Chapter 29 Somewhere Between Bounce Houses And Card Games
Twenty-Nine
Somewhere Between Bounce Houses And Card Games
Miles
Nora disappears down the hallway, and for a second I just stand there while doctors, nurses, and patients move around me like it’s an ordinary day and not my entire world is collapsing.
I blow out a slow breath—the kind I take before a tricky takeoff, when the wind is unpredictable and the instruments are quiet, but my gut says pay attention.
Do I run after her and demand answers, or do I give her the space she clearly needs?
I’ve never needed advice this badly, and I know exactly who to ask.
I step into the elevator, hit the button for the third floor, and head toward Diane’s room.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The floor is too shiny, and my footsteps squeak.
I replay every second of the hallway—her voice breaking, the way she collapsed into me, when she said I need to go before I fool myself into believing this is different. It knocked the air straight out of me.
Inside the room, the TV hums with some ridiculous reality dating show. The lilies I brought sit on the side table, too bright for the sterile light. The bag of Fireballs rests beside them, forgotten. Diane isn’t here.
I sink into the chair and drag my hands over my face.
I didn’t come here to complicate Nora’s life.
I came because when something matters, you show up.
That’s always been my instinct—adjust the angle, compensate for the wind, try again.
I’m a fixer by nature. But this isn’t a drone problem.
And Nora isn’t something I can recalibrate.
I think about what she said—you caring like it’s easy.
It isn’t easy. It’s just necessary. Caring is like flying through bad weather for the perfect shot.
You don’t do it because it’s comfortable.
You do it because once you push through the turbulence, there’s something beautiful on the other side.
I lean back and stare at the ceiling. She thought I wanted Maggie.
And I did—at first. But somewhere between watching Diane smile at the RC park and laughing with Nora, somewhere between bounce houses and card games and the way Nora looks at me like I’m not broken or strange—it shifted. I want her.
The door creaks open, and I lift my head.
“Oh—” Diane freezes mid-step, a towel still in her hands. “Miles?”
“Hi.” I spring to my feet. “Sorry. I just wanted to—I can go.”
“You’re fine.” She waves me off. “You look like someone who needs to sit down, not someone who needs to leave.”
I drop back into the chair. I grab one of the Fireball candies Nora enjoys so much.
They seem to help her when she’s nervous.
“I think I messed up.” I push the candy from the plastic wrapper and pop it into my mouth.
The cinnamon instantly burns my tastebuds, and I immediately spit it into my palm. Nope. Terrible.
Diane nudges her walker toward the bed and eases herself down. “With Nora?”
I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
She lets out a slow sigh—the kind that comes from loving someone complicated for a very long time. “She ran, didn’t she?”
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “I told her how I felt, and she looked like I’d just confirmed every bad thing she’s ever believed about needing someone.”
Diane studies me for a moment. “Do you want advice?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “Please. You know her better than anyone. I don’t want to do the wrong thing.”
She nods, weighing how much truth I can handle. “When Nora was a teenager, right after her father left… she ran away.”
“She did?”
“She packed a bag and disappeared. Stopped answering her phone. Didn’t tell anyone where she was going.” Her eyes drift at the heavy memory. “I called every friend she’d ever mentioned. Parents. Teachers. Anyone who might’ve seen her. Nothing.”
I can picture it too clearly—young Nora, furious, scared, and convinced leaving was safer than staying.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” Diane continues. “Eventually, I had to stop chasing and trust that she knew what she needed. That she’d come home when she was ready.”
“And she did.”
“Yes. The next morning. She was calmer. But still stubborn.” We both smile.
“But she needed the space,” she continues.
“She always does.” Her gaze lifts to mine.
“Nora hasn’t had many reasons in her life to stop protecting herself.
People promised they’d stay. And then they didn’t.
So when something starts to feel real, her instinct is to run. ”
The truth smacks me squarely in my chest. It’s not that Nora doesn’t like me. She’s scared. I rest one palm on my pants while I still hold the candy in the other. “What do I do?”
“You let her go. But don’t disappear.” She leans forward, her voice steady. “You don’t punish her for being scared. And you don’t chase her like she’s something to win. You stay so she can find you.”
I nod, even though every instinct in me wants to go after Nora right now.
“She always comes back,” Diane adds more softly. “But only when she believes it’s safe.”
I swallow. “I can do that.”
She smiles. “Good. Because for what it’s worth, she doesn’t let just anyone get close enough to hurt.”
“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced.” My gaze drops to the gray flecks in the tile. “And for being part of why she ran.” I hesitate, then add, “I really like her. She made me believe in myself in a way no one else ever has.”
Diane nods, unsurprised. “She’s always been good at that.” She pauses before adding, “And she likes you too. Even if it takes her a while to admit it. My daughter has a habit of pulling her head out of her ass eventually.”
I huff a quiet laugh.
“And,” she points a finger at me, “I fully expect you to take us flying again once I bust out of this place.”
“Anytime.”
She smiles warmly. “Good. I like you, Miles. And I think you’ll be good for my daughter.”
When I step out into the hallway, my nerves settle, but it’s different now.
It’s laced with a little fear but also hope.
Because caring isn’t easy. It’s patient.
And if Nora needs time to find her way back, I’m willing to wait.
At the next garbage can, I toss away the candy. The Atomic Fireballs are all hers.
The next day passes without a word from Nora. I tell myself that’s okay. I trust her mom. Diane said Nora needs time, and I’m doing my best to believe her.
I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee when a new email slides into my inbox. I almost ignore it—until the subject line grabs me.
Contract Employment—Sandia Wind Farm
I open it, my pulse picking up with every line.
New Mexico.
Complex infrastructure inspection.
Two weeks on-site, with extension potential.
It’s the biggest job anyone has ever offered me. I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen as if it might disappear if I look away. The excitement hits first, then it tangles with something else.
I want to tell Nora.
Not just because this is huge, but because the idea of leaving without saying anything feels wrong. If I vanish to New Mexico with no explanation, I already know how that looks to her. If I leave now, I won’t just be taking a job—I’ll be proving her right.
By the time I push open the door to Porter’s, the bar is humming with its familiar midafternoon rhythm of low music and clinking glasses.
Jake’s behind the bar, pouring a beer without looking up.
I slide onto a stool. “Is Nora working?”
“Nope,” he says flatly. “You want a beer?”
I shake my head. “Not today.”
That’s enough for him to move down the bar, already done with the conversation.
Lach appears a moment later, and I flag him over. “Hey—do you know if Nora’s working later?”
He scratches his jaw. “Nah. Day off.”
Unease curls through me. “I’m trying to find her. I need to talk to her before I leave.” I hesitate, then add, “I got a job offer.”
His eyes widen. “Seriously? Where?”
“New Mexico.”
“Damn.” He breaks into a grin. “That’s huge.”
“It is, and… I leave in two days.” Saying it out loud makes it real in a way I’m not ready for yet. “If you see her, can you tell her I was looking for her? I’d rather tell her in person.”
Lach nods. “Yeah. I’ll let her know.”
I leave Porter’s with the job offer buzzing in my head—and Nora’s name tangled right up in it, impossible to separate.
On the drive home, I detour past Nora’s apartment.
I circle the lot once. Then twice. Her car isn’t there.
Every call goes straight to voicemail. No text.
No sign of her. I don’t know what else to do.
So I do the one thing that usually calms me.
I head home, grab my gear, and drive out to the RC park.
After parking, I spread my equipment across the table and move through my usual checks—batteries charged, lenses clean, controls responsive.
My hands follow the routine automatically.
I tell myself I’m being practical. That I need to make sure everything’s ready before New Mexico.
But between tomorrow and the desert, there’s still one conversation I need to have.
And I don’t want to leave without saying the things that matter.