Chapter 16 Rhett
RHETT
The drive from Gomillion to Boston took longer than I’d anticipated.
The unexpected construction delays, a sudden summer thunderstorm that reduced visibility to almost nothing, and my own reluctance to rush away from the South, from the invisible tether connecting me to Moses as he drove in the opposite direction.
We’d called each other at every rest stop, maintaining contact even as the physical distance between us grew.
His voice in my car speakers had been a balm for the ache of separation, making the long drive more bearable.
Still, by the time I finally pulled into my assigned parking spot beneath my Boston apartment building, exhaustion had settled deep in my bones.
Home. The concept felt different now, less certain, more fluid. The sleek high-rise that had represented achievement and stability for the past five years suddenly seemed temporary, transitional, a way station rather than a destination.
I gathered my luggage from the trunk, nodding a greeting to the night doorman as I made my way through the quiet lobby to the elevator.
It was well past midnight, the building hushed and dimly lit.
The elevator rose smoothly to the twelfth floor, doors opening with a soft chime that seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness.
My apartment welcomed me with the sterile perfection I’d left it in, everything in its place, surfaces clear, not a speck of dust to be seen.
The cleaning service had been thorough during my absence, as scheduled.
It was exactly as I’d left it, yet it felt different somehow.
Emptier. Lacking the warmth and life I’d experienced over the past week in Gomillion.
I dropped my bags in the entryway, too tired to unpack properly, and moved through the dark apartment by memory and the ambient city light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the bedroom, I didn’t bother turning on the lights, simply stripping down to my boxers and falling into bed.
Despite my exhaustion, sleep proved elusive. I reached for my phone, knowing it was too late to call Moses but needing some connection. A text had come through while I’d been parking the car:
Home safe. The apartment feels strange without you, even though you’ve never been here. Three days until Boston. Miss you already.
I smiled into the darkness, typing a reply:
Just got in. Feeling the same strangeness. Can’t wait for Wednesday. Sleep well, love.
Setting the phone aside, I stared at the ceiling, processing the whirlwind of the past week, the revelations, the reconnections, the decisions and plans we’d made. It still felt somewhat surreal, as if I might wake tomorrow to discover it had all been an elaborate dream.
But it wasn’t a dream. Moses loved me. We were building a future together. After twenty years of separation, of wondering what might have been, we’d found our way back to each other.
With that comforting thought, I finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of a white farmhouse surrounded by trees, of Moses moving through sunlit rooms, of a life we might create together.
Morning came too soon, sunlight streaming through the windows I’d neglected to cover the night before. For a disorienting moment, I expected to see the hotel room in Gomillion, to find Moses beside me. The empty space in my bed was a sharp reminder of reality, I was back in Boston, alone.
Not alone, I corrected myself. Physically separated, but connected in all the ways that mattered.
The next few days passed in a blur of catching up at work, sorting through mail and messages, reestablishing the rhythms of my Boston life.
My colleagues noticed the change in me immediately, the lightness in my step, the increased frequency of my smiles.
Meredith, my assistant of nearly seven years, took one look at me and declared, “You met someone in that little hometown of yours.”
“Not exactly met,” I corrected her, unable to keep the smile from my face. “Reconnected.”
“Well, whoever they are, I approve,” she decided, handing me a stack of messages and project updates. “You look happier than I’ve seen you in years.”
She wasn’t wrong. Despite the ache of separation, I felt more complete, more fully myself than I had in decades. The knowledge that Moses and I were working toward a shared future, that Wednesday would bring him to Boston, to my home, filled me with a quiet joy that permeated everything.
I threw myself into preparations for his visit with perhaps excessive enthusiasm.
Fresh linens for the guest room, though I doubted he’d use it, stocking the refrigerator with his favorite foods, which I learned through careful questioning during our nightly phone calls and researched the best gin bars in Boston to take him to.
I mean it was a professional courtesy, I told myself, though really just an excuse to see him in his element.
By Wednesday morning, nervous energy had me awake before dawn, pacing my apartment, double-checking arrangements, adjusting and readjusting the placement of furniture. Moses’s flight wasn’t due until late afternoon, giving me an entire day to anticipate, to imagine, to second-guess my preparations.
I forced myself to go into the office, hoping work would distract me from the clock’s seemingly glacial movement.
It was partially successful, a crisis with a commercial project in Providence requiring immediate attention, a potential new client needing conceptual sketches by the end of the week.
But underlying every conversation, every decision, was the awareness that Moses was on his way to me.
By four o’clock, I could no longer pretend to focus. I made my excuses to Meredith, who shooed me out with a knowing smile, and headed to the airport an hour earlier than necessary. The traffic was mercifully light, allowing me to arrive with plenty of time to spare.
I waited near the arrivals gate, checking the flight tracker obsessively. On time. Each minute that passed brought him closer, the anticipation building in my chest until it was almost difficult to breathe normally.
And then, suddenly, there he was, emerging from the security area with a small weekend bag slung over his shoulder, scanning the crowd with an intensity that matched my own. When our eyes met, his entire face transformed, lighting up with a smile that hit me like a physical force.
I moved toward him, weaving through the crowd with single-minded purpose.
We met halfway, coming together in an embrace that felt like coming home.
The solid reality of him in my arms, his scent, his warmth, the sound of his breathing, grounded me in the moment, dissolving the strange unreality that had colored the days since our separation.
“Hi,” he said when we finally pulled apart, his voice slightly rough with emotion.
“Hi yourself,” I replied, taking his bag despite his protests. “Welcome to Boston.”
We made our way through the bustling airport, our hands finding each other naturally, fingers interlacing as if they’d been designed specifically for that purpose.
In the car, Moses looked out at the city with curious eyes, taking in the distinctive architecture, the blend of historical and modern that characterized Boston.
“It suits you,” he commented as we drove through the Back Bay area toward my apartment. “This city. The balance of tradition and innovation, history and progress.”
I glanced at him, struck once again by how completely he saw me, understood me. “I’ve always felt at home here,” I admitted. “Though lately, I’ve been thinking home might be more about who rather than where.”
Moses’s hand found mine across the console, squeezing gently in silent agreement.
My apartment building came into view; a modern glass and steel structure nestled among more traditional brownstones; another example of the blending Moses had noted.
“Definitely you,” he observed with a small smile as we parked in the underground garage. “Respectful of context while asserting its own identity.”
I laughed, oddly touched by his architectural assessment. “Are you analyzing my building or me?”
“Both,” he admitted with a grin. “They seem appropriately aligned.”
The domesticity of bringing Moses into my home, showing him where to hang his coat, giving him the quick tour of rooms I’d lived in alone for years, it felt both novel and utterly natural.
I watched him move through my space, noting his reactions to the art I’d collected, the furniture I’d chosen, the views from my windows.
“This is exactly how I imagined your place,” he said, running his hand along the back of my sofa, a custom piece I’d designed myself, balancing comfort and aesthetics. “Clean lines, thoughtful details, nothing superfluous but nothing cold either.”
“High praise from a man who curates artisanal gins,” I teased, though his approval meant more to me than I cared to admit.
We settled into an easy rhythm, the conversation flowing naturally as I prepared dinner, a simple pasta dish I’d perfected over years of entertaining clients. Moses leaned against the kitchen counter, glass of wine in hand, watching me cook with an expression I couldn’t quite decipher.
“What?” I finally asked, catching his gaze for the third time.
“Nothing,” he said, then reconsidered. “Everything. Being here, with you, in your space. It’s just... right. In a way I wasn’t sure anything would ever feel again.”
The simple honesty of his statement caught me off guard, hitting me squarely in the chest with its emotional weight. I set down the knife I’d been using, moving around the counter to stand before him.
“I know exactly what you mean,” I told him, cupping his face in my hands. “It feels like... completion. Like something that was missing has finally clicked into place.”
Moses leaned into my touch, his eyes never leaving mine. “Precisely.”