.
“Ms. Porter?”
“Yes, Eli?” I stared into the big blue eyes of one of my senior trombone players as I cleaned up sheet music from a table. We were in the band room at the high school where I taught.
“Do you know what Craigslist is?”
I smiled. “Of course. I’m not that old, Eli.”
He blushed. “I know you’re not.” He seemed nervous. “I’m asking because I saw your tattoo the other day when you put your hair up.” He swallowed.
“Go on,” I said, totally curious.
“ ‘Green-eyed Lovebird.’ That’s what it says, right?”
I nodded.
“Did someone used to call you that?”
“Yes, someone I used to know.” My pulse quickened at the thought. Where is he going with this?
He fished a folded rectangle of paper out of his pocket. “So remember when we did that band tournament and there was that girl who played the tuba from Southwest High?”
“Sure.” I had no idea what he was talking about.
“Well, I kind of thought we had a connection but neither of us acted on it. Anyway, I was looking to see if she posted a message for me in the ‘missed connections’ section of Craigslist when I saw this.”
He unfolded the paper and handed it to me.
To My First Wife, the Green-Eye Lovebird
We met fifteen years ago almost to the day, when I moved my stuff into the dorm room next to yours at Senior House.
You called us fast friends. I like to think it was more.
We lived on nothing but the excitement of finding ourselves through music and photography, lounging in Washington Square, and all the interesting things we did to make money. I learned more about myself that year than any other.
We lost touch in the summer when I went to South America. I came back and you were gone. There was nothing left in your empty dorm room but the old guitar and just a hint of your perfume. What was it? Lilac?
Our RA, the one who looked like David Bowie and smelled like fish sticks, said you went to travel the world. I hope you got to see the world. I hope life has treated you well.
I didn’t see you again until a month ago. It was Wednesday. You were rocking back on your heels, balancing on that thick yellow line that runs along the platform, waiting for the F train. I didn’t know it was you until it was too late, and then you were gone. You said my name, I saw it on your lips. I tried to will the train to stop, just so I could say hello.