For Those Who Don't Believe in Love Songs

Chapter 13 Pt 1 - Dinner and a Movie

November 25, 1995

James slipped the ten between the napkin and straw dispensers, then he and Martha stood to leave. Chuck Berry's guitar solo danced overhead as they made their way to the exit of the 50's themed restaurant. They'd cut it close. The movie was starting soon. But the theater was only a short walk from the restaurant through the parking lot.

He held the door and the night air reminded Martha to zip up her coat. Winter had returned and with it the Midwest's insufferable cold. James was back, however, and she'd wade through ice water with a smile as long as his hand was in hers.

The time without him had been nearly as bad as she had expected. And what she had expected was apocalyptic. It had been an unbearably long three months. Each day seemed to last two.

Every morning she'd awoke to a bad dream. He was still gone. Dark, familiar thoughts that James had kept at bay crept back into her consciousness. From time to time, she'd caught herself picking at the scar on the side of her wrist.

School, in general, was a disaster. She had friends, but they were of no consequence. Because it was unavoidable – every hallway, every corner, every inch of the campus reminded her of him. He'd waited for her on the morning of her first day. By the afternoon, she was hooked. There was no Adams High School without James. To walk through its halls was to walk with him or in anticipation of him and it had been the happiest year of her life.

But it was more than spatial associations that conspired to keep him in her mind. She had unintentionally developed a venerable celebrity within the student body. She was the girl who had solved the mysterious Jimmy Quinn then vanquished the tyrannical Steph Jenkins. Then came the tragic passing of her boyfriend. The fact that James was alive and well was irrelevant. For a girl in high school, a boyfriend leaving for college was tantamount to his death.

So kids she knew and kids she didn't badgered her with well intended questions:

"How are you?"

"How is he?"

"Do you, like, call him every night?"

"When's he coming to visit?"

"When are you going to visit?"

"Like, oh my God. You must be like, so sad, right?"

She would have loved to tell them all to mind their own damn business if her father hadn't instilled in her an ironclad set of manners. So instead:

"Not bad."

"Good."

"Not every night."

"Thanksgiving."

"Not sure."

"Like, yeah. Totally."

Most nights, after she'd finished her homework, she would, in fact, call him. It was always collect, on his request. They'd mainly talk about her day because he hadn't much to say about his. As in high school, his classes were beneath him. His roommate was a closeted neo-nazi he no longer cared to rehabilitate or even engage. He'd started interning with his once and future partner as he had in six previous lives. Everything was routine and unremarkable.

She would tell him about her classes, her teachers, the latest drama between Camisha and Calvin, and how much she missed him. Mostly, she talked about how much she missed him. Of course, he'd echo the sentiment, though she knew it wasn't the same. Everything will work out, he'd say. The time apart will strengthen their relationship and something about Telemachus and self-reliance.

He always gave her as much time as she needed. Eventually, they'd trade 'I love yous' and hang up. Then Martha would cry. Hearing his voice was heaven, but in the end, she wondered if the high was worth the crash? Some nights, she'd save herself the rollercoaster and leave it on the hook.

He convinced her to try out for the basketball team. She made the roster and was the first guard off the bench. It was as good a distraction as any – the physicality offering a daydream quelling immediacy.

And so she survived September, then October, and then she could see it. On her wall, below the photo of Cedric Ceballos securing a rebound was the month of November. She could mark the days. She could allow herself to imagine his arrival. And as the Xs on her calendar mounted, so too the mixture of joy and anxiety. It was like the month of December a decade prior. Except now, Santa Claus, the presents, and the birth of Christ were all wrapped in the form of an eighteen year old boy.

On the day, she stood in the very terminal from which he left her. The final moments, her eyes trained on the jet bridge entryway, were agonizing. If a watched pot never boiled... would this damn plane ever unload??

Finally, he emerged and the world was right again. Cliché be damned, she ran to him and his embrace and sobbed out the misery of the past three months and the ecstasy and relief of the moment. He didn't shush or chuckle, but held her until she let go. He told her he'd missed her terribly. But as usual, his composure was in stark contrast to her hysteria. Was her breakdown as routine for him as a Rhet 101 class?

She cried happily through the baggage claim and into the parking lot and managed to stop only after James drove onto the highway.

Presently, they meandered through parked cars and across lanes until they reached the movie theater.

"Are you sure about this?" Martha asked.

"It's good," James answered as they took their place in the ticket line. "You'll like it."

"But aren't we a little old?"

"I am very old, yes. Thanks for reminding me."

Martha punched him in the arm. "You know what I mean. It's a cartoon."

"But a very good one." He rotated his shoulder as if injured by her punch. She rolled her eyes.

Author's note: 

Such a cliffhanger!  What could it be???  She-Ra?  GI Joe??  Care Bears???  I'm betting Care Bears.

Like, totally 90's detail:  Um... did I mention we used to be able to greet flyers all the way up at the gate?