...when it's time to make a change - part 1
We flew up to New York City a week later. While there, Voldemort remembered that Thomas had moved to Manhattan a few years prior. Neither of us had really spoken to Thomas since before my son was born; but Voldemort had been calling all of the people he knew in the city—needing to constantly surround himself with friends. Thomas agreed to meet us. We saw him the day before the wedding—decorated the reception hall together—and after the wedding—meeting at a bar in midtown. I told him how much I had always wanted to live in New York and write for a living; and he encouraged me to do it. He was working for The New York Times, and said that although he could not guarantee a job, he would try to get me an interview. Thomas offered to let Voldemort, our son, and I stay with him until we got settled.
Tequila drunk, surrounded by friends, and feeling happy while talking to Thomas—I was overcome by that sudden and unmistakable urge to kiss him. I planted my lips on his; and he seemed receptive, but assumed it was merely a byproduct of the alcohol, and left with another bridesmaid at the end of the night. I felt stupidly rejected by him again, but it did not matter. The change I needed was in the works.
Voldemort and I flew home and began to make arrangements. The plan was for Voldemort to fly up at the end of May, after my son's birthday, at which point he and I would move in with my parents for two months to save money—leaving Miami at the end of July—while Voldemort looked for work, saved money, and found an apartment in New York.
In my closet, as I packed my clothes, I told Voldemort that I wanted us both to be single while we were apart; and for him to work towards bettering himself in a new environment. I assumed that if he were able to quit smoking weed, he would also be able to focus on taking care of himself and ultimately his family. I wanted to incentivize him with the promise that we would reunite once he fulfilled his obligation to change. He did not agree that we should breakup, and tried to convince me to reconsider. I would not be swayed; so he charged at me, tackled me to the ground, wrapped his hands around my neck, and choked me; as I screamed that I was going to call the police. He left me there, in my closet—scared and angry—and spent the night at a friend’s house. The next day, I moved in with my parents, and he flew up to New York.
During that summer, Thomas and I spoke often. Much like the relationship we shared in 2005, I confided in him, and he somehow always knew the right thing to say. He kept an eye on Voldemort for me, and promised that things would improve once I moved; but I was no longer concerned with Voldemort. In fact, Voldemort was the first person to notice how similar Thomas and I were. He was worried that we would hit it off too well; and I hoped that he was right.
A few weeks after Voldemort arrived however, Chris visited him in the city, and brought along his friend Nat. She and Thomas fell instantly for one another—both lonely and eager—and he presented her with the same offer he had given me. She was to move in a few days after my son and I.
Discouraged, I focused on the positive. Voldemort had found a job working for a party planning company. He was making decent money, and seemed determined to improve his life; but as usual, it did not last. He admitted to buying and selling pot to his coworkers, assuming that since he was earning back the money he was using for the purchase, I would not see it for what it was; but he was dealing again, and at his new job no less. Voldemort could not see how he was risking everything, but I could. I was furious, and began to lose hope. I wanted to move forward without him, but continued to believe he could be better than he was.
There's a recurring problem in my life. I have trouble making decisions about my direction. There’s always a fork with what seems to be a clear path in front of me, that I myself make difficult to follow; because I expect it to be paved—when in fact it’s riddled with potholes. I could step around the potholes, or even attempt to fill them in, but instead I focus on them. Then, as if in an attempt to change my focus, I allow myself to get distracted and subsequently fall into them; but there’s an almost insignificant feeling that’s telling me that at the end of this imperfect path, there is a golden escalator that will take me exactly to where I want to go. Then there’s the alternate path on the fork. The road is paved and at an incline—slowly rising up, making it easier for myself to go on up with it. There might be a weed or two along the side, but other than that it’s quite perfect. It is however, unknown to me. I’m not sure if it will continue to rise up and take me to where I ultimately need to be, or if it will veer me away from my fate—leaving me lost and alone. Both paths are accessible; one may be more accessible than the other, but both are a gamble. I wish I could toss a coin that would help me to determine my destiny. This has always been where I get stuck; so instead of making a decision, I wait—straddling both sides of the fork as much as I can—until a gust of wind pushes me in one direction or another.