20. Nora
CHAPTER 20
NORA
I stand on the cabin’s porch, watching Oliver and his father share a moment that feels both monumental and overdue. There’s a softness between them now, something that seemed impossible when we first arrived two days ago. It’s as if the years of tension are unraveling before my eyes, leaving threads of understanding in their wake.
“Ready to head out?” Oliver’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. He looks different somehow — lighter, maybe.
“Almost,” I say, turning back to the house for a moment.
His mom is there, her eyes misty with a mother’s bittersweet farewell. She gives me a tight hug, whispering a “thank you” that tells me she thinks I’ve somehow played a part in this family reconciliation, even though it was all of Oliver’s own doing.
“Take care of him.” She pulls back to look at me.
“I will,” I promise, feeling the weight of her trust like a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“Goodbye, Mr. Wolfe,” I call out as Oliver takes my hand, leading me down the steps to where our rental car waits.
His dad nods at us from the doorway, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
“Drive safe, you two,” he says, and it’s the warmth in his voice rather than the words themselves that makes me smile.
We settle into the car, the engine humming to life beneath us. Oliver doesn’t pull away immediately, instead taking a moment to glance in the rearview mirror at the figures of his parents on the porch.
“Everything okay?” I ask, sensing the swirl of emotions that must be coursing through him.
He exhales, a long breath that seems to carry the burden of a past he’s only just beginning to make peace with.
“Yeah,” he says, finally shifting the car into drive. “Just… a lot to process, you know?”
I nod because I do know. This trip has peeled back layers of Oliver’s life that he’d kept hidden even from himself, revealing truths that are both painful and necessary. As we drive away, I can feel the shift between us, an unspoken understanding that we’re leaving behind more than just a visit to his hometown.
“Thank you for being here with me,” he says after a few miles, his hand finding mine across the center console.
“Of course.” I give his hand a gentle squeeze.
That’s what you do when you care about someone; you stand by them as they face their ghosts, and you walk with them toward whatever comes next. And right now, what comes next is a small airport, a private jet, and the sprawling cityscape of Chicago waiting to welcome us home.
The road unfurls before us, a ribbon of asphalt that cuts through the rolling hills and farmlands of Oliver’s past. Trees blur into green smudges on either side as we drive through the country. I’m in the passenger seat, my gaze shifting between the landscape and the man at the wheel — Oliver, who seems to both navigate and escape this part of his life with every mile we put behind us.
“Hard to believe this was all you knew once upon a time,” I eventually say. “It’s such a small area.”
It’s not just small talk; I’m genuinely curious about what it feels like for him to be back here.
He lets out a soft chuckle, one that doesn’t sound happy. “Yeah, it is.” His grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. “Every time I come back, it’s like stepping into a pair of old shoes that don’t fit anymore.”
I turn toward him, watching the play of emotions across his face. There’s a vulnerability there that he rarely shows, a crack in the fa?ade that’s as disarming as it is endearing.
“Does it make you feel… I don’t know, trapped?”
“A little,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “When I’m here, I feel like that kid again — the one who used to lie in the grass, staring up at the sky, dreaming of another life.”
He glances at me, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A life that didn’t involve becoming my father.”
My heart twinges in sympathy. “Those dreams brought you pretty far, though. You’ve built something amazing, Oliver. Your own legacy.”
He sighs, still processing the visit as the car speeds along. “That’s true. And yet, coming back here…”
He trails off, shaking his head as if to dispel the ghosts of memory. “It’s a reminder of where I started. Of all the things I wanted to leave behind.”
“You did leave the things you didn’t want behind. You’re not that kid anymore. And your dreams? You’re living them, every single day.”
Oliver looks at me then, really looks at me, and there’s a depth of gratitude in his gaze that tells me he understands. His hand flips over, fingers intertwining with mine, a silent thank-you that resonates more deeply than words ever could.
“Thanks,” he says, and I know he means it for more than just my words. For being here with him in this town, in this car, on this journey back to where it all began, and forward to where we’re meant to go.
“Hey,” he adds.
“Yeah?” I tip my chin up.
“How about some snacks for the plane?”
“Your fancy private jet has snacks,” I counter playfully, recalling just how nice the fresh fruit and slow-cooked chicken were on the way to Pennsylvania.
“Not junk food.” He grins.
“True.” I giggle. “Let’s stop and get some junk food.”
He must know what’s around the corner because a minute later, we’re pulling into a grocery store that looks like it’s been around for fifty years.
The bell above the door jingles as we step into the old place, the smell of fresh produce and baked bread enveloping us.
I trail behind Oliver as we weave through the aisles. We’re both in comfortable travel clothes, but Oliver still has that air about him — the one that says he’s somebody. Maybe it’s the way he carries himself or the cut of his jeans that are just a bit too good for this small-town scene.
“Oliver Wolfe?” A voice cuts through the hum of the refrigeration units. A burly man in a flannel shirt and worn-out jeans approaches us with a broad grin. “Is that really you?”
“Mr. Kowalski?” Oliver asks, with recognition sparking in his eyes after a moment’s hesitation.
“Ha! Look at you, all grown up and successful!” Mr. Kowalski beams, his hand outstretched. “You brought pride to this little town, you know.”
Oliver’s shock is almost palpable. He takes the man’s hand in a firm grip, shaking it while a flush creeps onto his cheeks. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot.”
“Ah, don’t thank me. You did all the hard work.” Mr. Kowalski pats Oliver on the shoulder before turning back to his shopping. “Good to see you, son.”
We watch him walk away before Oliver turns to me, his eyes wide with disbelief. “That was my high school woodshop teacher. He once told me I’d never amount to anything if I didn’t learn to work with my hands.”
“Looks like he changed his tune.” I try to hide my grin as I pick up a bag of trail mix and toss it into our cart.
“Yeah,” Oliver mutters, still stunned. “Yeah, I guess he did.”
The private jet’s engines whir like a whisper of the future as I follow Oliver up the sleek silver stairs. The sun glints off the fuselage, casting a warm glow over us. Oliver pauses at the top, and our gazes lock for an eternity in a second.
“Chicago won’t know what hit it,” I say, aiming for lightness, but my voice betrays the weight on my chest.
Oliver half-smiles, the corners of his mouth lifting in a way that says there’s more on his mind.
“We’re flying back to our life there, but part of me is still here,” he says, his gaze turning to take in the small airport, the town beyond it hidden in miles of trees.
I step closer to him, aware of the space where the jet’s luxury cabin begins and the rest of the world ends. “You’re thinking about doing something for this place, aren’t you?” It’s not a question; it’s more of a realization aloud.
He nods, finally stepping onto the plane. “Yeah. It’s strange, Nora. I spent so long wanting to escape, to prove myself beyond these borders. And now…” He trails off, biting his lip like he’s measuring his next words.
“Tell me,” I urge gently, following him inside.
“Now, I want to give back.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but it resonates through the empty cabin. “I need to see my parents more, too. They’re not getting any younger, and… and I’ve missed out on a lot.”
“Then we’ll make it happen,” I declare with more certainty than I feel. Because it’s one thing to support Oliver’s dreams, and it’s another to intertwine them with my own life.
His hand finds mine, fingers lacing naturally. “Thank you for coming with me. You didn’t have to, but you did.”
“Thank you for inviting me,” I say, squeezing his hand. “Seeing where you came from, meeting your family — it’s been…”
“Important,” he finishes for me. “It’s important. You’re important.”
“Oliver,” I whisper, my throat tight with emotions I can’t fully name. “You don’t understand how much you mean to me, too.”
He pulls me in then, his embrace a promise of partnership, of shared futures and mended pasts. I let myself melt into him, my head fitting perfectly under his chin. As the engines roar to life, signaling our departure, I realize that it doesn’t even matter where this jet takes us. My most important journey will always be with Oliver.
My heart races — no, it doesn’t just race; it soars, ready to navigate whatever skies lie ahead.