Page 14 of The Road Back Home

The airport is bustling with travelers. Voices overlap and drown out the announcements on the overhead PA system.

I find an empty chair by the terminal and sit with my purse in my lap and suitcase checked in.

Nobody looks at me, the nervous fidgeting young woman sitting alone, as they pass.

I don’t mind. Attention right now will make me vibrate out of my skin.

The minutes inch closer to the time I can board the plane.

I dig through my purse until my fingers wrap around the hard case of my phone.

I smile at the image of Ashton on the lock screen.

My heart already aches for missing him. Sucking my lower lip between my teeth, I bite down and type out a message I know will be unwelcome.

Dealla

Remember you can call me for anything while I’m gone, and I’ll be on the first flight back.

Katie

I don’t know why ur so worried I can take care of my own kid

Dealla

I know you can, Katie. I’ve just never been so far away. I’ve always been able to be there ASAP if there’s an emergency or something.

Katie reads the message but doesn’t reply. I blow out a breath and thank whatever god might exist for the conversation not going as poorly as it could have. The fact she didn’t threaten to keep Ashton from me is a miracle in itself.

A garbled voice announces my flight over the speakers, and I tuck my phone away in my purse and stand to join the line.

Once I’m through security, I follow the other passengers through the terminal and onto the plane.

My seat is in the far back, and I force myself to accept the not-so-desirable seating.

It was a last-minute flight, after all. I’m just thankful I didn’t pack a carry-on when my seat-mate takes up most of the overhead bin.

The man sitting next to me is kind but definitely a talker.

Every time I think he’s finished, he turns to me with even more to say.

I nod along politely but don’t participate overly much in the conversation.

The flight is only three hours; I can handle keeping up the pretense of caring.

Anything to ignore the fact that I miss Ashton so much, it hurts.

Filing off the plane after a rough landing, I turn my phone on and search for a sign to guide me to baggage claim.

My phone buzzes thirteen times almost immediately, and I wait until I’ve found my suitcase before I read them.

They’re all from Holden, each more amusing than the last. I shake my head at the theatrics and tuck my phone away.

Hefting the strap of my purse more securely onto my shoulder, I grab my suitcase and make my way to the exit.

My request for a rideshare is accepted almost the second I send it; I find the silver sedan and compare the license plate against the rideshare app’s information.

The driver glances at me in the rearview once I’ve slid into the backseat, then he pulls away from the curb and into the line of cars leaving the airport.

Each second that ticks by, spent staring out the window at the stop-and-go traffic, wraps itself tighter around my heart. My knee bounces, and I chew on the edge of my fingernail. The driver hasn’t tried talking to me after the first two failed attempts; I’d apologize, but my words have dried up.

I’m doing this. I’m really doing this.

God, I should have stayed home with Ashton.

“Are you sure this is it?” I squeak when the cab comes to a stop.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I nod shakily then thank him for the lift.

He drives off once I’ve hauled my suitcase out of the car and closed the door.

Swallowing harshly, I turn to gaze up at the house in front of me.

Two stories with a stone facade, the house sits proudly on an absurd amount of land.

The driveway splits into two, one fork straight while the other curves under an awning.

Pillars, wrapped in more stone, hold up the roof.

I approach the door on shaky knees and peer through the glass window on the left of the door.

No movement comes from inside, but music echoes through the quiet from somewhere out back.

Faint strains of laughter join in, and my heart flutters at the sound.

Laughter means nice, right? Or at the very least, pleasant enough?

I raise a hand and thumb the doorbell before I can think too much.

The chime sounds, muffled through glass and black treated wood, and I wait.

A minute passes, then another. I roll my eyes and step back to take a picture of the door.

Sending it with no additional message, I watch through the window as I wait some more.

It doesn’t take long: Holden trips into view beyond the glass within a handful of seconds, and I stifle a laugh as he barely catches himself in time.

He slips and slides in socked feet to the door and yanks it open.

His arms envelop me, and I squeal when he lifts me off my feet, spinning me around twice before setting me back on the ground.

“You were supposed to let me know when you were on the way! Then I could have—”

“Could have what? Had a marching band waiting to announce my arrival?” I laugh and pinch his cheek. “I thought I’d surprise you instead.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs, cradling my cheeks with hands that tremble slightly. His eyes shine bright in the sunlight. “Oh, my God, you’re really here. Are you ready for an entire week with me?”

“I guess,” I reply with a smirk, only to let out an undignified squeak when he pokes me in my side.

Holden kisses my forehead, grabs my suitcase, and tugs me into the house by our entwined hands. I’ve seen a few rooms through our video chats, but those calls could never have prepared me for what I see when I step through the door.

Directly in front of me is the living room, a quarter of the room taken up by an enormous couch situated in front of a television.

Bookshelves and overstuffed armchairs fill a nook in the far corner of the room.

Two sconces on the wall are ostensibly used to illuminate the area.

The ash-gray hardwood floor gleams in the sunlight pouring in through the tall, wide windows.

A bar counter separates the living room from the kitchen beyond.

White cupboards and more counters line the walls.

A row of stools sits in front of the bar; the cushions are just as black as the marble of the countertops.

The refrigerator, silver and huge, hums where it’s nestled between bar and wall.

“So…” Holden starts. “I have a couple of guest rooms, but you’re welcome to sleep in my room. Up to you.”

“Will you be in your room?” I ask, squeezing his hand.

“It can be arranged.”

I step closer, lifting my free hand to touch his lower lip with the tip of my finger. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I think the only right choice is me sleeping in your bed. With you.”

He swallows hard and nods before leading me to the staircase.

The wood creaks quietly beneath our feet, and I count the steps to the top.

Seventeen. Another fifteen steps to his bedroom door.

Twelve to his bed. My suitcase hits the floor with a thump.

Before I know it, my body is pinned to the mattress, and Holden is kissing me as if our lives depend on it.

I let out a soft sigh, a nearly silent moan, as heat and want flare to life.

The time apart has done nothing to quell how I feel about him—how much I crave his touch—how I need the fire he stokes inside of me.

Right now, the doubts I’ve felt drift away.

I can no longer remember how I wondered if he’s as invested in this as I am.

And when did it grow to be so serious? So fast, so sudden, but… Maybe not so bad.

My body thrums, vibrates, and I feel I could take flight but only remain because he holds me so securely.

“Yo, Holden! Where’d ya go?”

Holden groans at the voice echoing through the house, pulling back to let his head fall into the curve of my neck. “I hate them.”

“No, you don’t.” But I understand his frustration.

“They’ll come looking for me,” he warns me; his breath comes out in a shuddering gust against my skin, and I shiver. He lifts himself up and pushes my hair behind my ear. “We should go.”

I reluctantly nod, and he pushes off the bed. His hand wraps around mine, and I allow him to pull me to my feet. Another kiss, this time chaste and sweet, then we head toward the lion’s den waiting for me.

A small group of people sit at the table on the large second-story deck, and I inhale slowly to calm my thundering heart. Holden leads me to an outdoor loveseat closest to the door and waits until I’ve sat to take his place beside me.

“You must be Dealla.”

“I am.”

The man who’d spoken grins, dimples as on display as the tattoos marking his skin in the gap of his unbuttoned shirt. He shoves long brown hair out of his face then reaches out to shake my hand. “Eddie. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Almost thought Holden made you up, though,” another man announces.

“Shut up, Phil,” groans Holden as the others laugh.

“It’s true!” Eddie says. “We’d never even seen pictures!”

I lean into Holden’s side while he puts an end to the teasing and makes introductions.

John is his best friend from childhood, married to Evelyn who lounges in her chair as a cat does in sunlight.

Phil’s wife Samantha pipes in with random bits of information obviously hand-selected to embarrass Holden, tidbits of his life gathered over the last seven years that they’ve known each other.

Cheryl, Eddie’s girlfriend, mostly stays quiet, but her gaze says enough.

Phil’s phone vibrates on the table, and he checks it before disappearing inside.

When he returns a few moments later, a child is held in his arms. The toddler blinks sleepily in my direction then stares up at Phil.

Phil’s face softens, and he kisses his son’s forehead before turning his attention to me.