Craig likes my town. Likes the walkability. Likes the Irish-ness of it. Likes a lot about it. I tell him he is welcome any time. He seems to like that idea, too. He's easily to please.
As we walk back to the car, and I realize he is going to leave shortly, I have that bittersweet feeling you get when one adventure is about to end and another is about to begin. An hour after he leaves, Hil and Pat and I will be on the road again, this time to Gettysburg, a town I love and my children have come to embrace. My school. My friends. My memories (however beer-soaked and fuzzy). All wrapped up in a quaint little package.
I tell Craig before he leaves that I will have the kids for about 4 days and then face an unthinkably long stretch without them. They will finish out the end of what would be my week with Lars. It is just the way the Spring Break cookie crumbles. I will give them their Easter Baskets on a weekday and see them off for a 9-day drought without any fanfare. Fanfare is as bad as maudlin weepiness I've found. Better to just plug along like this is the routine in every family. Even though we all know deep down that it is not.
I tell him that if he finds himself with free time around the holiday to be sure to be in touch. I'd love to see him again so soon. My town, his town, any town. He thinks it's a great idea. And maybe a possibility. He'll let me know, or so he says.
And after kissing him goodbye in the street and heading inside to get the cats settled and the kids bags out of their rooms, I text him. Just the sort of note I'd hope to get. Something to thank him for the evening and flatter him in just a few words. He sends a similar return text. All is right with the world.
And then all is right with Hil and Pat. They've already rock-paper-scissored their way through the decision about the seating arrangement in the car and both have headphones so they don't need to listen to my dorky music. I can more or less be alone with my thoughts on the trek to the 'Burg. I replay parts of the weekend in my head. Some parts I replay over and over again. And some parts I dwell on and ponder. Did I read that message right? Did he say what I think he said? Does he mean this or did he mean that? What was he trying to tell me when he said such and such? I could make myself a lunatic with this kind of thinking. I am a hazard to myself. But it makes the drive whiz by.
The kids and I check into the hotel and are surprised to find ourselves in the Executive Wing. Enormous room. Very cool decor. Off the beaten path. Very quiet. Perfect for being alone with my thoughts. Maybe it is not such a great arrangement. I insist that we go out into the town and get lost in a crowd. Force the thoughts of insecurity and foolishness from my head and replace them with shopping and dining and sweet nostalgia.
We don't get very far. We wind up in the restaraunt off of the lobby. The very lobby I walked through at the reunion two years ago and accidentally became part of the Indian wedding procession. Men and women in traditional garb flanked me on either side as I strolled through the lobby from the parking garage in my Lilly Pulitzer shorts and fitted T, flipping and flopping along hiding behind my Jackie O-style sunglasses and barely concealing my smile thinking what a great cocktail party story it is going to make. Me, the inadvertent photo bomber. Talk about a Wedding Crasher.
I order a pint and we order a light lunch. We tune into the NCAA tourney. I check in on Facebook. I get a lot of instant likes. But nothing from Craig.
And this is where the insecurity breaks from the pack and goes sailing off in the direction of Hell. I read into everything. I read into things that aren't there. I read the silence. I read the delays. I feel the inattention. I have to physically restrain myself from figuratively jumping up and down and waiving my arms to see what I get back. It is madness.
Thank God for a good old antique mart. Nothing pushes the current problem from one's head like imagining the stories attached to the garments and jewelry and household items touched by lives that came and went decades before. The place is practically alive with presence. Items in glass cases call to me to tell their stories. It very nearly makes me forget my own.
Nearly.
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