He hasn't let go of your hand since you got on the plane. It's just the two of you, and you know you've got about nine hours left. Neither of you can sleep, but you're too nervous to talk. He just clings to your hand, his head leaning against the window. You struggle for something to say, but settle for kissing the back of his hand, which gets a smile from him. He lays down with his head in your lap, facing the TV. You know he isn't paying any more attention to the movie than you are, and you briefly fantasize about tearing off his clothes and ending this battle of wills. You know you'll give in eventually, and so will he. You always do. Apparently seventeen years is your limit. Plus, the distraction would be very welcome.
"Go to sleep, honey," you try, knowing it's a useless sentiment.
"I won't be okay until I see her again."
"I know," you say, stroking his hair. You have no idea what to do and wish you could figure out a way to be more useful right now. Being close to him doesn't feel like enough. You suppose it has to be for now.
He get up and stretches and gets up to grab a beer from the fridge. "Want anything?"
You shake your head, realizing you're still pretty drunk. You'd like wine. Maybe something harder, but you don't entertain that thought for long. There's no telling what would happen if you were any more impaired than you already are. "I really hope Karen doesn't lose her shit when she realizes I'm gone."
"Can't do anything about it now," he says, walking around to stretch his legs a little. This transatlantic flights were murder for both of you these days.
He comes to sit down next to you again, and he leans his back against the window. You can tell he's thinking things he's not sure he can say, and you're not sure if you even want to know. Ignoring him is hard, but you try, writing in your journal slowly, not sure exactly how to organize all of the thoughts running through your head. Eventually he's thinking so hard you swear you can hear his mind racing and you can't deal with it. "Lindsey, what do you want to say right now?"
"How many times have you been in love?"
"What?"
"How many people have you truly been in love with?" He rephrases the question, watching you carefully.
"I have no idea how to answer that," you say, trying to get him to move on. He waits, and you know he's not going to let you out of it. "I loved everyone I was with on some level."
"I asked how many you were in love with. Not how many you loved. You know there's a difference."
"Why are you asking me this?" The answer is one. You both know it. You never loved anyone like you loved him.
"Just answer me."
"You. Joe. Jimmy."
"Don?"
You shake your head. "I loved Don, but I was more infatuated than anything. He was the first rock star that fell in love with me."
"I was the first rock star that fell in love with you."
"But you loved me before that."
"So you were in love with three men?"
"I guess so. In different ways. I can't really quantify these things. It's really different looking back on something thirty years later," you say, getting frustrated. You can't figure out where he's going with this. "What about you?"
"I don't think there was anyone but you," he says, looking slightly wounded.
"You weren't in love with your wife?"
