He was the opposite of you, Andrew. Salt and pepper hair, jeans that hugged his muscular thighs and snake skin cowboy boots. A hat was pulled low over his eyes that were the color of a summer sunset. He introduced himself as Barret in a timber voice. I lied and said my name was Ashley because in that moment, I wanted to be Ashley. A young woman who just graduated from Oklahoma State University with a degree in social work and was driving cross-country to visit her family in California. She was peppy, like a cheerleader with an adorable naïveté that Barret fell for, hook, line and sinker. It felt good for that hour to shed my old skin, become somebody else. When he first approached, I had little interest. Older men aren’t my type.

“What are you drinking?” he drawled, glancing at my amber filled glass.

“Scotch, neat.”

“Rough day?”

“Something like that,” I replied shortly. My body turned toward the door, away from him. “If you will excuse me, I’m busy.”

“Of course.”

He tipped his wide brimmed hat and departed to a booth in the corner. I was taken aback by how easy it was to get rid of him. I had gotten used to your tenacity and forgot not all men are like you. As the scotch burned a hole in my stomach, an aching loneliness washed over me. I missed you with every cell in my body. I missed your laugh, your smile, and the way you said my name. That was what spurred me to down another shot. Four sheets to the wind, my feet jumped off the barstool and over to the man known as Barret. We chatted about random topics. The weather, football, and my fictional life as Ashley. I slipped easily into her role, the lies popping out of my mouth like a Pez dispenser. It didn’t take long before his hand was on my leg. Unconcealed lust shining in his eyes. Our conversation became threaded with underlining sexual innuendos. The whiskey had loosened my tongue and lowered my inhibitions.

My mouth dipped to his ear. “Why don’t you meet me in the bathroom?”

“How ‘bout we go to my place instead? So I can take my sweet time with you.” Barret traced my jawline with the tip of his finger. He smelled earthy, like soil after rainfall. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

I didn’t want to be cherished. I wanted to be fucked over the edge of the sink, hard and fast. Anything slower than that would allow my brain to wander. When my brained wandered, it wandered to you, Andrew. Placing my hands on his scruffy cheeks, I kissed Barret roughly, pouring out my misery and disappearing into the embrace. He responded equally with fervor. When we broke apart, his erection pressed against the zipper of his pants.

“Meet me in the bathroom in two minutes.” Adjusting his crotch, he slid out of the booth and walked bowl legged to the family style restroom.

Cigarette smoke lingered on my tongue, it tasted wrong. I lifted my fingers against my lips, they were swollen and bruised. I thought Barret would make me forget but really he made remember how you and I fit so perfectly. You have ruined sex for me because you showed me how amazing it is when love is involved.

I abandoned Barret in the bathroom and drove to a motel where my tears soaked the pillow. It has been fifty-five hours, two minutes and eleven seconds since I left you kneeling in the snow.

Haven

Dear Andrew,

California is a gold dusted mirage in the middle of a sprawling dessert. Palm trees reach as high as the sky and waves lap against the seashell-strewn beaches. I arrived in San Diego as planned, but kept driving until I hit Los Angeles, or more specifically Santa Monica. There is a creative energy here that you would thrive in. Art is everywhere. Painted on the walls, the sidewalks, and even hanging off telephone wires. I can imagine us buying a bungalow and growing old and wrinkly together here.

Although my pockets are empty, my soul feels full. Each morning, I wake up and bike ride to a small diner that has been there since the 1930s. The food is cheap and the coffee is stale but there is something about it that reminds me of home. Words flow from my ballpoint pen to the stained pages of my journal while the sunny afternoon sun beckons. The stories aren’t very good, or even memorable, but they are stories nonetheless. I don’t know if this is my calling in life, to be a writer. For right now that doesn’t matter. I’m grabbing onto my happiness where I can find it.

Yesterday a man with your color hair caused my heart to flip while hope surged. I almost ran up and flung my arms around his neck. When he turned around though, that’s where the resemblance stopped. To say it was a huge letdown would be an understatement. There are fourteen voicemails from you, one each day I have been gone. Thirteen are unlistened to. During a lapse in weakness, I closed my eyes, scrolled randomly and pressed play.

“Haven….” You paused as if you were waiting for me to answer. When I didn’t, a sigh brimming with regret shuttered across the line. “There are a million things I want to say to you but all the apologies in the world won’t be enough. I messed up and I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life. Just know this: I’ll always love you. Always.”

Tossing the phone aside, I curled my body into a ball as guilt ate away at my insides. I have a confession to make, Andrew. Your fraternity ring was what made this road trip possible. Before leaving Detroit, I hocked it at a pawnshop. The sleazy storeowner gave me close to a thousand dollars which, combined with my savings, was just enough. I’m not proud of what I did but you will get every last cent back, promise.

My anger toward you dims each day, however, the betrayal doesn’t. It sits like a heavy stone in my stomach. Nonetheless, I’m grateful for all the blessings you gave me during our short relationship. Sumiko owes her sobriety to you. She is currently at a rehab center in Santa Barbara. Once her court ordered two months are up, I invited her to live with me. Sumiko said she will think about it, which is better than nothing.

I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Santa Monica’s salty ocean air is the balm over my wounds and I have decided to stay here for the immediate future. Figure out who I am and who I want to become. Typical twenty-three-year-old soul searching. There is one thing I’m certain of though: I don’t regret meeting you, Andrew. You are the best and worst thing that has ever happened to me. The best because you showed me how to fall in love. The worst because you got exclusive lifelong rights to my heart. I’ll never love anybody like I loved you.

It has been 336 hours, 2 minutes and 1 second since I left you kneeling in the snow.

Haven

Three Months Later

Locking my door, I bounded down the steps to where my beach cruiser awaited. The baby blue bicycle had a basket in the rear for my groceries. The fog blanketed the streets as it did in the early mornings. My co-workers didn’t understand why I wanted the six a.m. shift but this was why. In Los Angeles, nobody got up before the sun rose. I had the normally congested city to myself. Plus, the weather reminded me of the gloomy winters back home. Peddling the measly ten flat blocks to the coffee shop, eighties music blasted through my headphones. After my road trip had ended, the obsession for cheesy love ballads only grew. Tina Turner hit one of her high notes as I pulled up in front of Cafe Solo. Painted a soft pink, the Spanish style building had two planter boxes underneath the windows, overflowing with succulents. Fredrick, the owner, had a deep affection for California architecture. Speak of the devil; he sat at a table near the bar, a shot of espresso and a half eaten croissant in front of him. Shrouded in darkness, the cafe didn’t open for another thirty minutes.