Til the Real Thing Comes Along by Iris Rainer Dart

A girl named Joanne, who used to come over for “dinner and dancing,” had brought it to him one night as a gift. Wearing
     the hat made him feel a little safer. As if, in case the world caved in, at least his head would be protected.
    Molly honked the horn, and when Jackie peeked outside he realized that this was the first time he had ever seen her car. It
     was an old yellow Mustang convertible, and she and her son sat in the front seat, looking at the house. They were both smiling.
     A convertible. Jackie hadn’t counted on a convertible.
    He walked to the car. All the time monitoring himself, telling himself he would be fine and that he could handle it.
    “This is Bobby,” Molly said, and her usually sad eyes looked a little less sad today. “Bobby, this is Jackie.” The boy and
     the man nodded at each other.
    “Mind sitting in the back?” Molly asked Jackie.
    “Not at all,” he said. Thank God, Jackie thought. If he sat in the back, neither Molly nor Bobby would know that his eyes
     would be closed all the way to Venice Beach.
    “What a day,” he heard Molly say.
    “Beautiful,” Jackie agreed from the back seat.
Iwill be fine. I’m not afraid. I’m not,
he said to himself. But he was. He didn’t open his eyes until he could tell that they were in Venice because he heard the
     man in the parking lot ask Molly for two dollars, and then he heard Bobby say, “Ahhh, man, look at the sky. There must be
     a million of ’em.”
    I am fine. I will look now.
    There
must
have been a million of them. Kites. Every shape and color. Filling the sky. Soaring, gliding, spinning. Some tied in groups
     of five or six or eight that moved together like a flock of birds or airplanes in formation. And he was looking at them. Sitting
     in the back seat of a convertible looking at the splashy gay spectacle of them, and he was fine.
    His heart felt as light as one of the kites for the first time in years. Maybe since all of this started. Since the time he’d
     had to leave the Rose Bowl because suddenly, during a football game, he’d looked around at the thousands of people in the
     stands, and then up at the sky, and he’d felt small and feverish and panicky. Certain that the sides of the Bowl were about
     to collapse and he would be trapped there. So he told the people he was with that he had the stomach flu, and then he ran
     for the schoolbus and vomited all over one of the back seats before he drove himself home. That was the first time. There
     were dozens of others. In a movie theater in Westwood. Walking on Wilshire Boulevard. At the Music Center. The Forum. Panic.
     Heart pounding. Dizziness. Overwhelming nausea. Gasping. Gasping for breath. No more. Finally he promised himself never again,
     and it was right after that promise that he started his whole new life style. Work and home. Home and work. Swearing he would
     never go out again into an open space and be afraid.
    But now, today, here he was” thanks to Molly. As if nothing had ever happened. His breathing was fine. His heartbeat was regular.
     He looked at her smiling face as she opened the car door.
    “Wait ’til you see what I’ve packed,” she told him as she walked to the trunk to get the picnic basket. Bobby ran onto the
     beach.
    “Ma,” he yelled back. “Look at that one that looks like a sailboat.”
    Molly nodded and waved and let him know she’d seen it. Jackie stood slowly, got out of the car, and walked to the trunk to
     help. The air. The sea air was wonderful, and he felt so good and so proud. Not that he could tell Molly why he was proud,
     but it didn’t matter.
    “I’m so glad you came,” she said, handing him the picnic basket. “Bobby will warm up to you. I think he’s probably a little
     nervous about you, because”—and then she flushed a little before she said—“because I talk about you so much.”
    Molly. Molly. Molly. There was no one like her. When he looked into her eyes he saw what his future could be and it