Chapter 16 Retreat #4
She just stands there, watching me, her face a mask of patience. I keep folding, but my hands are shaking.
Finally, she comes in, sits next to me on the bed. She smells like citrus, and her knee bounces up and down, restless.
“You know you can always come home, right?” she says.
I nod again, but she’s not done.
“Whatever it is, whenever you’re ready to talk about it, I’ll be here.”
I feel the words settle into my bones. It’s almost too much.
She puts a hand on my wrist, gentle but firm. Holds it there.
I look down at her fingers, the wedding ring, the tiny scar on her knuckle from when she cut herself slicing mangoes when I was a kid.
She squeezes once, then lets go.
“You’ll be okay,” she says. “You always are.”
I almost believe her.
She leans in, kisses my forehead like I’m five years old, and whispers, “Be brave, baby.”
She gets up, leaves me alone with my bag and the faint scent of her shampoo.
I sit there for a long time, her handprint still tingling on my wrist.
When I finally stand, I zip the bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head for the front door.
My dad’s already gone, probably at the office, maybe buying more of a company that nobody’s ever heard of. My mom is in the kitchen, reading the paper, humming to herself.
I linger at the threshold, wanting to say something, anything that would make it easier.
Instead, I just say, “Love you, Mom.”
She doesn’t look up, but I see her smile.
“Love you too, D.”
Outside, the morning is bright, the air brisk. I walk to the curb, call a car, and watch the city wake up.
The airport is chaos, but I move through it on autopilot, my mind replaying the last forty-eight hours on loop.
My father’s advice, my mother’s silence, the line of pelicans and the moment before the dive.
At the gate, I sit with my phone in my lap, thumb hovering over Ash’s name. I want to call, to explain, to tell him I’m done running.
But I wait.
For now, that’s enough.
The plane takes off, the city drops away, and I close my eyes, letting the sound of the engines drown out everything else.
Next time, I’ll take the shot.
———
SeaTac is a zoo.
Every terminal is choked with bodies, the echo of PA announcements drowned out by the chorus of wheelie suitcases and the wet cough of Seattle rain hammered into every jacket and backpack.
I haven’t slept. I haven’t even pretended to sleep. I move through the crowd on muscle memory alone, barely feeling my feet on the ground.
At baggage claim, I stare at the carousel, watching it spit out identical suitcases, each one more beat up than the last.
My bag is third off, navy blue, duct-taped at the corner from the time it got run over by a shuttle in Calgary.
I grab it, the handle cold in my palm, and for a second I just stand there, letting the swirl of strangers blur around me.
My phone vibrates. It’s not Ash. Just an alert from the airline, asking for feedback. “How was your flight?” I want to write “Uneventful” but that’s a lie, so I delete it and toss the phone back in my pocket.
I drag my bag to a bench by the window, collapse into the seat, and stare out at the parking lot.
Raindrops race each other down the glass, merging, splitting, a thousand tiny collisions that end in nothing.
I take out my phone, unlock it, and open the message thread to Ash.
I type: “Made it back.”
Delete.
Type: “You around?”
Delete.
Type: “I’m sorry.”
Delete.
I think about all the things I want to say.
But the thought that stops my thumb every time is the same one, what if he's still with Vincent? What if I pushed him away and someone else caught him?
I don't know if Ash is still seeing him, and the not-knowing is worse than any answer could be.
Every attempt at a message makes it worse, like digging a hole and throwing the dirt straight up into the wind.
I look up and watch the flow of people in the terminal.
There’s a couple by the arrivals gate, clinging to each other like they survived a shipwreck. The woman is crying, but the man just holds her, palms flat on her back, face buried in her hair.
Farther down, a kid in a puffy coat is losing his mind over a paper bag full of popcorn. Two old men are laughing at something on a phone, one of them slapping the other on the knee with each punchline.
I think about my parents, about my mom’s quiet acceptance, about my dad’s lecture on risk and reward.
I think about how neither of them ever said, “Don’t be who you are.” I think about how I’m still scared anyway.
I try again. Type: “I need to see you.”
My finger hovers over “Send.”
I close my eyes. I can hear my father’s voice—“The plays that look impossible? Those are the ones that win championships.” I hear my mom, too, whispering “Be brave, baby,” like she’s still sitting next to me on the bed, holding my wrist.
I open my eyes. Outside, the rain is coming down harder now, the parking lot a blur of gray and red taillights.
The couple by the arrivals gate is gone, replaced by a woman in a tracksuit who looks exactly like the gym teacher from middle school.
I delete the message.
I tuck the phone away.
I shoulder my bag and walk to the exit, feet heavy but moving, the air outside shockingly cold even through my jacket.
I don’t know what happens next.
But I know I have to find out.