Back in the fall, my sister reached out and asked if I would come to Colorado to dog-sit for a couple of weeks. I was hesitant. Yes, I’d dog-sat for friend in California in July. Yes, I’d dog-sat for my aunt and uncle in September. This is not some new professional gig. I fell into these experiences, there being a mutual benefit in that a dog avoided kennel time and I got to spend an extended break in areas I really liked. Plus, I love dogs and I’ve gone the past decade without one of my own, telling myself I wanted to enjoy travel without the guilt, expense and logistics of dog care. The two dog-sitting gigs were win-win situations.
It was different in the case of my sister. Nothing against her or her dog, a four-year-old, partially deaf English cocker spaniel. Even by my sister’s reports, the dog had some challenges, but I knew the dog and I would figure things out in some sort of comical alpha battle.
The problem was where my sister lived—Colorado. I realize the state is generally a draw from a tourist’s perspective. Her home is in a rural community, an hour outside of Denver. Urban accessibility, a general plus but a distinct negative for me.
The last time I was in Colorado, I’d flown to Denver on Valentine’s Day. My partner of nearly two years had just moved there to start a new job. After a Seattle-Vancouver long-distance relationship, we were committed to making Denver-Vancouver work, too. I’m a writer; I can write anywhere. Denver would simply be a new setting.
But we hadn’t even made it to his new place before we broke up. Ten minutes in the car and I was suddenly single. They say there’s something about the Colorado air that induces altitude sickness. Apparently it also implodes relationships.
I stayed at a hotel that night and rescheduled my flight. A two-week visit got whittled down to a day. I insisted on that day, figuring it would feel too pathetic taking the first flight home on February 15th, my sole memory centered on getting dumped. Instead, I walked around downtown, forcing myself to be a tourist, cramming in more than usual to try to temporarily distract from what had brought me to Denver and what had happened. I needed the city to be more than That Place. I salvaged the city’s reputation but barely.
The idea of flying back to Denver ten months later had zero appeal. It felt like I should wait a few years or, really, a lifetime. There were other places to see. Omaha, for instance. Iowa City. Duluth.
I went back and forth with my sister, first via text, then a phone call. “Are you sure about this?” (She’d be paying for my flight.) “Isn’t a kennel cheaper?”
But she did seem sure.
And I, having not always been the best member of the family, set aside my Colorado-avoidance urge to say, “Okay. I’ll do it.”
To most people, an ex would not factor into the decision at all. The trip was not about him. He and my sister did not live on the same street or in the same neighborhood. I was certain they did not shop the same Safeway and, if I had to avoid Trader Joe’s, well, I could do without the banana chips.
Still, with months until my trip, I found I was dreading it. What if I run into him? The chances were so remote, I kept telling myself. Six million people live in Colorado. 700,000 in Denver. Nope, there was no way our paths would cross. He was yoga; I was gym. He was Mexican food; I was Indian. He was flashy New York City-styled cowboy; I could duck into a closet if I saw him approaching from two hundred yards away. If coincidence actually came to be—and it wouldn’t—I could deke and dodge.
But I couldn’t convince myself with 100% certainty that we wouldn’t stumble into one another. His family cabin was off the same highway, halfway between my sister’s place and Denver. It was an added possibility. What if he ventured there due to a burst water pipe or a sudden calling to lay a few mousetraps for winter?
I became surer of the fact we wouldn’t walk into each other on the street or in a café. My worst-case scenario became a chance encounter at a traffic light, me glancing down from my sister’s SUV into his white BMW. No matter how much I tried to lean into logistics and statistics, I couldn’t shake this idea. Sure it would be winter, our windows rolled up, any “hello” or “Oh, shit” fully muted.
But seeing him would be enough to undo me. All the frantic travel I’d been doing for ten months to numb the pain of rejection and to delay processing the loss of the person I’d thought was finally The One would be for naught. One glance. So much potential harm.
I developed an anticipatory new phobia: fear of white cars. I am terrible at identifying makes and models of vehicles. I can distinguish between a semi and a Fiat, but everything in between has a sameness to it. Any approaching white car could, for at least a fraction of a second, register in my brain as a BMW. His BMW. Driving would produce tiny shocks every time I’d spy something that is white.
There are so many white cars.
Shock agony.
And so a month before my scheduled Colorado dog-sitting I decided to be proactive. After I arrived, I would reach out to him. “Hey, I’m here for two weeks. Let me know if you want to grab a coffee.” It would be done. I’d have reached out and gotten it over with.
He could ignore the message.
He could say he’s out of town, a work trip in Omaha. (Lucky bastard.)
He could reply, “Why the hell would I want to do that?”
A message hanging in the virtual world would, of course, put him back on my mind but the fact was he was already on my mind and I was failing to bat away all notions of a coincidental encounter. If he ignored it or said no thanks, I’d have at least done my part. If then we did cross paths, I’d be justified passing with blinders on. I wouldn’t be slighting him because he’d already done the slighting.
There was one other response I hadn’t fully considered:
He could say yes.
And that’s just what he did.
