15 - Wesley
Wesley
Airports are designed to make people feel anonymous.
Everyone is in motion, everyone is looking somewhere else, and everyone has somewhere to be that is not here.
I booked my flight less than twelve hours ago, standing in my kitchen with my phone in one hand and my keys in the other, heart still racing from a kiss that had no right to undo me the way it did.
A couple of days at home for the holiday is the practical excuse. It's a family obligation. No one questions that.
Even if it is unplanned and completely out of character.
My knees press against the seat in front of me, and my backpack barely fits under my feet.
The woman beside me is already asleep, leaning toward the window with her headphones in.
I envy her ability to shut the world out so easily.
The man on my other side is eating chips that smell like feet.
Right now, I wish I were a male athlete who could charter a private jet or some shit because the next three hours sandwiched between two total strangers is going to suck.
I pull my phone from my bag, thumb hovering over messages I haven’t opened.
Nathan messaged first thing this morning to coordinate schedules for our next training session. A session I’m utterly unprepared for.
My fingers fly over the keyboard with a half-baked excuse about how I’m heading home for an early Thanksgiving, and we’ll have to push it to mid-week.
This is what I need. Distance. A hard reset. Whatever happened Friday night did not fit neatly into my life, and I don’t have room for things that don’t fit.
The plane begins to taxi as my phone vibrates. I can’t help but look, but it’s not Nathan who messaged me. It’s the girls.
Avery: Are you alive, or did that kiss actually kill you?
I snort softly before I can stop myself, earning a glare from the man next to me. I type back before I can overthink it.
Me: Flying home for a couple of days.
Three dots appear immediately, and I already know what’s coming. There is no way either of them lets me off the hook with this.
Harper: Cue emotional breakdown.
Avery: You couldn’t flee the country, so you decided to cross two time zones.
Me: I hate you both.
Avery: No, you don’t.
Harper: You kissed him.
I close my eyes, one hand rubbing at my temple as the plane heads away from the gate. This morning, I woke up with one hell of a stress headache, and their goading isn’t helping.
Me: It was for show.
Avery: Someone needs to give you two an Oscar.
She’s right. Anyone with eyes would’ve believed that kiss. Hell, I was a participant, and even I almost believed it.
Me: Not so sure I can keep this up.
Avery: So, the kiss was good.
Good does not even begin to cover it.
The problem is not that I kissed Nathan. The problem is that I liked it. The problem is that my body responded like it had been waiting for permission. It’s like my instincts recognized something my brain is still refusing to acknowledge.
Me: It was fine.
Harper: Liar.
My palms start sweating. If I’m this transparent over text, how the hell am I going to face Nathan again?
Me: I don’t have time for this kind of thing. It could mess everything up.
Harper: Or it could make it all better.
Me: I’ll see you when I get back.
Avery: We love you, our little bolter.
Bolter. I hated the nickname, but I can’t say I haven’t earned it.
Not just with relationships, but with anything that has created a complication in my life.
A college course that conflicted with soccer?
Dropped. A friend who didn’t understand why I’d miss their get together for soccer practice?
Friendship ended. Anyone who tried to connect over losing a parent? Hell no.
If it might distract or complicate my life, then it was gone.
And yet, I’m the one who came up with this whole fake-dating charade.
I’m the one who kissed him back and harder last night.
I told him about the scholarship scare when not even my closest friends knew some of those details. I’m the one complicating things.
I turn my phone on airplane mode, shoving it into my pocket as the plane races down the runway and lifts into the air.
The truth is, what scares me most is not the kiss itself.
It’s how easily it slid under my skin. Meanwhile, Nathan went back to normal, chatting with friends.
It’s obvious that he hadn’t felt it the way I had.
The rest of the flight is spent oscillating between staring out the window and the back of my eyelids. Every time my mind tries to drift into forbidden territory, I yank it somewhere else.
Bills. Schedules. Training plans.
By the time we land, my jaw aches from clenching it.
My dad is waiting at baggage claim with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. His posture is stiff in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. His arthritis has been bad lately. It’s obvious in the careful way he shifts his weight and how he favors one knee without realizing it.
“Hey, kiddo,” he says, smiling when he spots me.
I wrap him in a hug, mindful of his joints. He smells like coffee and the aftershave he’s worn my entire life.
“Happy early Thanksgiving,” I say.
“It’s the best kind,” he replies. “The kind where you surprise me.”
My little sister, Emma, barrels into me from the side a second later, nearly knocking my bag from my shoulder.
“You said you weren’t coming home.” She squeezes me tightly, eyes bright with excitement. “I raced home just for this.”
“I’m honored.” I wrap my arms around her, laughing despite myself. “It must be such a sacrifice.”
She rolls her eyes, and I keep my arm around her as we start to head for the car. We’re seven years apart in age. She’s eighteen in her freshman year of college, but I still feel protective of her anyway.
It’s like no matter how much time goes by, she is still the seven-year-old who didn’t understand when the police showed up at midnight to tell us that our mother had been killed in a hit and run.
I was fourteen. I’d held Emma for hours, unable to explain what had happened and unable to offer consolation I didn’t have myself.
I’d wondered in private what my lack of tears said about me. I still do.
The funeral had been a blur of red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes. My mascara stayed perfect, as if appearances could hold everything together. After, Dad buried himself in work, always providing through the chaos. But it fell to me to fill the gaps. I still do.
They need me, and I refuse to let them down. Coming home is the reminder I need to remember why I stay focused.
The house is smaller than I remember it, or maybe I’m numb to moving through spaces that don’t belong to me. It’s been a while since I’ve come home. It hurts to be here. I’ve tried to talk them into moving to Boston, but until recently, my dad’s work has kept him here.
The couch still sags in the middle. The kitchen light still flickers if you don’t jiggle the switch just right. There’s a stack of unopened mail on the counter. It’s all silent reminders of things I need to fix and responsibilities one kiss cannot make me forget.
For dinner, we have pasta with sauce from a jar and garlic bread that’s slightly overdone.
It’s our version of home cooking. Emma tells us about her classes, roommate drama, and a professor who has it out for her.
Dad listens, nodding along, asking questions when he can.
I do too, though it feels like I’m looking through a window instead of sitting at the table with them.
I watch Dad’s hands as he eats. He pauses between bites, fingers curling stiffly around his fork. Whatever the doctors are doing is not enough to stop the pain he’s in. Not for the first time, I wish I could do something other than help financially.
After dinner, he gathers the mail.
“We can look at this later,” he says, shoving it out of the way.
“We can look at it now.” I pull it back in front of me.
He hesitates, then nods.
The bills are worse than I expected. Specialist visits. Imaging. Physical therapy that insurance barely touches. A tuition bill is folded twice and shoved into an envelope as if hiding it in there will make it go away.
I do the math in my head automatically.
“Another one from the hospital,” Dad mutters, rubbing at his knuckles. He tries to flex them, but they crack painfully. “They keep sending statements. I can’t keep up.”
My chest tightens, guilt twisting in a knot. “Dad, it’s okay. I’ll handle it. I have plenty for this and can get them all paid this weekend.”
It’s true. I do have enough for this, but it’s the future I’m worried about. If these bills are any indication, it could be just the start.
He gives me a small, tired smile, but I know he feels like a failure.
I’ve seen it in his eyes every time a new bill arrives or a doctor shakes his head.
My dad’s worked hard his whole life, and now, when he needs stability the most, his body is betraying him.
After a lifetime of physical jobs, he can’t do them anymore. That’s why they had to let him go.
I lean my head on his shoulder, like I have since I was a kid.
“You’ve always been so reliable for us, Wesley.” He wraps his arm around me, kissing my forehead.
It’s meant as a compliment, but the words fall like lead inside me. He’s right, I’ve been reliable. I need to be reliable, despite the parts of me that might want to throw caution to the wind.
I organize the envelopes into two piles: bills that accept online payment and those that require a phone call.
It’s after seven, so I can tackle the online payments tonight.
I go through, checking them off one by one.
My debit card is getting a hell of a workout, but by the end, there are only a few bills that have to wait until business hours on Monday.
“Is everything okay?” Emma asks, breezing into the room.
“Totally fine,” I lie, plastering a smile on my face. Maybe I do deserve an Oscar.