Stone

The airport was crawling with people, each towing suitcases on wheels, small children, or large hiking backpacks and passports. I melted in with the crowd, making my way to the center of check-in, where I would hopefully find all of the answers (to my current question.)

The current question being, where am I going?

I thought of this idea a few months back, when it first hit me that things needed to change. I had first started to look up places to go online. I'd sit in the middle of my bed, which came with the apartment I was renting just like the rest of the furniture, logged onto my laptop, searching.

Best places to move to as a young adult. Happiest towns in the U.S. Best towns for new beginnings in the U.S. Lowest crime rate. Safest. Oldest. Most populated. College towns. Elderly towns. Busy, bustling towns.

I looked through pages and pages of links to articles about this type of town and that type and how they compare to one another, that I was sure I would be better off throwing a dart at a map. Then, I realized that I was right.

Only throwing a dart at a map was a little too cliche for my tight, cuffed jean and denim jacket, chain smoking persona (that and my landlord was a freak who inspected my walls for marks every month when the rent was due) so I turned my search engine searching power to brain storming for a similar, better idea.

The idea finally came to me a few weeks later, when I was at work. A woman had come in for a few things because she'd lost them through the metal detector at the airport. Nail clippers, a nail file, and a small bottle of body spray. She told me all about it as she checked out, slowly pulling the bills from her wallet as she outlined the ghastly events, looking me directly in the eyes as often as she could, as if she was trying to transfer her shock and fear as the airport employee told her the items she was replacing now were not allowed on an aircraft due to procedures put in place after September 11th.

Sadly, her shock and fear didn't resonate with me. Only freaked me out and made me hate my job and current situation more. I wanted out of this town, almost more than I had wanted out of Sarasota. I instantly wished that I could hop a plane for anywhere else, right that moment, without having to worry about anything. Not what anyone would think, or how I would make it by, or even if the contents of my bag held anything that was not within guidelines.

Why couldn't I hop a plane? I thought. I could do it. Easy. Except two things: the expense and my car. It would be out of my budget to buy plane fare, plus baggage, and then have to pay for my car to be brought to me.

The airport did have options, though. Hundreds of them. Coming and going every hour, on the hour, through the day and through the night. I could find a destination. Easy.

I looked up at the digital screens in front of me. Names of cities lit up in red and green, depending on their statuses. I recognize some, like New York and Boston, and can taste the familiarity of others, like Olympia and Tuscon. I scanned all of the names more than once, but couldn't feel the connection or pull that I thought I might.

Frustrated, I walked a few feet to a bench and took a seat between a group of older, gossiping women with fresh perms and a younger crowd who were accompanied by the heavy bags and containers I could only associate with mission trips. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees as I cradled my face. This wasn't working out the way I had planned.

I'm not sure how long I sat huddled over my legs, trying to force everything else out of my head to make room for the one thing I needed - an answer, a destination. I don't think it lasted as long as my stare down with the flight screen, but who knows. Maybe the gabbing elderly women do, but not me.

All I know is that as soon as I heard the words Somerset, Kentucky, the waiting came to an end. The tug in my head, on my heart, on my limbs, began. I found my way through the crowd easily. The rows of people seemed to part ways just for me.

- - -

I try not to think about what is ahead of me as I drive forward. It's a difficult task. I try listening to the radio, but the constant replay of songs every few hours drives me stir crazy. After the third cycle of songs on the few radio signals my car has received over the past four hours, I let a static station play quietly. After finally getting through a traffic jam around rush hour, the road was open in front of me.

The radio down low, the sky dimming all around me, my mind wandered. Not toward everything ahead, but everything in the past.

I first started having feelings for escaping my sophomore year of high school. I had just had my first fight with my first-ever boyfriend, Brad. We hadn't talked for days since - it was a nasty fight. All of my friends said it was worse than any fight that they'd ever had. It had deep meaning and would be hard to recover from. But they all assured me that Brad and I could make it through - we were in love, they all said - if we just gave it time. Only I didn't want that. I wanted out. Of the relationship, of feeling tied down, and of Sarasota.

I didn't get any of those things for what felt like a long time.

Brad was a great boyfriend. I won't say that he was an abusive, rude boy. Because he wasn't. Brad was the picture of perfection. He wore button ups, soft crew-neck tee shirts, and a smile. His hair was the perfect length. He was polite and sweet, always had a book somewhere on his persons, and liked to talk. He was cool before cool was cool. He was a genuinely kind person. He was perfect. He was the epitome of perfection, and perfection had chosen me.

I don't even remember the details of our argument. It was probably petty, no matter what the teenage girls I used to call friends would say (they're a different story all together.) The one thing I remember most about the whole ordeal was the day I decided it was time to break up with Brad.

I had written a short note for him and taped it to the front of his Geography book, which I knew he would grab at his locker before his last class. It was to the point, in prime Kaylin-fashion. Meet me at the side parking lot, after school. - Kaylin I knew he would come.

I really did like Brad. I liked him a lot. He wasn't full of himself in any way. He had a great attitude on life, not overly-positive, but just enough so that you couldn't help but smile when you were near him. I hated being away from him for the three days since we'd fought, but I couldn't let that stop me from calling it off.

But that smile could. Even after days of fighting, he could still smile at me.

The side parking lot was technically the teachers' lot. I knew it would be less crowded than the student lot, which is why I chose it. It was smaller than the other lots, and there was a nice little shaded area for faculty (that they never used) in the back corner. I was sitting on a bench when Brad pulled up in his hand-me-down Honda Civic. He parked a few spaces from my spot, turned the car off, and then headed for me.

I had never felt truly powerless around him. Not like some of my friends had with boys they had encountered. He was so considerate of me at all times, it was impossible to feel weak. At least I had thought so.

Brad took a seat next to me. He had two small blemishes on his cheek. He reached out for my hand.

"You want to break up, don't you?"

The words were on the tip of my tongue. Heck, he'd even beaten me to it! All I had to say was yes. One word and we'd be done.

Or we'd still be together.

"No," I told him, pulling his hand from its place next to my leg, into my lap. "No, no... I'm sorry. I'm just tired of us fighting. This is stupid."

He smiled. I loved his smile. All of his teeth were so neat and straight, except for his gap. It was small, but it was there. Right between his two front teeth. It reminded me that he wasn't really the epitome of perfection. He was just a boy, who was perfect for me.

We talked some more. About the fight. About what our friends had said. He said he loved that I'd left a note for him, that I knew him so well. That was the first time he told me he loved me.

"You're the first girl I've ever felt really comfortable with. I love you, Kaylin. I know this is probably not the best thing to say, but I hope that we can continue us for a long time. You're perfect."

That was also when he first told me that his Dad had been offered a better job, in Virginia, and that he was moving in two months.

I was hurt. I was sad. I told him that he couldn't move. He told me he didn't want to. And he kissed me. The SRO had started patrolling the campus, and asked us to move along. Brad took me home. We sat in his car for a long time in front of my house. I never let go of his hand. I loved him.

When the day came for him to leave, I didn't cry. Our goodbye was in my backyard, where I'm sure my parents watched steadily from an upstairs window. It lasted too long and yet not long enough. We stood in the back corner by the trellis of morning glories, facing each other. Brad couldn't stay still. He touched my face, pulled me close, grabbed my shoulders, held me with his arms wrapped around my back. And he kissed me. At every chance, he kissed me.

We didn't expect to be able to keep this thing going. We weren't stupid. We couldn't promise to keep in touch, though we tried. We couldn't promise to wait for each other, which I didn't attempt. We just promised to remember one another - first love only comes once.

He had to go. I walked him to his car. We kissed for the last time. His fingers touching my neck, he pressed his lips to mine in a farewell kiss that topped every other kiss I'd ever had - and ever had since. We said goodbye. He drove away.

I stayed in my front yard for a long time after that, even after Brad was already gone. I felt numb. I remembered when I'd first heard the news. "...I hope that we can continue this for a long time. You're perfect... I'm moving."

I was perfect. I was everything.

Just not perfect enough for him to stay.

Overcome by emotions, I had my first thought. It was silly back then. So spontaneous, full of angst. It was new, fresh - and it only had space to grow. I was "perfect" - only not enough here. I was perfect alone, but not in Sarasota. I really liked living, so I figured killing myself wouldn't fix things. But leaving might.