(Dis)connect
Phoenix, Arizona. November 28, 2011.
Morgan
I tap my fingers nervously on my leg as I stand outside the entrance of the airport. I have heard that the sun in Arizona is abnormally hot but experiencing it for the first time is an entirely different matter—and to think that it’s late November. I just stare at the cars passing by, none of which is what I’m expecting. While waiting, my mind runs back again on Thanksgiving night—the moment that led me here.
•••
I stand up from my chair at the living room, and walk all the way to the kitchen. In the fridge, I take out a half-empty bottle of champagne. Chilled—just the way I like it. I sneak through the living room and go up the stairs, hoping that none of my family notices me slip away from the party.
Once alone in my bedroom, I slip off my heels and walk further into it. It’s only lit up by the lamp on my nightstand. I stop by my mirror. I look at my reflection while I take a big gulp of the champagne, straight from the bottle. My reflection’s a mess. The black dress that I’m wearing is beautiful but I still don’t do it justice. I barely carried it with confidence. I pull my hair tie, letting my long hair loose, cascading around my shoulders. I sigh and walk away. I ignore my bed and walk straight to the bathroom. I lie in my bathtub, just as I always had when I feel like shit, because of the porcelain walls around me, making me feel guarded and safe, like a kid in a parent’s arms. I take more sips of my champagne and ignore the guilt and regret that had taken residency in my chest.
I just lie there with my champagne and just stare at the wall of the dim bathroom. I don’t even notice someone come in until a voice speaks up.
"Oh, Morgana."
Only one person calls me that and it’s the person who named me. I sigh, “Dad.”
My dad walks into the bathroom and sits on the edge of the tub, facing me. He gives me a smile, while he loosens the tie around his collar. Even at almost fifty, my dad still looks like the total nerd he has always been his whole life—his black-rimmed glasses say it all.
"I think you’ve had enough of that." He reaches for the bottle in my hand, resting it on the floor. "Wanna talk about it, sweetheart?"
I scoff. “Why do you always assume that there’s something to talk about?”
"I don’t assume, I just know." He says patiently. "Now, come on. Out with it."
I silently debate if I should tell him everything. My dad always makes me think that way, makes me feel like I can tell him everything—and I could, if I wanted to. But there’s something inside me that tells me to just bottle it all up. I can never bring myself to open up—maybe because when I do, I always end up regretting it. So I opt for another subject. “Dad, you grew up in Seattle, right?”
He nods, furrowing his eyebrows a little at my question. “Yes, I did. Why?”
"Have you always thought to live there your whole life? You know, after college, have you always considered building a life there, instead of here in New York?" I ask him.
He lets out a small laugh. “I did. In fact, I have thought of living in Seattle, San Francisco, Boston,” he nods at me, “but never in New York.”
"What?" I ask, surprised. "Why not?"
Dad shrugs. “I’ve always thought everything about this city is too pretentious. The people, the fashion, even the food…oh, and Woody Allen.” He shakes his head in disgust.
I laugh. “Daddy, you do realize that you look a bit like Woody Allen, right?”
"And I hate it every time I’m reminded of it." He says.
"Well, if you hate it here so much then how come you’re here? What made you change your mind? What happened?"
He smiles. “Your mother happened.”
Again, I’m surprised by the answer. “What?” I sit up properly now, tucking my legs under me, leaning me elbows on the edge of the tub, my chin in the palm of my hand.
"Your mother, she changed me. The minute I saw her at freshman orientation in RISD, I knew I’d follow her anywhere." He smiles wider. "And the best part is, she’d do the same for me."
"So you made the big gesture? How come Mom didn’t do it for you?"
"Morgana, I didn’t do the only big gesture in the relationship. I did the first gesture, yes. But your mother did plenty of other gestures after then. Some even bigger than what I did."
"So, you…" I say slowly. "You moved for her? Change your life path just for another person?"
Dad gives me a strained look. “Darling, it’s your mom. She’s not just another person.”
"But you don’t regret doing it? Ever?"
"What’s there to regret?" He touches my head affectionately. "I followed her here in New York, and it not just landed me the love of my life but also the best job in the world and you."
I don’t say a thing for a moment. Then I ask suddenly, “Dad, what do you think about Arizona?”
•••
I’m slapped back to reality when a car honk startles me. Funnily enough, I instantly think of the rundown buildings in the Lower East Side in Manhattan. My eyes widen at the sight of a white van—a graffitied white van. Talk about death by an abundance of sharpie markers. Oh, wait, that’s unheard of because no one does things like that these days—or ever.
The passenger window is open and through it, I see the driver.
“So you’re getting in or what?” Tim says, grinning.
I just stare at him tiredly. “What the hell do you think?” I snap at him.
He just grins wider. “Touchy, touchy.” He takes his seatbelt off before getting out of the car. He meets me on the other side of it. He takes my bag and puts it inside the vehicle, through the sliding door to the backseat. “Sorry about the shitty car. My truck’s in the shop so I had to use this one.”
“I’m sure your truck isn’t as grand as this one.” I mumble, making Time laugh.
We each get into the car now. As Tim drives, I say, “Thanks for picking me up.”
“Anything for a best friend’s girl.” He says happily, looking over at me for a second before turning back to the road.
I furrow my eyebrows. “Why are so damn giddy about this? You are aware that I’m on a suicide mission here, right?”
“So what?” Tim says. “I’ve been friends with John my whole life and let me tell you, I don’t think he’d ever had a girl bombard his band manager’s email just to fish out his address from the other side of the country, just to profess her undying love for him.”
“Bullshit.” I scoff, leaning back on the passenger seat. “Half the U.S.’s teenage girls think he’s hot shit or something. I’m willing to bet I’m not the first one to want to do this.”
“Yeah, but none of those girls is the one John’s actually pining for.” Tim points out.
“What?” I ask suddenly, taken back by this information.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. For almost a year, most of the time—especially after the European tour, when you guys saw each other in London—he’s all messed up and cranky and whatever. I swear, it got old and annoying—fast. But you just know that when a guy is like that, it’s about a girl.” He shrugs. “On the upside though, the band got some pretty good songs out of it—most of which ended up in the new album.”
“Glad I could help.” I mutter under my breath. Tim seems oblivious by it.
After a pregnant pause, Tim speaks up again. “You are, uh, serious about this, right?”
I look at confusedly. “Of course I am. Come on. I explained everything to you on the phone the other day—”
“And I heard you loud and clear then, but call this brotherly instinct or-or whatever sentimental crap you have in mind. ‘Cause you see, with us—the guys, I mean—we’re inseparable nine months out of a year. It’s our unspoken rule to look after each other. And John…he’s tough, but he’s inexperienced with this shit. He generally doesn’t do relationships. For all I know, he hasn’t fallen in love with anybody just yet…possibly until you. You get what I’m saying here?”
I sigh and nod. “Yeah, that if this all blows up in our faces, it will definitely be a huge toll on John especially—gotcha.”
“I’m serious, Morgan.”
“So am I, Tim.” I say, feeling more frustrated by the second. “I have been in relationships before, some of which are serious—but with John, I could still feel thisdistinctiveness between him and the past guys in my life. He’s different. And I have no idea how or why but it’s just how it is.”
I don’t say more. I couldn’t say more. I just stop suddenly, as if it’s in my instinct to stop and to remind myself not to reveal too much.
“Okay.” Tim sends me a small smile as he drives the car up a freeway. “I believe you. Just wanted to verify your intentions personally. I mean, for all I know, you’re a con artist who is really a hired gun and kills malnourished rockstars.”
I roll my eyes at him.
•••
The car stops in front of an apartment complex. My hands are shaking now, at this point. Nevertheless, I have to go on. I get out of the van. Tim takes my bag out and sets it down on the pavement beside my feet.
I turn to him, giving him a smile regardless of the anxiety knotting in my chest. “Thank you again. Really. You may have acted like a jackass half the time I’ve known you, but I still got the impression that you’re a good guy.”
Tim grins at me. “Don’t mention it, girl.” His gaze flickers to the wide selection of apartments for a second. “Good luck in there, hope it all works out with the two of you.” He sends me yet another smile before going inside the car again and driving off.
Taking a deep breath, I stand there. Every minute I move closer to this place, I think of the downsides. They eat up my mind, making me even more nervous. But then, I also think of my parents and their story. That story kept me going but now that I’m here, I suddenly blank out on what I should do.
Come on. I’ve come such a long way. Ready, set—
This is bullshit. I know what I’m getting myself into. I’m familiar of the consequences. I have to do this. It’s do or die—or whatever shitty expression that would pressure me to do this.
I take my bag from the pavement and walk inside the complex. I go up to the second floor and find the apartment door that I’m looking for. Hesitating a little, I finally knock on the door. After a moment, it reveals just the person that I’m looking for.
John’s lips part slightly as he opens the wider. “Morgan,” he breathes out. “You’re—I…I didn’t expect—how did you—you’re here. You’re here.”
I give him a small smile. “I came for you. I’m…making the first big gesture.”
John stares at me. He’s wearing a white cotton tee and jeans and he looks just the same as I last saw him. But still, it just reminds me of how much I really missed him. He exhales in relief and pulls me into a hug. I bury my face in his chest, our arms wrapping around each other. I could feel his lips against my hair.
He whispers, “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”
Once inside, I leave my heavy bag on the floor. I look around the small apartment. It’s…well, frankly, messy—although it is kind of expected for guy like John. The huge windows are wide open—their blinds pulled up—making the ambiance airy and bright. His acoustic guitar is lying on the couch and around it are some crumpled papers. There are about ten mugs on top of available surfaces.
John clears his throat, running his hand through his unruly hair. I look at him as he talks, his frame in the middle of a ray of sunlight coming from the window. As I watch him, I could see dust floating in the air. “It’s a little messy…I haven’t gotten around to, y’know, clean.”
I chuckle a little. “Oh, yeah? In like, what, a year? Give or take?”
He just rolls his eyes.
I look around further into the apartment. I can’t help but think that this place is so…him. I see another guitar on a stand or a keyboard against the wall—things I already imagined him owning. But then there are others that I have never associated with him before. Like, the shelf that holds a few vintage Polaroid cameras or the opened today’s newspaper he was clearly reading at the small wooden dining table. And—surprisingly enough—I see a lot of books. The shelves against the wall are packed with books and the table—hell, even the floor—are scattered with more books. I don’t notice John watching me until I meet his eyes. His stare doesn’t waver.
After a moment, I look down awkwardly, laughing a little. I tuck a lock of my hair in my ear and say, “You know, for someone who claims to be the anti-school type, you sure do own a lot of books.”
He chuckles. “Just because I couldn’t sit still in a classroom, doesn’t mean I don’t like to read.”
I smile, but then it fades just as quickly when my gaze drops on his suitcase and duffel bags on the floor in the living room, opened and the clothes are just carelessly stuffed in them.
I ask suddenly, “You’re leaving again?”
“Oh, no.” John says quickly.
I look up at him.
He continues, “I just got home—straight from my parents—they made me stay there for Thanksgiving. So I haven’t really unpacked just yet.”
“Oh.” I mumble. With the calm rushing through me, I’m able to joke with him again. “Not just yet or never?”
“Okay, I’m sloppy, everyone knows that.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t you think we should move on from there now?”
“Fine, fine.” I say, picking up a framed photo from the side table. It’s a photo of John with his band, performing onstage. They all looked pretty young—John’s hair is ridiculously long in the photo. Their crowd isn’t as big as it is nowadays—to my knowledge anyway. But it still looked like the guys are having the time of their lives.
“It’s one of our first shows.” John fills in, as I set the photo down again. He asks, “How did you know where I live?”
I look up at him now. “I have my contacts in the CIA. Did you know you have a record there? Something about covertly transporting baking soda-disguised cocaine from Cuba to the Floridian coast?”
He looks at me amusedly.
I shrug. “Anyway, they just typed your name and—bam—your address it out in the open.”
He gives me a pointed look, despite the wide grin on his face. “Morgan. I’m serious here. I wanna be sure that people don’t just pick up my address from somewhere.”
I scoff. “Or what? One of your pre-pubescent fans would climb into your window and touch you in your sleep?”
“Enough.” John scoffs—again, despite the grin plastered on his face. He sets his guitar on the other lounge chair and brushes some of the papers off the couch and to the floor. No wonder this place is a train wreck. He clearly doesn’t give a shit about organization—company or not in presence.
He reaches for my hand and I let him pull me to the couch. We sit close to each other. I tuck my legs under me. I look around the small apartment. He laces his fingers with mine on his thigh and I lean my head on his shoulder.
"I’m so sorry." I start to say. “I’m just really sorry—”
"For what?" He asks, raising my hand and kisses the back of it.
I stare at the coffee table, which has his laptop, more mugs, papers with lyrics and chords written on them and books strewn about it. “I wasn’t thinking straight, in New York.” I let out a little laugh. “Who am I to talk? I’m always not thinking straight. But this time, I let you leave. Walk away from me again.” I pause. “I just don’t want you to do that again.”
"So you do want to do this, be with me." He says slowly, as if he’s trying to convince himself.
I pull head up, looking at him in the eye. “Yes.”
John stares at me for a moment, then stands up suddenly, letting go of my hand. He rushes his hands through his hair as he walks a few yards away from me, taking a deep breath. Then he faces me. “Morgan…you were pretty sure, when I asked to be with you—”
I stand up, too. “Yes, I was, but that was before I—”
"Changed your mind?" He fills in, shaking his head. "Just like that?"
"Yes, John." I say, feeling frustrated by his reaction. I question him, "What is wrong with that?"
He scoffs. “What is wrong with that?” He echoes. “Morgan, come on. How will I know that you’re not gonna change your mind about this? About me? What if in a few days or months from now, you suddenly regret coming here, to be with me? What if Arizona isn’t really the place you wanna be? What if you end up resenting me because of this? What then?”
After a moment of my silence, John scoffs and walks towards his open window. He just stares outside, not even looking at me. Feeling the knot inside of me tighten even more, I just muster it up and walk over to him. His back is on me.
"John, don’t you understand? I didn’t just come here for you, but for myself also." I say.
He turns around to face me. “What?” He says in low voice.
I walk in closer to him. “I’m not gonna be able to live that down, if I don’t actually try to be with you. I’m willing to make these changes now because I know that I’m gonna regret it if I don’t.”
He sighs. “Morgan, it’s not gonna be easy, to be with me. I’m a fuckup. I’m gonna mess up and I know that and my messing up will only drive you to hate it coming here—”
I really am full-on frustrated now. “Jesus, John! I am really trying here. I flew across the-the country, just for you, with the uncertainty driving me crazy. I all but wrote a check for a million bucks, just so Tim would tell me where you live, when I found his email address on the site. By the way, it was really fucking thoughtful of him to take days just to reply to a fucking email.” I say sarcastically.
Shaking my head, I continue, “I came to be with you because I want the version of myself when I’m with you—when I was with you in London. For fuck’s sake, John, I’m way out of my element here. I’m saying things I’ve never even dreamed of saying—and they’re all for you! Don’t you realize how big that is for me?” I take a deep breath, before continuing. “I know I said I wasn’t thinking straight then, I wasn’t rational but I still felt like it’s right. It’s insane to feel like that for you because I barely know you but I-I felt like shit for days because I turned you down—and to think that I felt even worse right now than when my grandfather died.”
John looks up quickly at that. His lack of comment on that makes me realize that he already knew. My mom must have told—more like babbled—about it to him at some point during his short visit to my home.
Still, the words from my mouth are blurting out before I could even give it much thought. “I don’t know, maybe because it isn’t my fault why my grandfather is now gone but it is my fault why you were. I knew that if I could have done something—anything remotely different then I wouldn’t have to feel that way, but I couldn’t kid myself. I messed up and I’m trying to fix it now like it’s my life-mission the second I realized that I felt like that because I fell for you!” I stop abruptly after saying that.
Crap, I can’t believe I just said that. But I don’t take it back. I just stand there, taking deep breaths, waiting for him to say something, while my mind speculates on the fact that what I truly feel is out in the open for the first time ever. He’s just staring at me—speechless too, apparently.
John’s expression is unreadable, just stoic and motionless. And then, suddenly, he brings his hands to my face and kisses me and that action alone clears my mind in an instant—just like that. I stand on my tip toes and my hands cup his neck, as I kiss him back. I walk even closer to him and he walks backwards, until he’s partially sitting on the windowsill. I smile at the fact that he’s shorter now and I can reach his lips properly now. His hands run up and down my sides, just as he had before, in London. I pull away to breathe, his own sighs hitting against my jaw. He pulls his head up and looks at me in the eye. His expression, with the smile he’s giving me—I’m finally, truly happy. And I let him know that by giving him the brightest smile I could muster and kiss him again.
I tap my fingers nervously on my leg as I stand outside the entrance of the airport. I have heard that the sun in Arizona is abnormally hot but experiencing it for the first time is an entirely different matter—and to think that it’s late November. I just stare at the cars passing by, none of which is what I’m expecting. While waiting, my mind runs back again on Thanksgiving night—the moment that led me here.
•••
I stand up from my chair at the living room, and walk all the way to the kitchen. In the fridge, I take out a half-empty bottle of champagne. Chilled—just the way I like it. I sneak through the living room and go up the stairs, hoping that none of my family notices me slip away from the party.
Once alone in my bedroom, I slip off my heels and walk further into it. It’s only lit up by the lamp on my nightstand. I stop by my mirror. I look at my reflection while I take a big gulp of the champagne, straight from the bottle. My reflection’s a mess. The black dress that I’m wearing is beautiful but I still don’t do it justice. I barely carried it with confidence. I pull my hair tie, letting my long hair loose, cascading around my shoulders. I sigh and walk away. I ignore my bed and walk straight to the bathroom. I lie in my bathtub, just as I always had when I feel like shit, because of the porcelain walls around me, making me feel guarded and safe, like a kid in a parent’s arms. I take more sips of my champagne and ignore the guilt and regret that had taken residency in my chest.
I just lie there with my champagne and just stare at the wall of the dim bathroom. I don’t even notice someone come in until a voice speaks up.
"Oh, Morgana."
Only one person calls me that and it’s the person who named me. I sigh, “Dad.”
My dad walks into the bathroom and sits on the edge of the tub, facing me. He gives me a smile, while he loosens the tie around his collar. Even at almost fifty, my dad still looks like the total nerd he has always been his whole life—his black-rimmed glasses say it all.
"I think you’ve had enough of that." He reaches for the bottle in my hand, resting it on the floor. "Wanna talk about it, sweetheart?"
I scoff. “Why do you always assume that there’s something to talk about?”
"I don’t assume, I just know." He says patiently. "Now, come on. Out with it."
I silently debate if I should tell him everything. My dad always makes me think that way, makes me feel like I can tell him everything—and I could, if I wanted to. But there’s something inside me that tells me to just bottle it all up. I can never bring myself to open up—maybe because when I do, I always end up regretting it. So I opt for another subject. “Dad, you grew up in Seattle, right?”
He nods, furrowing his eyebrows a little at my question. “Yes, I did. Why?”
"Have you always thought to live there your whole life? You know, after college, have you always considered building a life there, instead of here in New York?" I ask him.
He lets out a small laugh. “I did. In fact, I have thought of living in Seattle, San Francisco, Boston,” he nods at me, “but never in New York.”
"What?" I ask, surprised. "Why not?"
Dad shrugs. “I’ve always thought everything about this city is too pretentious. The people, the fashion, even the food…oh, and Woody Allen.” He shakes his head in disgust.
I laugh. “Daddy, you do realize that you look a bit like Woody Allen, right?”
"And I hate it every time I’m reminded of it." He says.
"Well, if you hate it here so much then how come you’re here? What made you change your mind? What happened?"
He smiles. “Your mother happened.”
Again, I’m surprised by the answer. “What?” I sit up properly now, tucking my legs under me, leaning me elbows on the edge of the tub, my chin in the palm of my hand.
"Your mother, she changed me. The minute I saw her at freshman orientation in RISD, I knew I’d follow her anywhere." He smiles wider. "And the best part is, she’d do the same for me."
"So you made the big gesture? How come Mom didn’t do it for you?"
"Morgana, I didn’t do the only big gesture in the relationship. I did the first gesture, yes. But your mother did plenty of other gestures after then. Some even bigger than what I did."
"So, you…" I say slowly. "You moved for her? Change your life path just for another person?"
Dad gives me a strained look. “Darling, it’s your mom. She’s not just another person.”
"But you don’t regret doing it? Ever?"
"What’s there to regret?" He touches my head affectionately. "I followed her here in New York, and it not just landed me the love of my life but also the best job in the world and you."
I don’t say a thing for a moment. Then I ask suddenly, “Dad, what do you think about Arizona?”
•••
I’m slapped back to reality when a car honk startles me. Funnily enough, I instantly think of the rundown buildings in the Lower East Side in Manhattan. My eyes widen at the sight of a white van—a graffitied white van. Talk about death by an abundance of sharpie markers. Oh, wait, that’s unheard of because no one does things like that these days—or ever.
The passenger window is open and through it, I see the driver.
“So you’re getting in or what?” Tim says, grinning.
I just stare at him tiredly. “What the hell do you think?” I snap at him.
He just grins wider. “Touchy, touchy.” He takes his seatbelt off before getting out of the car. He meets me on the other side of it. He takes my bag and puts it inside the vehicle, through the sliding door to the backseat. “Sorry about the shitty car. My truck’s in the shop so I had to use this one.”
“I’m sure your truck isn’t as grand as this one.” I mumble, making Time laugh.
We each get into the car now. As Tim drives, I say, “Thanks for picking me up.”
“Anything for a best friend’s girl.” He says happily, looking over at me for a second before turning back to the road.
I furrow my eyebrows. “Why are so damn giddy about this? You are aware that I’m on a suicide mission here, right?”
“So what?” Tim says. “I’ve been friends with John my whole life and let me tell you, I don’t think he’d ever had a girl bombard his band manager’s email just to fish out his address from the other side of the country, just to profess her undying love for him.”
“Bullshit.” I scoff, leaning back on the passenger seat. “Half the U.S.’s teenage girls think he’s hot shit or something. I’m willing to bet I’m not the first one to want to do this.”
“Yeah, but none of those girls is the one John’s actually pining for.” Tim points out.
“What?” I ask suddenly, taken back by this information.
“Hmm? Oh, yeah. For almost a year, most of the time—especially after the European tour, when you guys saw each other in London—he’s all messed up and cranky and whatever. I swear, it got old and annoying—fast. But you just know that when a guy is like that, it’s about a girl.” He shrugs. “On the upside though, the band got some pretty good songs out of it—most of which ended up in the new album.”
“Glad I could help.” I mutter under my breath. Tim seems oblivious by it.
After a pregnant pause, Tim speaks up again. “You are, uh, serious about this, right?”
I look at confusedly. “Of course I am. Come on. I explained everything to you on the phone the other day—”
“And I heard you loud and clear then, but call this brotherly instinct or-or whatever sentimental crap you have in mind. ‘Cause you see, with us—the guys, I mean—we’re inseparable nine months out of a year. It’s our unspoken rule to look after each other. And John…he’s tough, but he’s inexperienced with this shit. He generally doesn’t do relationships. For all I know, he hasn’t fallen in love with anybody just yet…possibly until you. You get what I’m saying here?”
I sigh and nod. “Yeah, that if this all blows up in our faces, it will definitely be a huge toll on John especially—gotcha.”
“I’m serious, Morgan.”
“So am I, Tim.” I say, feeling more frustrated by the second. “I have been in relationships before, some of which are serious—but with John, I could still feel thisdistinctiveness between him and the past guys in my life. He’s different. And I have no idea how or why but it’s just how it is.”
I don’t say more. I couldn’t say more. I just stop suddenly, as if it’s in my instinct to stop and to remind myself not to reveal too much.
“Okay.” Tim sends me a small smile as he drives the car up a freeway. “I believe you. Just wanted to verify your intentions personally. I mean, for all I know, you’re a con artist who is really a hired gun and kills malnourished rockstars.”
I roll my eyes at him.
•••
The car stops in front of an apartment complex. My hands are shaking now, at this point. Nevertheless, I have to go on. I get out of the van. Tim takes my bag out and sets it down on the pavement beside my feet.
I turn to him, giving him a smile regardless of the anxiety knotting in my chest. “Thank you again. Really. You may have acted like a jackass half the time I’ve known you, but I still got the impression that you’re a good guy.”
Tim grins at me. “Don’t mention it, girl.” His gaze flickers to the wide selection of apartments for a second. “Good luck in there, hope it all works out with the two of you.” He sends me yet another smile before going inside the car again and driving off.
Taking a deep breath, I stand there. Every minute I move closer to this place, I think of the downsides. They eat up my mind, making me even more nervous. But then, I also think of my parents and their story. That story kept me going but now that I’m here, I suddenly blank out on what I should do.
Come on. I’ve come such a long way. Ready, set—
This is bullshit. I know what I’m getting myself into. I’m familiar of the consequences. I have to do this. It’s do or die—or whatever shitty expression that would pressure me to do this.
I take my bag from the pavement and walk inside the complex. I go up to the second floor and find the apartment door that I’m looking for. Hesitating a little, I finally knock on the door. After a moment, it reveals just the person that I’m looking for.
John’s lips part slightly as he opens the wider. “Morgan,” he breathes out. “You’re—I…I didn’t expect—how did you—you’re here. You’re here.”
I give him a small smile. “I came for you. I’m…making the first big gesture.”
John stares at me. He’s wearing a white cotton tee and jeans and he looks just the same as I last saw him. But still, it just reminds me of how much I really missed him. He exhales in relief and pulls me into a hug. I bury my face in his chest, our arms wrapping around each other. I could feel his lips against my hair.
He whispers, “You have no idea how happy I am to see you.”
Once inside, I leave my heavy bag on the floor. I look around the small apartment. It’s…well, frankly, messy—although it is kind of expected for guy like John. The huge windows are wide open—their blinds pulled up—making the ambiance airy and bright. His acoustic guitar is lying on the couch and around it are some crumpled papers. There are about ten mugs on top of available surfaces.
John clears his throat, running his hand through his unruly hair. I look at him as he talks, his frame in the middle of a ray of sunlight coming from the window. As I watch him, I could see dust floating in the air. “It’s a little messy…I haven’t gotten around to, y’know, clean.”
I chuckle a little. “Oh, yeah? In like, what, a year? Give or take?”
He just rolls his eyes.
I look around further into the apartment. I can’t help but think that this place is so…him. I see another guitar on a stand or a keyboard against the wall—things I already imagined him owning. But then there are others that I have never associated with him before. Like, the shelf that holds a few vintage Polaroid cameras or the opened today’s newspaper he was clearly reading at the small wooden dining table. And—surprisingly enough—I see a lot of books. The shelves against the wall are packed with books and the table—hell, even the floor—are scattered with more books. I don’t notice John watching me until I meet his eyes. His stare doesn’t waver.
After a moment, I look down awkwardly, laughing a little. I tuck a lock of my hair in my ear and say, “You know, for someone who claims to be the anti-school type, you sure do own a lot of books.”
He chuckles. “Just because I couldn’t sit still in a classroom, doesn’t mean I don’t like to read.”
I smile, but then it fades just as quickly when my gaze drops on his suitcase and duffel bags on the floor in the living room, opened and the clothes are just carelessly stuffed in them.
I ask suddenly, “You’re leaving again?”
“Oh, no.” John says quickly.
I look up at him.
He continues, “I just got home—straight from my parents—they made me stay there for Thanksgiving. So I haven’t really unpacked just yet.”
“Oh.” I mumble. With the calm rushing through me, I’m able to joke with him again. “Not just yet or never?”
“Okay, I’m sloppy, everyone knows that.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t you think we should move on from there now?”
“Fine, fine.” I say, picking up a framed photo from the side table. It’s a photo of John with his band, performing onstage. They all looked pretty young—John’s hair is ridiculously long in the photo. Their crowd isn’t as big as it is nowadays—to my knowledge anyway. But it still looked like the guys are having the time of their lives.
“It’s one of our first shows.” John fills in, as I set the photo down again. He asks, “How did you know where I live?”
I look up at him now. “I have my contacts in the CIA. Did you know you have a record there? Something about covertly transporting baking soda-disguised cocaine from Cuba to the Floridian coast?”
He looks at me amusedly.
I shrug. “Anyway, they just typed your name and—bam—your address it out in the open.”
He gives me a pointed look, despite the wide grin on his face. “Morgan. I’m serious here. I wanna be sure that people don’t just pick up my address from somewhere.”
I scoff. “Or what? One of your pre-pubescent fans would climb into your window and touch you in your sleep?”
“Enough.” John scoffs—again, despite the grin plastered on his face. He sets his guitar on the other lounge chair and brushes some of the papers off the couch and to the floor. No wonder this place is a train wreck. He clearly doesn’t give a shit about organization—company or not in presence.
He reaches for my hand and I let him pull me to the couch. We sit close to each other. I tuck my legs under me. I look around the small apartment. He laces his fingers with mine on his thigh and I lean my head on his shoulder.
"I’m so sorry." I start to say. “I’m just really sorry—”
"For what?" He asks, raising my hand and kisses the back of it.
I stare at the coffee table, which has his laptop, more mugs, papers with lyrics and chords written on them and books strewn about it. “I wasn’t thinking straight, in New York.” I let out a little laugh. “Who am I to talk? I’m always not thinking straight. But this time, I let you leave. Walk away from me again.” I pause. “I just don’t want you to do that again.”
"So you do want to do this, be with me." He says slowly, as if he’s trying to convince himself.
I pull head up, looking at him in the eye. “Yes.”
John stares at me for a moment, then stands up suddenly, letting go of my hand. He rushes his hands through his hair as he walks a few yards away from me, taking a deep breath. Then he faces me. “Morgan…you were pretty sure, when I asked to be with you—”
I stand up, too. “Yes, I was, but that was before I—”
"Changed your mind?" He fills in, shaking his head. "Just like that?"
"Yes, John." I say, feeling frustrated by his reaction. I question him, "What is wrong with that?"
He scoffs. “What is wrong with that?” He echoes. “Morgan, come on. How will I know that you’re not gonna change your mind about this? About me? What if in a few days or months from now, you suddenly regret coming here, to be with me? What if Arizona isn’t really the place you wanna be? What if you end up resenting me because of this? What then?”
After a moment of my silence, John scoffs and walks towards his open window. He just stares outside, not even looking at me. Feeling the knot inside of me tighten even more, I just muster it up and walk over to him. His back is on me.
"John, don’t you understand? I didn’t just come here for you, but for myself also." I say.
He turns around to face me. “What?” He says in low voice.
I walk in closer to him. “I’m not gonna be able to live that down, if I don’t actually try to be with you. I’m willing to make these changes now because I know that I’m gonna regret it if I don’t.”
He sighs. “Morgan, it’s not gonna be easy, to be with me. I’m a fuckup. I’m gonna mess up and I know that and my messing up will only drive you to hate it coming here—”
I really am full-on frustrated now. “Jesus, John! I am really trying here. I flew across the-the country, just for you, with the uncertainty driving me crazy. I all but wrote a check for a million bucks, just so Tim would tell me where you live, when I found his email address on the site. By the way, it was really fucking thoughtful of him to take days just to reply to a fucking email.” I say sarcastically.
Shaking my head, I continue, “I came to be with you because I want the version of myself when I’m with you—when I was with you in London. For fuck’s sake, John, I’m way out of my element here. I’m saying things I’ve never even dreamed of saying—and they’re all for you! Don’t you realize how big that is for me?” I take a deep breath, before continuing. “I know I said I wasn’t thinking straight then, I wasn’t rational but I still felt like it’s right. It’s insane to feel like that for you because I barely know you but I-I felt like shit for days because I turned you down—and to think that I felt even worse right now than when my grandfather died.”
John looks up quickly at that. His lack of comment on that makes me realize that he already knew. My mom must have told—more like babbled—about it to him at some point during his short visit to my home.
Still, the words from my mouth are blurting out before I could even give it much thought. “I don’t know, maybe because it isn’t my fault why my grandfather is now gone but it is my fault why you were. I knew that if I could have done something—anything remotely different then I wouldn’t have to feel that way, but I couldn’t kid myself. I messed up and I’m trying to fix it now like it’s my life-mission the second I realized that I felt like that because I fell for you!” I stop abruptly after saying that.
Crap, I can’t believe I just said that. But I don’t take it back. I just stand there, taking deep breaths, waiting for him to say something, while my mind speculates on the fact that what I truly feel is out in the open for the first time ever. He’s just staring at me—speechless too, apparently.
John’s expression is unreadable, just stoic and motionless. And then, suddenly, he brings his hands to my face and kisses me and that action alone clears my mind in an instant—just like that. I stand on my tip toes and my hands cup his neck, as I kiss him back. I walk even closer to him and he walks backwards, until he’s partially sitting on the windowsill. I smile at the fact that he’s shorter now and I can reach his lips properly now. His hands run up and down my sides, just as he had before, in London. I pull away to breathe, his own sighs hitting against my jaw. He pulls his head up and looks at me in the eye. His expression, with the smile he’s giving me—I’m finally, truly happy. And I let him know that by giving him the brightest smile I could muster and kiss him again.