blushing a little. “And I’ve always hated people who say things like, ‘When you know, you know.’ I’ve never just known about anything else. Not even a pair of socks.”
She was staring at me, as if with a growing level of concern that I might be a lunatic.
“Well, maybe there was one pair of socks at some point. For the gym or something . . .”
Nothing. She said nothing. I was still talking, telling her more than she could possibly want to know, more than anyone could. But I couldn’t seem to stop. I couldn’t seem to stop trying to do something to bring her color back.
Then I noticed it on the inside of her wrist—the other half of Griffin’s tattoo. The other half of the anchor. The right half. The sharper one.
“Oh my gosh, wait. You’re Gia?”
She nodded. “I’m Gia.”
“Griffin told me about you! I guess not your last name, though,” I said. “But he told me about the tattoo. I love it. I mean, I love the tattoo. But I also love that you guys did that together.”
I was still smiling. This is the worst part: I was still smiling when I said this. I didn’t quite know yet that I shouldn’t be. Then Gia, my former new friend, walked away from me. She turned and walked away from me, fast.
And I got my first idea.
13
S omething else I discovered from writing “Checking Out,” something that should not be underrated, is the joy people feel when they get to pretend to be someone else for a while. When you travel, you can become anyone. No one knows you. No one is telling you who—based on your history, or their ideas about your history—they’ve decided you are. When you travel, everything is unfamiliar and possible again. Like with a brand-new job or a brand-new partner. Like with a first kiss. For a short, perfect while, you get to see yourself—you get to experience yourself—as new. Until the inevitable (and inevitability surprising) reminder: you are still you.
I walked through town in a fog, the directions to Griffin’s restaurant in my fleece jacket’s pocket, taking too many wrong turns anyway. Then I found a small, barnlike structure—slightly hidden from Main Street, unless you knew to look for it—with an amazing red chimney, scaffolding surrounding it, a sign (matching the chimney’s red) without a name on it yet, still resting on the ground by the front door, still waiting to be raised.
I walked inside—the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street blasting out its glory from a floor-side stereo—to find the place midconstruction, working toward its own glory: unfinished floors and markings on the walls, electrical wires coming from the ceiling. A large, rectangular hole in the far wall that I imagined was going to be the bar area. A cool, metal chandelier waiting to be raised above it, Griffin touching its top as he talked to several men.
When he looked up and saw me standing there, he gave me a big smile and headed my way.
“You’re here,” he said.
“I’m here.”
He pulled me into the unoccupied corner, giving me a long kiss.
“Is it crazy that I missed you today?” He pulled back, taking a look at me. Then he began running his hands over my cheeks. “And why are you so cold? You can’t be dressing like that. You’re going to get pneumonia.”
“I wish everyone would stop pointing that out. And I wish it would stop getting worse.”
He looked at me, confused. “Getting worse?”
“The length of my hospital stay.”
He started laughing, which quickly turned into a cough and just as quickly turned scary, leaving me completely unsure what to do as he braced himself on his knees, trying and failing to catch his breath. He managed to reach for the inhaler in his pocket, putting it to his lips and taking a long, deep puff. His breath, the coughs, finally starting to slow.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He nodded, his voice returning. “Fine,” he said. “It sounds a lot worse than it actually is.”
He was still resting on his knees,
She was staring at me, as if with a growing level of concern that I might be a lunatic.
“Well, maybe there was one pair of socks at some point. For the gym or something . . .”
Nothing. She said nothing. I was still talking, telling her more than she could possibly want to know, more than anyone could. But I couldn’t seem to stop. I couldn’t seem to stop trying to do something to bring her color back.
Then I noticed it on the inside of her wrist—the other half of Griffin’s tattoo. The other half of the anchor. The right half. The sharper one.
“Oh my gosh, wait. You’re Gia?”
She nodded. “I’m Gia.”
“Griffin told me about you! I guess not your last name, though,” I said. “But he told me about the tattoo. I love it. I mean, I love the tattoo. But I also love that you guys did that together.”
I was still smiling. This is the worst part: I was still smiling when I said this. I didn’t quite know yet that I shouldn’t be. Then Gia, my former new friend, walked away from me. She turned and walked away from me, fast.
And I got my first idea.
13
S omething else I discovered from writing “Checking Out,” something that should not be underrated, is the joy people feel when they get to pretend to be someone else for a while. When you travel, you can become anyone. No one knows you. No one is telling you who—based on your history, or their ideas about your history—they’ve decided you are. When you travel, everything is unfamiliar and possible again. Like with a brand-new job or a brand-new partner. Like with a first kiss. For a short, perfect while, you get to see yourself—you get to experience yourself—as new. Until the inevitable (and inevitability surprising) reminder: you are still you.
I walked through town in a fog, the directions to Griffin’s restaurant in my fleece jacket’s pocket, taking too many wrong turns anyway. Then I found a small, barnlike structure—slightly hidden from Main Street, unless you knew to look for it—with an amazing red chimney, scaffolding surrounding it, a sign (matching the chimney’s red) without a name on it yet, still resting on the ground by the front door, still waiting to be raised.
I walked inside—the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street blasting out its glory from a floor-side stereo—to find the place midconstruction, working toward its own glory: unfinished floors and markings on the walls, electrical wires coming from the ceiling. A large, rectangular hole in the far wall that I imagined was going to be the bar area. A cool, metal chandelier waiting to be raised above it, Griffin touching its top as he talked to several men.
When he looked up and saw me standing there, he gave me a big smile and headed my way.
“You’re here,” he said.
“I’m here.”
He pulled me into the unoccupied corner, giving me a long kiss.
“Is it crazy that I missed you today?” He pulled back, taking a look at me. Then he began running his hands over my cheeks. “And why are you so cold? You can’t be dressing like that. You’re going to get pneumonia.”
“I wish everyone would stop pointing that out. And I wish it would stop getting worse.”
He looked at me, confused. “Getting worse?”
“The length of my hospital stay.”
He started laughing, which quickly turned into a cough and just as quickly turned scary, leaving me completely unsure what to do as he braced himself on his knees, trying and failing to catch his breath. He managed to reach for the inhaler in his pocket, putting it to his lips and taking a long, deep puff. His breath, the coughs, finally starting to slow.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He nodded, his voice returning. “Fine,” he said. “It sounds a lot worse than it actually is.”
He was still resting on his knees,
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