Chapter 3 Easton
EASTON
I can’t believe it.
I called off my wedding and left the vineyard alone.
You’d think, in the time it took me to get from the ceremony to the airport, I would have processed my quick and blindsiding decision already.
But no.
I left the vineyard and rushed to the first run-down hotel I could find to crash until my flight this morning. I slept like a rock, still in yesterday’s tux, likely looking like I got run over by a truck. There will be plenty of time to change when I get there.
Now that I’m awake and rested, I’m focusing on everything that happened yesterday to the point of confusion, because where the fuck is my gate? I’ve been circling the gate lineup for centuries, only to end up in the same spot all over again.
Terminal D. I turn my head on a swivel, taking in the large sign above me, confirming I’m in the correct location. I check my boarding pass again.
Gate 25. Gate 25. I see gates 21, 22, 23, and 24 near the convenience store, but where is 25?
Fuck. I’m never this out of sorts. It’s like my body doesn’t know how to act because my mind is sending mixed signals.
I’m at the airport alone when I should be here with her.
I have to remind myself that this is for the best. Something we both agreed on and nothing I could have ever fully committed to.
Sydney was right. It was never love, just co-dependence on each other through our shared grief.
I just wish I hadn’t faced that realization yesterday, rather than months ago. Hell, a year even.
Would have saved her and me from an endless headache.
And money. Fuck. The amount of money spent was all for nothing.
A woman with an airport badge walks past me, and I take it as my sign to use the salvageable amount of energy I have left and ask for help.
“Ma’am,” I call out. “Sorry to bother you, but could you point me in the direction of Gate 25? You’d think they’d make these signs more legible than they are.” I attempt to laugh, hoping she’ll find me funny and not stupid.
Not even the smallest of smiles. Good talk.
Her eye roll reminds me I’m not far off. But the kicker is the way she takes in my dismantled outfit, judging me with her eyes. She’s clearly never seen a man at rock bottom before.
“It’s right there.” She points to my right.
And that’s when I see it. Gate 25. Right in my fucking face. To my defense, it’s so close to Gate 24, and half its size. But somehow, I missed it.
“Right,” I tell her. “Thanks.” Shaking my head and attempting to maintain some dignity, I push my shoulders back and head to grab a water bottle from the specialty shop before finding a seat in the boarding area.
I situate myself in a corner, far enough away from people that I’m not forced to make pointless small talk. I’m not sure if I physically have the energy to entertain a conversation right now.
Yesterday morning, I thought I had it all figured out—until I didn’t. Until I realized I couldn’t do it. I can’t pretend to be happy when all I really want to do is trade lives with someone for a day and see what it feels like to live a life I genuinely want.
To fucking laugh and it be real. Not some fake front I have to put on to please my family.
My stomach sinks, reminding me of all the unread notifications I have sitting in my phone.
Notifications I have no intention of answering until I get back from this trip.
My parents saw this coming. Pretty sure everyone did.
Yet, somehow, Sydney and I ignored it.
I realize now I owe it to myself.
To take in the fresh air and it be a full and easy breath. A breath of freedom without a weight on my shoulders. It’s not Sydney that was the problem. It was purely how we handled things following Ben’s death. I know that now.
Because of that, I’m spent. Past the point of no return, and now I need to figure my shit out. Figure out where to go from here, and who I am without the tether.
When Sydney offered me the trip to Wyoming, it felt necessary to refuse. Why should I go while she stays here? This was supposed to be something we experienced together for our honeymoon.
Right now, it kinda feels like my second chance.
Divine intervention or some shit. An opportunity to face my problems head-on. Although, I know I’ll be brainstorming all the ways to do damage control when I get back to Alaska. That’s just who I am.
I’m a fixer. Some call it a hero complex. I call it my worst flex.
It’s something I’m working on bettering within myself. I’m hoping the great outdoors, stillness, and solitude will be exactly what I need.
Here’s to hoping, Wyoming. Here’s. To. Hoping.