42. “Empty Room” - Jamie Miller
“Empty Room” - Jamie Miller
Heath
It isn’t until the morning sunshine blasts my face that the full impact of what I’ve done hits me. I fessed up to a two-year-old wrong, cleared Walker’s name, and stopped being afraid of everyone else’s opinion of me.
A restless energy burns through my veins, stronger than usual. My friends may not be planning to forgive me, but I’m confident I can win them back. Everyone screws up. The key is making sure you become a different person, someone who’d never do it again.
I pull on a pair of board shorts and yank a T-shirt over my head, not stopping to see if either of them are clean.
I reach for the keys to my bike but hesitate when my eyes land on the keys to Grenadier.
Walker’s smiling face beams back at me. I lift the keychain off my dresser and stare at the photo.
Several scuff marks mar the surface of the plastic, but they can’t hide her radiant joy.
I’m the bastard who stole that from her. I gave her a reason to believe that people can never change, that your mistakes define who you are for eternity. She never wanted to believe that she could fall for a man like her father. I made her think she had .
But I’m not like her father.
I never was and I never will be.
I swipe my keys and bolt downstairs, barely taking the time to slip into a pair of flip-flops on my way to my bike.
It takes me forty minutes to get to the other side of town. The queen is doing a walkabout downtown, making traffic a fucking nightmare.
Fortunately, I entered the address of the Airbnb Walker rented into my GPS when I took her home, otherwise it would take me forever to find the place again.
It’s still creepy as fuck, but it’s also understandable why she was drawn to it.
It has a mysterious charm, kind of like the candy house in Hansel and Gretel.
I can’t see any lights on inside, but it’s also the middle of the morning. Plenty of sunshine is pouring through all of those huge windows. I hope I’m not too late.
I press the doorbell with my thumb. Its harsh buzzing resounds through the house. I wait a minute before pressing it again. I don’t have a clue what I’m going to say, just that I will talk until she slams the door in my face. Seeing her again will be worth everything.
There’s one of those old brass knockers on the door, so I try that. I’m guessing if she didn’t hear the buzzer, she’s not going to hear the knocker, but it can’t hurt to try. I tap it against the plate for a minute straight. There’s no sound from inside the house.
Damn.
I circle to the back of the house and hit the call button on my phone. Maybe she’s playing music and can’t hear anything from downstairs. Or she’s outside and too far from the front door.
The back garden is deserted, and Walker’s phone rings straight to voicemail. I give the kitchen door a few raps for good measure, but my hope is pretty much nonexistent at this point.
She must have been here last night, because someone had those invitations hand delivered. I shove my hands into my hair and rap my knuckles against the door one last time. All is quiet inside.
I turn to head back down the steps when my eyes catch on the rubbish bin next to the house. Sticking out of the top is a potted plant, the kind Cami would be quick to adopt and talk to in that baby voice that makes me embarrassed to be related to her. Its leaves are withered and brown.
Beside it is my shirt, the one Walker was wearing when she threw me out. It’s undamaged and mostly clean. I dig it out and toss it over my shoulder. A faint hint of coconut hits my nose. I turn back to the driveway.
Her car is gone, something I should have noticed right away. I sit down on the broken concrete steps at the front of the house, careful to avoid any large cracks. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check flights to England.
There are several leaving WNX this afternoon and tonight. I have no idea if she’ll be on one of them or if she already left Wesbourne first thing this morning, but I do know I’m not losing her a second time.
I’ve never been much of a planner, and I don’t see a reason to start now. I tentatively decide to get on the first flight back to England, hoping I can catch Walker while she’s still at the airport in London. Aside from that, I’m winging this thing.
My bike spits gravel as I tear out onto the street. The traffic hasn’t lightened since I left. If anything, it’s worse. A long line of cars snakes across the bridge. The light turns green three times before I finally make it through the intersection and onto the steel structure.
I tap my thumbs on the handlebars as I wait at another light. The next flight to Heathrow leaves at 12:15. Buying a ticket and getting through security will take some time, which means I should already be at WNX, not stuck in the world’s slowest traffic forty-five minutes away .
The light turns again, and we crawl forward, only to stop again after just six vehicles make it through.
“This is fucking ridiculous.” I tug my phone out of my shorts pocket. It’s 10:50. If I miss this flight, the next one won’t leave until 7:35 tonight. By then Walker will be long gone, tucked into the Oxford bookcases, where my chances of finding her are slim.
I don’t know how I’ll find her in an airport crowded with thousands of people, but there’s no way I’m stopping until I try.
I should’ve told her everything the first time we were together instead of letting that stupid fear get in my head.
Now she’s probably already halfway across the Atlantic and out of my life again.
When I reach the next intersection after the bridge, I turn right onto a smaller street. Hopefully this one will be less crowded than Twenty-Fifth. Several blocks down, though, I come to a barricade. One of the policemen manning it points to the next street over.
“You’ll have to go that way, sir.”
I stifle my curse and turn the bike around. Why in the bloody hell did Queen Celia think today was a good day to parade around downtown? Any other day of the year would have been preferable to this one.
After being deterred by several more barricades, elderly women trying to preserve their ancient sedans, and traffic lights that refuse to turn green, I give up on side streets being a shortcut. I merge back onto Twenty-Fifth. My teeth clamp down hard.
I check the time again—11:15. The plane leaves in an hour. I’m at least fifteen minutes away. There aren’t many options.
They always take the pavement in the movies. Or dodge between the lanes. In reality, it’s a lot harder than it looks.
Still, the sidewalk is clear for several blocks. None of those bloody displays they like to put outside in nice weather. As long as no fucking pedestrians pop out of a shop in front of my bike, I should be fine. The last thing I need is to hit somebody .
I rev the engine a few times. I’ll need to cross lanes to get over there, so I flip on my turn signal. The guy next to me doesn’t even look. I edge my bike across the line, and he nearly clips me with the front of his Volkswagen.
“Bloody bugger!” I yell at him, but he pretends not to notice, just creeps his hatchback forward.
I don’t wait any longer. As soon as I’m even with his back bumper, I nose into the lane.
There’s little the car behind him can do, because traffic has slowed to another stop.
I don’t even wait for it to start up again, just hit the gas and hop the curb.
The bike lurches onto the pavement, and a clear streak of cement stretches before me. I jam down the pedal.
The lights still prove problematic, since I have to stop for cross traffic. But at least I can move as soon as they change, instead of waiting for fifty drivers ahead of me to put down their phones and tap the gas.
A siren blares across the sea of car roofs. A police officer stuck in the middle lane shouts obscenities at me. I laugh and flip him the bird before gunning it through the intersection.
The airport looms ahead of me. I haven’t checked the clock recently and have no clue if I still have time to make the flight. Or worse—if they’ll even have room for me on the plane. I brush that last thought aside. There’s always room left in first class.
I park the bike in the departures lane, not giving two fucks if someone tows it.
The only thing that matters is getting to Walker before she leaves.