The Passenger Seat is Empty

For the last three thousand miles Erin was my copilot. I won’t lie and say this was the most romantic getaway.  We learned things about each other we didn’t like.  We both made selfish decisions and let the resentment build with the silence. But we co-designed this trip and made every decision together. We took turns driving, and we split the costs of gas and food. I went to a winery, even though I had no interest, because I knew she would enjoy it. Undoubtedly, she entertained a fancy of mine even though she didn’t fancy it herself. We did what every couple should do if they want to succeed:  we compromised.

I resisted the urge to play country music because I know she hates it.  I wanted to navigate exclusively with maps.  During previous outings she grew impatient with me when I overlooked a faster route, so I used the GPS.  She usually got tired before me, so I volunteered to drive at night, on rough terrain, in heavy traffic, or during inclement weather. I wanted to lighten her load and take care of her.  All the while, I wanted to take risks and experience a true adventure.

My ideals have always been romantic and a tad melodramatic.  When I was a kid, I wanted to run away with a girl I was in love with.  Alone, excitement has a threshold. There is a certain feeling of euphoria that can only be experienced when two people meet at a farfetched destination they never expected to reach. Our futures feature multiple avenues, most of them elusive and ephemeral, and every once in a while we follow a road we know not where it leads. I wanted to go into this uncertainty with someone, and we could find the answers together.

A few weeks ago, I stood outside the gates of Fort Clatsop, Oregon, the site where Lewis and Clark wintered near the southern banks of the Columbia River after their transcontinental expedition. I was full of envy of my predecessors for their chances to venture out into unmapped territory. Before me lay a forest blotted out by the night. A cold wind blew and shook the tree branches. My meager headlamp pierced a minuscule crack in the darkness, and I asked Erin to hop the fence with me. This was the adventure I was looking for, but I never stopped to ask myself:  What was I hoping to stumble upon?

I always thought I could defy the ultimate compromise we all end up making when we choose whether to settle down or to live without structure. This trip was my testing ground.  I wanted to believe I could make a nest, and then take it on the road with me. I wanted to convince myself I could be a caretaker and a wanderer, living both on the edge and somehow with responsibility. I was determined to complete the journey from the Pacific to the Atlantic. Maybe Erin was, too, but she decided to fly home to be with her family and to set her professional life in motion. I understand her decision and don’t blame her for it, but, selfishly, I wanted her to stay.

In the parking lot outside the mob museum in Las Vegas, Erin arranged her suitcases in the trunk while I sat next to her holding a turkey and cheese sandwich. I hadn’t eaten in hours, and I was starving, but I couldn’t stomach a single bite. She was overcome with a sadness that surprised me.  Usually I am the softy holding back tears and asking for another hug.  All day long she had been exceptionally affectionate——clingy, even, which I welcomed. Nonetheless, I built up walls inside of me to prepare myself for the separation.  We had spent the previous 110 days together at work, at home, in the car.

 

Now, at the airport in Vegas, we embrace, and she turns toward the doors.  The wheels of her suitcase roll away from me.  She swivels on her feet, faces me once more and waves. I smile and retain the image of her in my mind.  While she opens the doors and moves toward the ticket counter and out of my sight, I wrestle with our memories, which have now become both painful and pleasant to conjure up. These memories mock me in my isolation, but they, too, provide comfort.

 

The passenger seat is empty, and the course of my future ruptures. I grew accustomed to the frequency of her presence like an addict, and now I have to learn to live with her shrinking role. The doses will become smaller and smaller as the relationship fades from the collision of skin to faceless phone calls that are further reduced to a name on a screen and words typed by thumbs and then long stretches of sightlessness and silence.

Under the harsh light of a gas station outside of Vegas, I dump out the water from the cooler and buy a new bag of ice and stick the cooler next to my jug of water and my bag of snacks sitting on the passenger seat. Now that Erin is gone, I need my supplies to be within reach. I’ll cover less ground and try to avoid driving at night. I try to make a set of rules for myself, but now that I’m alone I can break my own promises.

I yearn to establish a new routine and console myself with sites yet to be seen and trails yet to be hiked. I follow the highway signs beyond the Hoover Dam and into Arizona toward the Grand Canyon. I stop at a Walmart in Kingsman after midnight and curl up in the backseat. I have more space to sprawl out and stretch my legs, but I would rather be squished than to carry on a solo journey. Before I fall asleep, I try to embrace my new solitude despite my desire to be reunited with Erin. I wonder if it is possible to have both love and freedom. Or is there only room enough for one?