I look again at the bench and check the time. There’s no one on it or near it. Six-fifteen. I turn to my left, my right. It’s just us two here and some early risers jogging or walking their dogs. A man walking in the other direction, away from the rocks. A woman running past us. He’s not coming and my heart sinks.

Maybe you dodged a bullet, Maya, I say to myself. Perhaps it’s for the better…

This could’ve never worked. These things never last; they’re like summer romances. No, they’re fairy tales. Maybe that’s what this was: a fairy tale—virtual as it was—condensed into one perfect day. One of my perfect stories. And now we’ve reached ‘the end’.

What now? What are my options? Only two: to believe or not to believe David.

David is about to dial a number when I stop him.

I take a deep breath. “No, it’s OK,” I say. “I believe you.”

I want to. I’m trying to.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have doubted you.”

“Have I ever given you reasons to doubt me? Never,” he says, sounding sure of himself again. “Did I ask what you did all day yesterday or where you spent the night?”

It’s my turn to look away.

He tilts his head. “Should I?”

“Should you what?”

“Ask you what you’ve been doing the last twenty-four hours in California?”

I wrap my perfect day and put it in a box somewhere deep in my heart. Mine alone.

“I explored this town. I didn’t know what else to do,” I say, not looking him in the eye.

He checks his watch. “We have to get going. My flight is in two hours. Are you on the same one? If not, we should change it, so we’re going back together.” He kisses me again and holds me in his arms. “I missed you,” he says.

“Let’s go back home,” I say.

A YEAR LATER

Fourteen

I’m not happy. I’m not even close to happy. Not event content.

If someone asked me to sum up the last year in a word, I’d choose regret. Or anger. Still can’t decide on only one. Regret that I believed David. Anger that I believed him. Regret that Max didn’t show up. Anger that he didn’t show up. Regret that I let myself be fooled into believing in a fantasy that made me see life through rose-colored glasses. Anger at the pink glasses. Regret that I came back. Anger that I came back.

I’ve thought about him and that day ad nauseam. I analyzed every second, every text message. I remembered every feeling and sensation, every one of my smiles. Something like this can drive even a strong person crazy. And I’m not that strong.

When David and I returned to New York, I felt stuck. Like a hamster who never gets anywhere despite running on the spinning wheel incessantly. The only thing it manages to accomplish is getting tired. Same with me. Only that for hamsters it’s minutes or hours; for me it’s been a year. Round and round.