Profitable. Successful. Bursting with sunshine.
And my mom’s out for a visit. We’ve just had an incredible sushi dinner before wandering the streets of Venice in the cool evening air.
When she asks, “So, are you loving it here or what?” the answer should be easy.
A yes ought to roll off my tongue.
Instead, I weigh her question, my gaze drifting to the yoga studio up ahead, then to the small-batch ice cream shop next to it and the quirky card shop on the corner that also sells wall clocks and hand-crafted ukuleles.
Last time Ruby was here, we wandered these blocks for hours. She checked out card after card in the corner store. Then, we grabbed cones and walked along the beach. That night, we returned to my Hollywood Hills home, where I bent her over the kitchen table, and we both finished a perfect day with a perfect bang.
I do love Los Angeles.
And yet . . . I don’t.
“Mostl
y,” I finally answer. That feels like the truth. Mostly.
Mom hums thoughtfully, like she’s mulling that over as we pass yet another yoga studio, this one with a yogini etched on the window. There are probably more yoga studios in Venice per capita than there are coffee shops in Seattle.
Could Ruby do her window painting here? Would there be enough business for that to work?
“Ooh, let’s come back here next visit,” Mom says, jerking me from my Ruby-colored thoughts. “I hear the hot yoga at this studio is life-affirmingly amazing and also super-hot.”
Super-hot. Damn, that reminds me of Ruby.
Life-affirming fits her too. She lives her life to the fullest, embracing work, friends, and love with a gorgeous determination that makes my heart tick and my mind blaze.
“Sounds perfect for you, Mom,” I say, returning to the conversation.
“Speaking of things that are perfect for us . . . are you saying this whole long-distance thing with Ruby isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?” Mom is nothing if not direct.
I draw a deep breath; I need it for what I’m about to admit.
The godawful truth.
“I miss her,” I say, uttering that combination of words I say even more often than I expected to.
I miss you, Ruby. I fucking miss you. I miss you so much, sweetheart.
Long-distance relationships are wonderful and horrible at the same time. On the one hand, I’m stoked we figured out how to make us work, through FaceTime and airline miles and letters and texts and emails.
And sure, at first the long-distance relationship was fun, in a roller-coaster ride kind of way. It was wildly sexy and exciting to rip each other’s clothes off after pent-up time away.
But we don’t need to be apart to have great sex.
Now, nearly a year in, the missing is too constant. The ache of not seeing her is like riding that same roller coaster for the three-hundredth time in a day. It’s making me sick to my fucking stomach.
My mom and I stop at the crosswalk, look left, look right.
“It’s hard to be away from the one you love.” She pats my shoulder as we head across the road. “So what are you going to do about it?”
That’s the question.
I need to do something about this missing.
I need to figure out how to get Ruby here. Or I need to go there.