This Way to Forever

Prologue

In airports , sounds echo off the hard floors as feet and suitcases shuffle. A voice, muffled and bored, intones the next departure. Someone says, hello. Goodbye. I'll miss you. This standard micro-drama, with no deviation, offers little of import, unlike the people inside. This building is the shell, the bubble that keeps the harried hustle from falling apart and shattering into chaos.

What I’ve realized, though, is that people are the stories, all with unknown beginnings and endings. My favorite stories are the ones about love. Because love never ends up the way we expect. Love is the most uncertain story we’ll ever know.

No one love story exists, only those we’re told from a young age: man, woman and happily ever after. Forever. But forever and happy are half-baked concepts that make us feel incomplete, even alone.

I used to believe in forever, in the script. The same one that implies falling in love is easy. The one that says love will save us, make us happy and whole. But there’s no script in this story, at least not now, not here, in this airport, as I wait and scrape the cuticles from my fingers.

Today I reflect on my own love story. Not one, but two. The first is about a young, naive girl who thinks a lover will save her, while the other is about a girl who realizes the best kind of love is a choice you make, a promise to yourself. I wanted to write about this. You see, that’s my other love...writing. As I wait in this crowded, story-ridden airport, my fingers fidgeting over picked skin and knees knocking, I think maybe my love is the third story in this mess.

Not that telling a story is easy with its twists and turns, choices and decisions, especially when faced with deciding on an ending. I need to make a choice. There are two guys, two love stories, both walking towards me. The truth is, deep down I know which one makes the most sense. I’m just not sure if there’s sense in love, and I’m not sure who to choose, or even if I’ll choose. At least not until we reach the end.

Part I

Chapter 1

It started a year ago when I led Tad down the blue-carpeted stairs into a messy basement, leaving the sounds of the party behind. Already, I wanted to know him in the way people ponder an answer to a question that plagues their minds, something they pine over. And then it came to me. I wondered what his body would feel like against mine, lying on that blue, itchy carpet.

When we got to the bottom of the stairs, Tad’s eyes stared out toward the stack of books towering on the white table. All those notes, torn pages, ripped up notebooks. He picked up a loose pencil from the floor and placed it back into the coffee tin I used as a makeshift pencil holder.

Each notebook bore doodles and pieces of poems, splattered ink, and pages folded at the corners. I had marble notebooks and loose-leaf notebooks, and old and new books, antique and modern. Some of them smelled like mold and mildew, antiquity. Sometimes I thought I could smell the original owner’s breath on those books, or even a splash of scotch whiskey at the spine. Whatever I smelled, or saw, or stacked there weren’t exactly organized, but they were mine and I loved them despite their faults.

He let go of my hand. But I wanted to stay close to him and I positioned myself next to his towering stature. Tad examined each notebook, leaned into the pages, and the almost warm ink. Each word swarmed his eyes as he hunched over the table and left me on the shoreline.

His forehead creased and he turned his gaze toward me. Wow, you wrote these?

I stood behind him and twirled my hair, crossed my feet behind each other. Yeah. I did.

Tad shook his head and said in a deep Eastern European accent. I don’t know if I could ever write like this.

I stopped twirling my hair and tried to assume confidence by standing up straight. Why can’t you? You just throw some words on the page. I stopped fidgeting. Open a vein as Red Smith once said…just hope for the best.

No. I’m not creative. Wish I were. I could never write a poem. His voice echoed off the walls and through my chest. The longer I spent with Tad, the more I wanted to be his canvas—for him to paint me with his lips and tongue.

My mind reeled with sexy thoughts of him, but I paused them all to stand next to Tad. Come here. Let’s write one together.

He stepped back. What do you mean?

A poem. Let’s write one together. Come on trust me, I said. My feet twirled behind one another.

Tad put his hands on his hips. OK, Brody. How do we do this?

I closed my eyes and thought of the first line that came to me. I led him down the blue, carpeted stairs.

Tad laughed. I don’t get it.

Come on. Now you come up with a line. Just say the first thing that comes to your mind. Say anything. And close your eyes, it helps. I demonstrated by closing my own eyes, but cheating slightly to see a sliver of light.

Do I have to? he pouted.

I cracked open one eye. Yes. Close. Now let’s try this again. My heart slowed down and the words were born once more. I led him down the blue, carpeted stairs.

Silence and a breath. He turned to look at her, Tad spoke.

My turn. She smiled as if to know everything he was thinking.

He took her hand, Tad said and took my hand.

And she pulled away. My sweaty hand dropped from his and his breath warmed my lips.

Only to feel a soft kiss on her full, rounded...

We both opened our eyes. Tad looked at me as if he could read my thoughts, as if he knew what I’d say next. You see, it’s easy, I said.

You’re right. I see that.

We stood next to the table, all the books piled next to us—our faces less than one inch apart. His lips lingered over my own, never touching, but seeking touch. His smile, slow and warm, spread as our thumbs met at our sides, my palm draping his knuckles as the peaks and gullies of excitement drew us into curious contemplation of this bizarre inspiration of mine.

It feels good, right? he asked. The hairs from his arm touched my wrist.

Yes. That s remained elongated in time.

The poem. I mean that’s the last line I came up with for the poem, he said. I could still feel his lips still close to mine.

In an effort to avoid any embarrassment, I said, That was my last line.

Full of surprises, you, he said and walked backwards.

Tad picked up a notebook.

Don’t read that, I said.

Come on, just a little peak.

I went to grab the book from him, but he held it up to the sky, so high I began to balance on my toes. My fingers touched the bottom edge of the notebook and snatched the poem filled pages clear out of his hand.

His eyes smiled. You shouldn’t stop.

You think I’m good or something? I mumbled.

You’re good. I know you are.

My face flushed a light, blotchy red. Well, thank you. Please spread the news, I said and laughed.

I will. I will. All over the world. Show me more, Sara. His hand reached out to another notebook.

I pulled out some of my smaller notepads. The ones I tucked behind the larger, more dominant ones. Our eyes traced the words together, one on top of the other. My heart burned under my skin.

I get carried away. We could be here all night, I said.

That’s a bad thing? That crooked smile turned something inside of me.

No. I mean yes. I mean, it’s poetry. Who reads poetry anymore? And it’s really the only thing I want to do, I paused. Write poetry. That’s what I want. And I want people to read it.

Tad leaned into my ear. His hot breath chilled my skin. Dla chcącego nic trudnego.

I breathed out and then asked, What does that mean?

Tad’s mouth lingered at my ear. An old Polish saying implying that it won’t be hard if you want something bad enough. He stepped back. Like, if there’s a will, there’s a way.

So, if you really love something, you’ll find a way to do it. Just...make it happen. I met his gaze, hoping I understood. 

Sterile awkwardness floated between us, creating a weird, slow-motion moment.

You'll find a way. Exactly. He sounded disappointed, though.

Desperate to prove myself, I pushed more words out, unsure if I was even coherent. Makes sense. I bit my lip, watching his eyes for any signs of my foolishness. That's what I want--to go to school for an M.F.A. in creative writing.

His brows drew together. What's an M.F.A.?

It’s a Master’s in Fine Arts. I want to go for poetry…maybe fiction. People like a good plot, they don’t care about language anymore or preserving an emotion. They want a story with an ending, something certain. Poetry doesn’t have an ending. Poetry isn’t certain. I’m just not sure I want to commit to either just yet. I’m not sure about most things these days.

Tad reached out and rubbed my arm. If that’s what you want…you should. You know? There are some things I want to do… He touched my hand. But…

I pursued the subject, but pulled my hand back. Tell me. What about you? What do you love? What do you want to do?

Tad’s smile blinked in the big, blue basement. Right now Master’s in political science and then hoping for a PhD full ride with a professorship. That’s the goal. Tad sighed.

He leaned in, his mouth inches from mine. Our lips brushed once, and he held my jaw, his thumbs caressing my cheeks. He gazed down at me as though he'd discovered beauty I couldn't fathom anyone could see in my skin, my lips, my pale widow's peak. Soft fingers stroked my neck, slipped into my hair, loosening my ponytail. Unable to glance away, I lost myself in his blue eyes, seducing me like a clear sky on a chill winter's day. We fell into a temporary kiss, losing ourselves--and our balance--as we stumbled to the floor. Laying beside me, he found my hand, his gaze melting my apprehension.

When do you go back? I asked, already troubled by the idea of his departure.

Tad continued to hold onto my hand and gaze. I’m working and saving some money. Going back to Warsaw in six weeks. Then I go to University Nijmegen. Netherlands. Amsterdam. Pot. It will be fun.

Why Amsterdam? My arm wrapped around his defined, flat stomach.

He tickled me with his long fingers. For the Master’s. Part of the program is doing one semester abroad to study a political system. I chose Amsterdam.

Not a bad system to study. I held onto him tighter and gripped the loose part of his shirt.

Tad sat up, reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe. He took a hit and breathed out the smoke, which lingered above him. Not bad at all.

Can I try some of that system? I pointed toward the pipe.

A whole year in another country.. A whole year for self-indulgence of both intellectual and sexual freedom. I could see him talking about politics and making jokes; the kinds of jokes that would make him look attainable and childlike, a perfect ruse for a man to seduce a woman. While this seemed sexy, it made me question my own life and writing. When, or even could I go to grad school for something I love? My heart raced out envy and sadness. The thought of being alone in this town, of not doing something of great importance. The thought of lovelessness in my life, not loving my life, terrified me enough to want to cry on the basement floor. I’m jealous. You get to travel, totally free and I’m just settling here. I’m choosing to stay in New Jersey. Just saying the state’s name irritates me. I felt trapped in a giant cardboard box of emotion.

Tad rubbed my shoulder. I looked down at his hand and felt the pit of my stomach tighten. I wondered if he noticed; if he could feel this forlorn emptiness inside of me.

I’ll make you feel better. He put the pipe down and brought me toward him. We kissed again, but when his hand wrapped around my breast, I pushed back.

What time is it? I asked.

Tad jerked his hand back and then dug into his pocket for his phone. Four a.m.

Shit. That’s late. We stared at each other.

He brought his chin down to his chest and lowered his voice. Why? Do you have somewhere to be?

Time to play coy. No. Just wondering. I didn’t want this moment to end. I had to see him again.

You tired? he asked.

No, you?

We both played that game of who’s-going-to-give-in-first.

A little bit. I’m just too drunk and stoned to drive. I might have to stay. A naughty smile poked through.

I looked around the room. An old TV stood on a faded wooden stand in front of a long, L-shaped leather couch, and next to that stand, a box of DVDs.

I twirled my hair between my fingers. Do you want to watch a movie…or something?

Yeah, that sounds good, he said and massaged my shoulder.

And I mean watch a movie. I smirked.

Tad removed his hand and instead ran his fingers through his dirty blond hair. Watching a movie is good for a first date.

I lifted my shoulders and jolted my gaze towards him. Who said this was a date?

I think this is a date, but call it what you want. You Americans and your labels. Let’s just go watch a mindless movie. He laughed. Now come here. Tad patted his hand on the couch.

We curled up next to each other.

Tad’s eyes looked heavy and red. "I feel exhausted. That pot