All Roads Lead Home #4
Ryan studies me, waiting for me to continue, but I don’t want to say out loud what I’m thinking.
That this has been wonderful, but I can’t make a promise that we’ll pick up from where we left off.
That I missed him, but maybe this is the nostalgia talking…
What happens next week or next month when the realities of our lives come into play? Can things be that easy?
“If that’s how you feel,” I say.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“I…” I begin, but then stop when I see Ryan’s attention shift.
“Is that your dad?” He nods to the distance.
“What?” I frown and look up the street. Ryan’s right. That’s my dad.
My heart instantly melts as I see him wearing a brown sweater with a dress shirt underneath. He’s halfway out the door, carrying a garbage bag. He makes his way swiftly to the end of the driveway and stuffs it in the trash can then heads back inside.
I haven’t seen him in person in over two years.
“That’s him.” I chew the side of my tongue.
Ryan turns to me. “Well, uh, I guess you better get going. He’s probably waiting for you.”
“Right.” I sling a smile. “Text me?”
Ryan hesitates and my heart instantly plummets. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he says slowly, and I hate the way it sounds.
“You know what…” As if on reaction, I recoil. “You’re right. Stupid idea.”
“It’s not stupid,” he says earnestly. “It’s just this evening felt too good, Elle. I so badly wish I could say, Yeah, let’s be friends and hang out like old times…” His voice trails off. “But losing you was too painful, and if I can’t have all of you, I’m not strong enough to have any of you.”
My throat tightens, and it feels like my chest is about to burst. I don’t want to say goodbye, but I don’t know what else to say in this moment. I suppose Ryan and I already got more time than we were ever meant to have.
Ryan pulls his keys from the ignition and dips his chin lower. “You ready?”
“I think so.” I reach for the door handle.
Everything suddenly feels so cold. Ryan gets out and then meets me by the hood of his car. We linger for a moment as he wraps his arms around me, pulling me in. I bury my face into the crook of his neck, underneath his jacket, and it feels so warm. His embrace is strong, firm.
My gaze lifts to Ryan, and the warmth of his lips already feels like a distant memory. He feels like a distant memory.
“Good luck,” Ryan huffs into my hair, and I give him another squeeze.
“Thank you for everything,” I say.
“That’s what I’m here for, right?” He gives me a crooked smile that makes me feel like we’re kids again. “Remember, you got this,” he says.
It’s then I’m pulled back to ten years ago.
Us saying goodbye to each other on this very street before my flight to Florida.
A sheen of tears across my cheeks and Ryan giving me a smile that everything was going to be okay.
That I would make new friends; I’d have fun and go to Disney World every weekend and college wouldn’t be scary. Remember, you got this, he told me.
He was right. He’s still right.
I grip the handle of my carry-on suitcase. “Tell your mom I say hi.”
He slowly reveals a smile, and I picture that left dimple of his underneath his beard. “Tell your dad hi too.”
“I will,” I say, and head toward my childhood home.
“Elle,” Ryan calls out, and I spin on my heels. He’s halfway into his car and the light snowfall softens my view. He almost looks like a sketch from here. “For what it’s worth, seeing you was probably the best Christmas gift.”
My face beams into a smile. “For me too,” I say loud enough that he can hear me. He tips his forehead in my direction and then gets inside his car.
As I walk toward my dad’s, that dull ache in my chest no longer exists.
I’m not scared of being back home, I’m not anxious to see him.
There’s a sense of safety and comfort being back here.
Perhaps I needed to reunite with Ryan. Maybe he was sort of a holiday miracle to help me through tonight.
I look back over my shoulder, and he’s patiently waiting for me to safely get inside.
I ring the bell and when the door opens, I’m immediately greeted by a symphony of delicious smells: honey-baked ham, spiced cider, and gingerbread.
My dad stands in the doorway, wearing that same brown sweater I saw him in five minutes ago, with a nervous smile on his face.
I can hear Home Alone, my favorite Christmas movie, playing in the living room.
“Hi, Dad.” I take a step forward and wrap my arms around him.
“Hi,” he says, surprised, but then immediately returns the gesture, squeezing me like I’m a little kid again. It feels nice. “Elle, Merry Christmas.”
I quickly check behind me and see that Ryan’s now gone.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, and then pull back to look at my dad. I’ve only seen him a handful of times since I moved. All of which were when he came to Florida to visit, and all have been for less than twenty-four hours.
“How was your flight?” He takes my coat, hanging it in the closet.
My eyes scan the rest of the house. It’s exactly how it looked the last time I saw it. Oddly, it feels so much smaller than before. I can hear faint voices down the hallway, and I already know it’s my Aunt Cami and grandma Traci.
“It was good, I slept,” I say, and my dad’s gaze lingers on me. “What?” I ask.
“You just look so grown-up.” After a beat, he adds, “You look like your mom.”
A puff of air escapes my nostrils. “She always says I look like you.”
“Be thankful you don’t.” He rolls his eyes.
My dad’s a big, tall man. My friends used to joke and say he looked like a giant when we were younger. I think he’s right, though, I do look like my mom, but my eyes are all his.
We make our way to the living room, and my aunt and grandma squeal with excitement and give me hugs and kisses.
I adore my Aunt Cami. She was someone who always got me the most personal gifts on my birthday and came to every dance recital growing up.
The two of them force-feed me so much baked Brie and pigs in a blanket before dinner that I can barely eat any of the ham my dad made.
As we sit at the table, Bing Crosby plays in the background, and the view out the window is a perfect contrast of the black night sky and the white blanket of snow on the ground. Everything feels so easy.
“So, Elle.” My aunt grabs another dinner roll and smothers butter on it. “Are you excited for the new job?”
“I am,” I answer. “It’s only two days in office, which is so nice.”
“Oh, I bet,” she says. “And the train is only an hour and a half. That’ll be a breeze commuting from here.”
“I promise it won’t be here that long.” I turn to my dad, reminding him. “Just a few weeks until I find a place.”
“Elle.” He takes a sip of his mulled wine. “You know you have a place here for as long as you want.”
He’s said as much many times before.
“I know,” I say. “But I don’t want to impose—”
“Enough of that.” He clicks his tongue. “Your room will always be your room.”
“Are you going to catch up with any friends while you’re here?” my grandma asks.
Truthfully, the only person I would want to catch up with just had his tongue down my throat a few hours ago.
“Well, I ran into Ryan Mills just before I got here,” I say. “Dad, you remember Ryan, right?”
“Remember him?” My dad laughs. “He practically lived here.” He looks at my aunt and my grandma. “Remember, Elle and Ryan were attached at the hip? Your mom and I thought you two were going to get married.”
The joke causes my heart to lodge in my stomach.
“He was such a nice boy, Elle,” my grandma adds.
“What’s he doing now?” my dad asks.
“He actually owns that café on Main,” I say, realizing I didn’t catch the name of it. “There’s a fireplace inside, and it’s all decorated for Christmas…”
“No shit.” He sits back in his seat. “Good for him. I didn’t know he was still in town. I’ve got to say hi.” The timer for the oven goes off, and my dad stands up. “How about some dessert?”
He heads to the kitchen and pulls out a pecan pie from the oven. He places it on a rack to cool, and I eye the glistening toasted pecans. My mouth begins to water.
“Oh man, I’ve missed this,” I say.
“There’s also a Yule log cake in the fridge,” he says. “Mind grabbing it, Elle?”
“Of course.” I stand up, and when I get to the fridge door my heart stops at the sight. “Where did you find this?”
I stay fixated on a drawing of a younger version of myself.
I’m in front of this very house with a book in my hand, my bike beside me, and a giant smile on my face.
It’s a silly drawing, but I thought I lost it.
When I moved to Florida, I looked everywhere for it and remember crying thinking I’d never see it again.
My dad looks over his shoulder. “Oh, that was always there,” he says. “I remember you loved that drawing. I couldn’t take it down.”
The piece of art is a representation of me. It’s me in front of the place I felt safest, with my favorite things in the world. It’s this home without the drama of my parents, the sound of voices being raised through the walls. It’s my happy place.
“I thought I lost this.” My fingertips gently graze the colored pencil.
“It’s the only thing you ever drew,” my dad says from the kitchen table. “Didn’t know you were an artist.”
“I didn’t draw it…” I say softly.
In fifth grade when my parents started fighting, Ryan came over and started drawing me a picture. He asked if I could go anywhere in the world, where would I want to go? I told him I’d want to stay right here.