Page 96 of Into the Dark, We Go

A tiny weight lifted off my shoulders.

The airport terminal stood as a small, one-story building with low ceilings. As we pulled up to the drop-off lane, only one other car was there, dispatching a family of four with too much luggage.

"When’s your flight?" I asked.

"Don’t know. I’ll buy the ticket now."

We exited the car, and he retrieved his bag from the trunk. We stood facing each other, unsure of what to say.

"Come with me," he said.

I almost thought I’d misheard him. "What?"

"Come with me," he repeated, placing his hands on my shoulders.

"I can’t," I said simply, pointing at my car.

It wasn’t just that I couldn’t leave it here and hop on a plane with him; I had responsibilities to return to.

"Yeah, I’ve heard it before.You’ve got to move on with your lifeand all that.But you don’t have to go to your mother’s for that. You can do it anywhere. You know that, right?"

"I know. But going back to Minnesota feels like a step backward right now. And... I’m just not sure."

"About what?" he pressed.

I stayed silent.

"About me?" he asked.

"We’ve only just met," I said, though something in me curled back, already regretting it.

Was I making a mistake?

Luckily, common sense broke through.

"You’re asking me to take off and move in with you? What if it doesn’t work out? Where am I supposed to go then—back to my Mom’s, where she’ll be even more pissed at me? I need to figure things out on my own first."

He stepped back, fingers raking through his hair in frustration. It seemed like he might shut me out again, turn away and leave, but instead, he reached out, his hands wrapping gently around my elbows. For a fleeting moment, I felt like he was holding me together.

"I understand," he finally said, looking me in the eye, "Can I at least call you sometime?"

"Of course," I said, relieved, though part of me dreaded he meant long-distance.

Mitch once told me that soldiers often struggle to maintain friendships forged during service when they return to civilian life. It’s hard to transplant a relationship from one world to another. The truth was, we barely knew each other outside the chaotic situation we’d shared over the past few weeks.

We hugged goodbye, and I watched him walk into the airport before driving off.

The lump in my throat faded soon after.

I arrivedhome a little after six, setting foot in Cleveland for the first time since Spring. My mother had already left for the party.

I could’ve made it back earlier, but I stopped for a long lunch at a gas station with picnic tables out front, basking in the late September sun and easing myself back into solitude I hadn’t felt in weeks.

Being alone felt strange, like hearing a voice and realizing it was only your own echo. But it was freeing too, the quiet kind of relief that comes with unhooking a too-tight bra after a long day.

Thinking of Nick made it sting a little.

Coming home felt like stepping back in time. Yet, everything seemed just a tad different. The house showed its age in ways I hadn’t noticed until now: the faded patches on the upstairs carpet, the door knobs lacking shine. When Dad was alive, he took care of everything, and now that he was gone, Mom was probably struggling to keep up with the house on her own—or maybe she just didn’t know how to. But despite all that, it still had a comforting sense of belonging.