Chapter 7 #2
"Then I'll come to Colorado. Meet your friends. See your library. Figure out if I can picture myself in your world." I crossed to him, taking the sweater and setting it aside so I could take his hands. "One way or another, we make this work. Okay?"
"Okay." He kissed me, soft and sure. "Though I should warn you, my friends are going to interrogate you mercilessly. They’ve already been texting me questions."
"Good. I'd be worried if they didn't care enough to grill me."
We finished packing in companionable silence, and then there was nothing left to do but say goodbye to this room, this space that had become ours.
"Ready?" I asked.
"No." He looked around one more time, his gaze lingering on the bed where we'd learned each other, the window where we'd watched snow fall. "But I guess we have to be."
***
The farewell lunch was chaos—red tablecloths, pine boughs, people exchanging final contact information and promising to stay in touch.
I stood near the buffet and watched the social choreography of goodbye, counting down the minutes until I could be alone with Jason one more time. Outside the windows, clouds were rolling in. More snow coming. The weather that would send us all back to our separate lives.
Finally, people started loading their cars.
Jason and I walked out together, no longer bothering to maintain distance. What was the point? The bubble had already burst.
We stopped at his car—a sensible Honda Civic with Colorado plates and a library system sticker on the bumper.
Snow had started falling again, fat flakes catching in Jason's dark hair, melting on his glasses.
"So," he said, hands shoved in his pockets.
"So." I pulled his hands free and held them, not caring about the cold or the people moving around us or anything except the fact that in two minutes he'd be driving away. “Come to New York. I'll book you a flight."
"I can book my own—"
"Let me do this. Please." I squeezed his hands, felt his fingers curl around mine. "I want to show you everything. The city, my apartment, my favorite writing spots. I want you to see what life could look like there."
"And if it doesn't fit?" His voice was small, uncertain in a way that made my chest ache.
"Then we try Colorado. Or somewhere in between. Or we figure out a schedule where we're bicoastal. I don't care, Jason. I just care about making this work."
He kissed me then, right there in the parking lot with people watching and snow falling and Christmas music playing from someone’s car. His mouth was cold and tasted like chocolate cake and goodbye.
When we pulled apart, there were tears in his eyes. "I'm going to miss you."
"We'll text, we'll call, we'll video chat until we're sick of each other's faces."
"I could never be sick of your face."
"Good. Because you're stuck with it now." I kissed him once more, softer, trying to memorize the exact pressure of his lips, the way his hand came up to cup my jaw. "Drive safe. Text me when you get home."
"You too." He climbed into his car, and I watched him buckle in, adjust his mirrors, take a deep breath that fogged in the cold air.
Then he was pulling out of the parking lot, brake lights bright red against the snow, and I stood there watching his car disappear down the mountain road. Someone—Claire, maybe—touched my shoulder in passing, a brief squeeze of solidarity.
The snow fell harder and I wondered if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life.
Or the best decision.
***
The drive to Denver felt longer than it had on the way up.
I kept picking up my phone to text Jason, then remembering he was driving and putting it back down.
The rental car's heater blasted dry air that smelled like industrial cleaning solution and a thousand previous drivers.
The radio played nothing but Christmas songs—too cheerful, too certain of their happy endings.
The highway cut through mountains and trees, everything white and pristine and lonely as hell.
At the airport, waiting for my flight in a terminal decked out with garland and oversized ornaments, I finally gave in and texted: Made it to Denver. Flight boards in an hour. Miss you already.
His response came almost immediately: Just got home. My cottage feels way too empty. Miss you too.
Tell me about it. What's the first thing you're going to do?
Probably collapse for 12 hours. Then face the interrogation from Garrett and the others. You?
Deal with my agent's fury. Probably get yelled at for ignoring emails all week. Decide what the hell I'm doing with my career.
No pressure.
Ha. Yeah.
A pause. Then: Brent?
Yeah?
Thank you. For this week. For seeing me. For making me brave enough to write that piece today.
I stared at my phone, pressure building behind my ribs. Around me, families moved through the terminal—kids hyped up on travel and Christmas anticipation, parents looking exhausted, everyone heading somewhere they belonged.
Thank you for reminding me why I do this. For making me want to write something that matters.
I boarded my flight feeling unmoored but hopeful. The retreat was over, but whatever this was with Jason—this terrifying, exhilarating thing—it was just beginning.
And for the first time in years, I was excited about what came next.