It was a bold idea to tempt fate and risk the mixture—New Years and a clean slate on the one hand, and my ex-fiancé on the other. Wouldn’t it have been safer to stay in San Francisco with my friends for New Years? Gone to the same old places? Seen the same old faces? Why was I going to Santa Monica? I’d never been there, I’d only seen Venice Beach in movies like Fletch, and what were the midnight-kiss rules when you’re hanging out with your ex?
I mean, we’d kind of resolved our issues. And we’d both kind of moved on. He’d had a serious girlfriend at one point, and I’d found solace carving out a corner of my own in his city, San Francisco. When I’d met him almost ten years ago, I had just moved to town and didn’t know anyone. Everyone I’d met belonged to him, and he got them all back when we split up. But somehow, I’d found the strength, the courage to remake the city in my own image, finding my own scene, my own favorite sushi bar, my own two feet.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that he took off to Indonesia (or “Indo” as he began calling it) for a year to get over me after I gave back the ring. So I’d had the city to myself for a while.
But the New Years line-up this year hadn’t done anything for me. None of the parties grabbed my attention, and a lot of my girlfriends had boyfriends now. I wanted to get away, but I didn’t want to go far or feel hassled in any way.
One of my year-end projects was house cleaning, the kind where you actually go through all those bags and boxes looming in the corners, where lost treasures are found, and especially where you actually fill up those empty photo albums, even if you can’t quite remember the chronology.
I was having one of those quiet winter days at home where happiness was taking charge of my clutter. At the bottom of one box I found some old photos. I didn’t recognize the faces at first. One kind of tugged at me. It was my ex at a young age opening presents under a Christmas tree. And those were his parents at a younger age. His dad with jet-black hair—I’d only known him as silvery-gray.
These were my ex’s treasures. I called him immediately. And then we started talking. And I said I wanted to send him the pictures. And he said that I should give them to him in person, and why hadn’t I visited yet? The next thing I knew, I had promised to spend New Years with him. He wasn’t dating anyone, and I wasn’t dating anyone. It’d be a friends thing. Just friends.
I hit the road Friday morning, New Years Eve day. I had created a special iPod playlist for the occasion. And I was driving. Just me on the road. Just driving, playing my favorite songs. Rain threatened to hit, but the sun staged an impressive defense, and the result was rainbows up and down the I-5.
I got in just before sunset, and my ex was already out. He said to meet him on Main Street—he’d explain how to get there. I told him that my car had GPS. He laughed. “Now you finally can find your way out of a paper bag.”
I laughed too, because it was true and I wasn’t too proud to admit that. I parked my car and started walking, looking for the right bar. My cell phone rang. “Are you in a red shirt?”
I looked up and there he was on the opposite street corner. You know, he looked good. Really good. He’d grown out his light brown hair. It was wavy. He had neatly trimmed facial hair, a little goatee. He looked fit, slightly tan, and his shirt was nice.
