Till Next Time | completed | currently under re-edit

28

28
That night in the motel I lay awake in my bed and thought, thought hard about everything.
About this trip. About Anastasia. About myself. About how I thought I was going to keel over and throw up before stepping onto the accelerator back in New York, with Anastasia's father watching my back and Anastasia sitting right beside me, all the passionate moments of youthful impulse finally becoming a reality or how many times I had considered outright lying just the night before, to make up the most gosh darned excuse and bail on her, tell her I couldn't go because I couldn't bear the thought of stepping out of my room.

One month. Almost one month and I have no account of where it all went, how it all just slipped away from between our fingers. If I knew, maybe I would have driven a little slower along the Interstate, or paid attention to how fast the sun moved along with the day, the light travelling up Ana's legs when she was fast asleep in the backseat. Maybe I would have spent an hour more on the beach, drank another bottle of beer. Maybe I would have taken some pictures, stopped to look at the colors of the sunset and stayed in bed when I wanted to, because I had all this time and it was mine, with nothing to chase, no one to rush and a friend to lean on just beside me.

I looked over at Anastasia, her back was turned to me.

I held myself back when my fingers itched to reach for trail of bones along her spine. I just snuggled closer. I could hear her ragged breaths.
It's okay, I told myself. Take what you can. Until next time.

Time flies faster when you love it. An iconic mockery of your fleeting happiness.

I feel the same lurch in my stomach, the same intentions to turn back and run away as soon as the tip of the John Hancock Center peeks like a mountain among the adequately inferior cedar pine accomodations around it.

We are in Chicago.

The calming sound of tires against the highway road, the crackling of sand and dust underneath it is immediately replaced by an incessant cacophony of honks, cursing and hurry.
The open sky hides itself behind the concrete jungle.

We pull up in front of The Ritz-Carlton Chicago.

The valet frowns at the sight of a dust covered and discolored Volkswagen pulling up at his entrance.

Chicago is my father's playground, if New York is his cradle. And for John Baxter's son to take the regular people approach to Lollapalooza in Chicago is unacceptable and detrimental to his credit.
So him being the top investor in the Ritz, he got into touch with Mr. Wilson, the owner, who booked us the Presidential suite at his own expense.

The friendships of the elite always confuse me.

Mr. Wilson was personally present to receive us, a broad commanding smile stretched across his face, as if to let me know I may be his guest but he still owns the stage.
I wonder if my father specifically asked him to keep his guard up to intimidate Anastasia.

I know Mr. Wilson from being forced to make his acquaintance as Baxter successor at one of Dad's fundraisers, a flamboyant man with an unhealthy obsession for wealth.
I put my game face on and take his hand when he extends it to me.

"Mr. Baxter, we have been impatiently expecting you ever since your father and I got into touch," he says. He reaches forward and gives my shoulder a hard squeeze. His touch feels like pumice against my skin.
I force a smile. "It has been some time that we have had the privilege of getting together. My father talks of you." No, he does not.
Mr. Wilson gives a good hearted laugh. "You look worn out, son! And you drove cross-country! Good lord."
I shrug and answer, "Just for the sake of stories, Mr. Wilson."
"And I see you have brought a friend along." He takes Anastasia by her hand, "Hello, Miss."
I take the initiative of introducing them. "My friend from school. Anastasia Collins. She has been my companion on this trip."
Anastasia smiles, and it tethers me back.