12
The drive to the airport is too quiet.
Liv’s in the passenger seat with her suitcase in the back, staring out the window at the Seattle day like she’s memorizing it. I keep glancing at her, trying to figure out what she’s thinking, but her face gives nothing away.
“Traffic’s not bad,” I say, because apparently I’ve been reduced to commenting on traffic patterns.
“Yeah. Good timing.”
“Your flight’s at three, right?”
“Three-twenty.”
“Plenty of time.”
“Yeah.”
We lapse back into silence, and I focus on driving, trying not to think about how wrong this feels. How the past three days flew by too fast and now she’s leaving and everything’s going back to normal.
Except nothing feels normal anymore.
“So,” I say as we pull into the airport departure area, “the next wedding is July fifth. Fourth of July weekend.”
“Right. You mentioned that.”
“It’s going to be a road trip. Down the coast. Probably three days total.”
“Okay.”
“I was thinking you could fly in July first. Give us a few days to... I don’t know. Hang out. Before the wedding chaos.”
She turns to look at me, and there’s something in her expression I can’t read.
“You want me to come early?”
“I mean, it makes sense. If we’re supposed to be dating, we should probably spend more time together. For consistency.”
“For consistency.”
“Yeah.”
I pull out my phone and scroll to the airline app. “Actually, let me book that now. July first?”
“West, you don’t have to—”
“It’s fine. I want to. For the... for consistency.”
I book her flight before she can protest, and when I hand her the confirmation, our fingers brush.
“July first,” I say. “Same time, same airport.”
“Same time, same airport,” she repeats.
We get out of the car, and I grab her suitcase from the back. The goodbye feels weird like too casual for what the weekend was, too formal for what it felt like.
Do we hug? Shake hands? Kiss goodbye?
We settle on a hug that lasts a beat too long and feels like we’re both holding on to something we’re not ready to let go of.
“Thanks again,” she says into my shoulder.
“Thank you.”
She pulls back and looks at me, and for a second I think she’s going to say something important. Something that might change everything.
Instead, she just smiles.
“See you in three weeks.”
“Three weeks.”
I watch her walk into the terminal, wheeling her suitcase behind her, and I don’t move until she disappears through security.
Even then, I stand there for another minute, staring at the doors she walked through, wondering why this feels like losing something instead of completing a transaction.
The drive home is even quieter than the drive there.
When I get back to the house, it feels different. Empty in a way it’s never felt before, even though I’ve lived alone for years.
I can’t figure out why until I walk into the kitchen and see the coffee mug she used this morning still sitting by the sink.
That’s when it hits me.
The house doesn’t feel empty because she’s gone. It feels empty because she was here, and now she’s not, and I got used to the sound of her voice and the way she laughed at my stupid jokes and the way she fit into my space like she belonged here.
I shake my head. It was just a few days. I need to get over myself.
I wash her mug and put it away, then start cleaning everything else.
The kitchen counters. The living room. The coffee table where we ate pizza Friday night. The couch where we fell asleep together.
I clean everything except her room.
I can’t bring myself to touch her room.
Instead, I close the door and pretend it doesn’t exist.
By noon, the house is spotless and I’m running out of things to clean, so I change into workout clothes and head to my home gym.
I attack the weights like they’ve personally offended me. Bench press until my arms shake. Squats until my legs burn. Pull-ups until I can’t feel my shoulders.
It doesn’t help.
I can still smell her shampoo on the couch. Still see the way she looked in that green dress. Still hear her laugh echoing through the house.
After the gym, I go for a skate at the rink. The ice is empty and cold and exactly what I need. Something that requires focus and speed and doesn’t leave room for thinking about anything else.
I skate until my lungs burn and my legs ache, until I’m too tired to think about anything except getting home and collapsing.
But when I get home, the house still feels too big. Too clean. Too quiet.
I answer some emails from my agent. Review the schedule for off-season training. Call my mom and pretend everything is normal when she asks how the wedding went.
“It was great,” I tell her. “Really nice ceremony.”
My mom asks, “And Liv? How did she like meeting everyone?”
Oh.
Tessa must have told her about that. Great, now I don’t have to. Kudos to my sis for saving me there.
I say, “She had a good time. Everyone loved her.”
“I knew she always had a crush on you,” she teases.
I chuckle. “Okay, mom.”
“I’m serious, West. Oh, do you remember that one time at Tessa’s birthday party when you were outside playing with your friends? I caught her inside of the living room, watching you run around. She was giggling to herself, so I cleared my throat, and she turned bright red.”
I envision the scene from my living room and laugh. “You did that?”
She laughs. “It wasn’t meant to terrify her. When you’re a parent, you’ll learn how fun it is to mess around with kids. She was a tomato.”
I smile. “She didn’t tell me that one.”
“Tessa says she’s really good with the girls. Are you going to start having children soon?”
“Okay, mom,” I stop her right there. “It’s still new. We live in different states and––”
“Well then, what are you waiting for? Ask her to move in with you.”
I don’t say anything.
My mom continues, “You sound happy.”
I scratch my head and sit on my couch. “Yeah, she was just here. I am happy.”
And the weird thing is, I am happy. For three days, I was happier than I’ve been in months. Maybe years.
Now I’m back to normal, and normal feels like shit.
By evening, I’m going stir-crazy. I’ve cleaned everything, worked out twice, answered all my emails, and organized my closet. I’ve done everything except acknowledge that I miss her.
Which is insane, because she was here for three days. Three days out of my entire life, and somehow she managed to rearrange everything.
I walk past her room on my way to bed and pause outside the closed door.
I could open it. Check to make sure she didn’t leave anything behind. Strip the bed and put the fancy toiletries away and pretend this weekend never happened.
Instead, I keep walking.
Because opening that door feels like I’ll somehow erase her out of my life, and I’m not ready for that yet.
In my own room, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the way she danced in my living room last night. The way she fit against me when we fell asleep on the couch. The way she looked at me during the wedding ceremony.
Three weeks.
I have to wait three weeks to see her again, and already the time feels impossible.
My phone buzzes with a text from her: Made it home safe. Thanks again for everything.
I stare at the message for a long time before typing back: Glad you made it. See you July 1st.
She responds with a thumbs up emoji, and that’s it. End of conversation.
I set my phone aside and try to sleep, but my brain won’t shut up.
This was the plan. Get through the weekend, send her home, wait three weeks, repeat the process for the next wedding.
Clean. Simple. Transactional.
So why does it feel like I just lost something I didn’t even get to have?