We land at Newark Liberty International Airport, and I duck into the bathroom. Considering my battered state in front of the mirror, I run my fingers across streaks of sunburn on my chest and through sand baked into my unwashed, salty hair. Despite puffy eyelids and day-old mascara clumps, I realize I haven’t cried in the past 72 hours. A small victory. I splash water on my face, sniff my armpit (foul), and give my reflection a nod. “You’re doing great,” I tell her.
I emerge from the toilets and head toward Customs and Border Protection. It’s then that I realize that every passenger on my flight has already passed through. In fact, there is not another human in sight. I am completely, perplexingly, alone.
Then, a woman is running toward me. She’s shouting, “Ma’am, MA’AM! Where is your passport? Show me your passport! Where are you coming from?”
My entire body tenses.
I know that my backpack contains exactly three bathing suits, lip gloss, sandals, and a dress I bought from a sweet street vendor who told me, “pink is your color.” But when an airport security person is running toward you after you’ve just returned from Mexico, when your skin is even browner than usual, when you’re hungover and emotionally fragile, you start to wonder, “Am I smuggling drug money in my bra?”
I stare at her. “I just… had to pee,” I stutter.
“Your passport,” she repeats. I start shuffling through my bag. “Are you coming from Cancún?”
“Ummm…” I say. “No.”
“No?”
“Playa del Carmen. Oh, I guess I flew from Cancún,” I laugh a little. “Sorry!”
I feel for my passport and triumphantly extricate it from my backpack.
“She can come here,” a deep voice says.
I look up. A handsome CBP officer with a square jaw and blue eyes is motioning me toward his booth.
“Hi there,” he says calmly, smiling, as his eyes scan my passport and my body. His teeth are jarringly white.
“Hey,” I muster, void of the charming standup routine I’d typically employ in this kind of situation.
Hot CBP Guy: Who are you traveling with?
Me: Just me.
HCBPG: Went to Cancún all by yourself, huh?
What I want to tell him: I hadn’t left the country in 15 months, and I think I lost myself in a relationship, and I wanted to do something that was just for me, you know? I just turned 32, and that somehow feels so much older than 31, and I thought if I could sit on a beach in January like I’ve always wanted to, then maybe I could hold on to that memory for the rest of the year. Maybe I’ve been a little sad and a little heartbroken for a really long time; and maybe you think that’s lame and cliché, and I know the Riviera Maya isn’t exactly Bali, and I’m no Liz Gilbert, but it was the cheapest, warmest location I could afford with my credit card points; and sometimes you have to jump on a plane with no agenda and a very light bag; and honestly, I think I could have stayed there for weeks, or months, maybe, sustaining myself on cheap tequila, and free sunshine, and the kindness of strangers.
HCBPG: What did you do there?
What I want to tell him: I danced salsa, and I ate street tacos, and I sang songs with some guy named Billy outside of an ex-pat bar at 2 a.m., and I watched the sun rise, and I floated on my back in the sea in the middle of January; and it was one of those rare moments that didn’t need time or distance to assign proper meaning; I was so happy and grateful right then and there; and I think saltwater might be the strongest antidote to anxiety; don’t you agree?
HCBPG: What do you do for work?
What I want to say: Do? What do I do? Well, I was an editor and a writer; you’re a writer if you’re writing, right? There are so many things I want to do, and there are so many versions of myself that I want to be; but I’m scared I’m running out of time, that I’ll never do any of it, that I’ll never amount to anything; and everyone keeps reminding me that my career isn’t my identity, but what if I want it to be? I think what you do matters, doesn’t it? Someone told me recently that life is long, but I don’t think it’s true; life is short; and I want to go places, and talk to people, and write it all down; but I keep attaching myself to men who have the careers I want, or the lives I want; and then I just end up resenting them, because being with them doesn’t help me feel any more important or any less lost; and they resent me, because I expect too much, because I want them to give me some sense of purpose that I need to find inside myself.
HCBPG: [Unintelligible] New York? New Jersey?
I say: What?
HCBPG: Where are you going to now?
What I want to say: Philadelphia. But I don’t want to go home; there are so many ghosts there; I’d like to catch another flight and start over somewhere new; but I tried that once, and it didn’t go so well; I think I want adventures and excitement, but I equally want to do the crossword puzzle in my own kitchen on a Sunday morning, beside my own cat, with someone who loves me and knows me very well. Can I stay here a little bit longer?
This is so good.