Chapter Twenty-Six
"Drop me off at the airport?"
To my surprise, Nick left with me in the morning. I hugged Mitch and June goodbye, but June was still frosty; her stiff posture and cold shoulder made that clear. We’d only known each other for a couple of weeks, but leaving felt bittersweet all the same.
I expected Mitchell to question why Nick was leaving, but he said nothing, his arms crossed over his chest. Nick definitely wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, and he’d grown on me slowly, but Mitch and June had remained neutral to negative towards him. The four of us made a good team.
Until I went and ruined it all.
"Want me to drive?" Nick asked after we loaded our bags into the car.
I handed him the keys.
"I can’t believe you’re leaving too," I remarked. "You never found out what happened to your mother."
"Probably the same thing that happened to your boyfriend," Nick replied bluntly.
I gave up on trying to make conversation and turned away to look out of the window. I was sick of everyone being mad at me. Was I really such a screw-up? And if he was so upset, why had he tagged along at all?
My phone buzzed, and I jumped at the chance to distract myself. I’d talk to a telemarketer at this point, just to avoid the awkwardness with Nick. But when I saw my Mom’s name on the screen, I hesitated before answering.
"You on your way?" her voice came through without a preamble.
"I am."
"What time are you getting in?"
"Around five?" I guessed. "I don’t know. Depends on the traffic."
I had nowhere to go except my Mom’s, which had been the plan all along.
I could clear my head and figure out what to do next with my life.
After this emotional rollercoaster, her place didn’t seem like such a bad idea.
At least with her, I knew what to expect.
Stifling as it was, it felt almost comforting.
"Okay, just try to get in by five," she commanded with a note of skepticism, like she didn’t believe I was actually on my way.
"What’s the rush?" I asked, annoyed.
"I’m going to a birthday party. Diane’s."
I had no idea who Diane was, so I guessed, "From work?"
"That’s her. She’s turning sixty."
"I have keys, so I can just let myself in if you need to leave."
"I want to be there to meet you," she insisted.
"I’ll do my best, Mom. You’re paying the speeding tickets, right?"
"It’s not funny. Drive carefully."
"Sure thing. Hurry up but slow down," I quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
It was the wrong move. Mom hated my jokes, just like she hated Dad’s. I had learned early that humor was my lifeline with her, a shield against the criticism she never seemed to run out of. If she insisted on treating me like a child, then that was fine. I would play the part.
"Your mom?" Nick asked after I hung up.
"Yeah, just checking in on me."
"That’s good of her."
I bit my lip, tempted to tell him that my mom’s niceness could be suffocating at times, but this wasn’t the conversation I wanted to have with him right now.
Instead, I gave a faint, noncommittal hum.
Then, summoning all the courage I had in me, I broached the subject that had been weighing heavily on my mind.
"Hey, about before," I began tentatively. "Not that it matters to you now, but I just panicked. I never had any regrets about us. It was just... a wrong-place, wrong-time kind of situation."
I winced inwardly at how cheesy and lame it sounded, but I had to say something. It was time to start fixing things after ruining them for so long.
Nick threw a glance at me, then looked back at the road. "It’s okay. But thanks for saying that."
"Did you?" I blurted out before I could stop myself.
He wavered briefly before shaking his head. "Did I what?"
"Did you have any regrets?"
Nick’s response was immediate. "No, of course not."
A tiny weight lifted off my shoulders.
The airport terminal stood as a small, one-story building with low ceilings. As we pulled up to the drop-off lane, only one other car was there, dispatching a family of four with too much luggage.
"When’s your flight?" I asked.
"Don’t know. I’ll buy the ticket now."
We exited the car, and he retrieved his bag from the trunk. We stood facing each other, unsure of what to say.
"Come with me," he said.
I almost thought I’d misheard him. "What?"
"Come with me," he repeated, placing his hands on my shoulders.
"I can’t," I said simply, pointing at my car.
It wasn’t just that I couldn’t leave it here and hop on a plane with him; I had responsibilities to return to.
"Yeah, I’ve heard it before. You’ve got to move on with your life and all that. But you don’t have to go to your mother’s for that. You can do it anywhere. You know that, right?"
"I know. But going back to Minnesota feels like a step backward right now. And... I’m just not sure."
"About what?" he pressed.
I stayed silent.
"About me?" he asked.
"We’ve only just met," I said, though something in me curled back, already regretting it.
Was I making a mistake?
Luckily, common sense broke through.
"You’re asking me to take off and move in with you? What if it doesn’t work out? Where am I supposed to go then—back to my Mom’s, where she’ll be even more pissed at me? I need to figure things out on my own first."
He stepped back, fingers raking through his hair in frustration. It seemed like he might shut me out again, turn away and leave, but instead, he reached out, his hands wrapping gently around my elbows. For a fleeting moment, I felt like he was holding me together.
"I understand," he finally said, looking me in the eye, "Can I at least call you sometime?"
"Of course," I said, relieved, though part of me dreaded he meant long-distance.
Mitch once told me that soldiers often struggle to maintain friendships forged during service when they return to civilian life.
It’s hard to transplant a relationship from one world to another.
The truth was, we barely knew each other outside the chaotic situation we’d shared over the past few weeks.
We hugged goodbye, and I watched him walk into the airport before driving off.
The lump in my throat faded soon after.
I arrived home a little after six, setting foot in Cleveland for the first time since Spring. My mother had already left for the party.
I could’ve made it back earlier, but I stopped for a long lunch at a gas station with picnic tables out front, basking in the late September sun and easing myself back into solitude I hadn’t felt in weeks.
Being alone felt strange, like hearing a voice and realizing it was only your own echo. But it was freeing too, the quiet kind of relief that comes with unhooking a too-tight bra after a long day.
Thinking of Nick made it sting a little.
Coming home felt like stepping back in time.
Yet, everything seemed just a tad different.
The house showed its age in ways I hadn’t noticed until now: the faded patches on the upstairs carpet, the door knobs lacking shine.
When Dad was alive, he took care of everything, and now that he was gone, Mom was probably struggling to keep up with the house on her own—or maybe she just didn’t know how to.
But despite all that, it still had a comforting sense of belonging.
The sunset’s warm glow painted the faded wallpaper of my childhood bedroom a soft, pink hue.
At first glance, everything looked just as I’d left it, but Mom had clearly been tidying up.
My school notebooks were rearranged, and my clothes were out of place.
I sat down on the bed, the same one I’d slept in a lifetime ago, when Dad was still alive, before Lucas entered the picture, and I still had my whole life ahead of me.
But there I was now: a twenty-three-year-old college dropout, moving back in with my mother, facing the loss of my independence and dreading the uncertainty of what came next.
And that was when it hit me, the same solitude I hadn’t known what to do with before, crashing down all at once.
It buried me beneath a heavy coat of despair and loss.
I had absolutely no one here. My high school friends had drifted apart after we scattered to different colleges.
Even though some of them stayed in Cleveland, after Lucas’s disappearance, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to reach out.
Now, reconnecting would feel awkward, like trying to force something that had already slipped away.
I thought about Mitch and June back in West Virginia, tucked away in the cabin, and a wave of warmth filled my heart. What were they doing now?
Then there was Nick. A part of me wanted to reach for my phone and text him, but another part knew it would be pointless. Instead, I cried myself to sleep, silently promising that tomorrow, I would not indulge in self-pity.
I woke up disoriented, momentarily unsure of where I was before it came crashing back to me: my departure, Nick, my childhood room.
I lay motionless for a minute, trying to understand how I felt and whether I was ready to tackle the day.
After a solid ten hours of sleep, I was surprisingly refreshed, and for the first time in a while, optimistic about my future.
Still in my pajamas—a faded teenage relic I’d found in the closet, a worn pair of shorts and a fitted top that seemed ridiculously childish now—I headed downstairs, following the inviting scent of coffee that filled the house.
It was quiet, except for the gentle hum of the washer in the laundry room.
Mom was in the kitchen, folding dried clothes on the dining table.
We hadn’t seen each other the night before.
I’d gone to bed early, depleted by the raw, unprocessed emotions and the long drive, and then lulled by the familiarity of my room.
She’d probably gotten back home quite late after her friend’s birthday party.
"Morning," I greeted her, focusing on the pile in front of her. Beyond the jumble of fabrics, patterns, and colors, I recognized my own clothes.