When I pull up through the circular pass-through, I glance over, granting myself one last look at her. I allow my eyes to linger just long enough to see the regret in her features before I tear them away to focus on the flames burning in the large fireplace on the other side of my window. “What time does your plane leave?”
“Four tomorrow afternoon.”
“Will you text me and let me know you got home okay?”
“No,” she answers apologetically. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
Without looking her way, I know she’s staring out of her own window.
“I don’t regret coming,” she says softly, “but something tells me I will.” She turns to me, and I keep my eyes averted as I white-knuckle my wheel.
“Don’t fucking thank me,” I warn with the firm shake of my head. “Don’t.”
She doesn’t because she knows it would be insulting. We got way too personal for any sort of bullshit or formal goodbye. We got way too close too soon to be anything but fucking miserable right now, and that’s all I feel.
Words are futile at this point, so I don’t bother with them. Touching her isn’t an option either, so I remain caged.
I know what this is and what it isn’t, and there’s not a lot on the isn’t side. If I say another word, I won’t be able to give her anything but my truth, which will only make shit worse. Thankfully, she frees me of the burden.
“You deserve every amazing thing coming your way, Easton Crowne, and when it happens for you, I’ll get to kick back and say I knew him when.” Her hesitance is palpable as she pushes open the door. “Take care of yourself. I-I’ll…bye.”
The burn in my chest intensifies as she slams the door closed. I immediately hit the gas, refusing myself the chance to stop her.
No matter how we parted or what words were spoken, it was going to sting like a bitch. What I didn’t expect was the full-fledged, continuous punch in the gut the whole ride home.
No One is to Blame
Howard Jones
Easton
I drive for miles avoiding home as the last three days repeat on a loop. Music blaring, melodies filter in and out of me, not a single one of them soothing as I continue to play track after track, unable to pinpoint a song that encapsulates the mix of shit I’m mentally sorting through.
Another first that infuriates me.
I reason with myself that she’s just some woman who’s lost her way and needed a weekend to get her head straight, but the memory of the way her smile felt shoots that down. I’ve already memorized her expressions, the size of her hands, the lilt in her voice, and now, the feel of her lips.
Every rational explanation I feed myself as to why she’s had such an effect on me continues to be shot down as another memory surfaces. Especially the one where she moaned my name.
Knowing I’ve already lost the battle, I pull up to my childhood home drowning in defeat and sit in the driveway, wanting to be anywhere but here. Tempted to be the late-night knock on her hotel door, the mistake that fucks her until the sun lights the horizon, I regrip the wheel.
When the front door opens, no doubt owing to the repeat of the loud-as-fuck motor in my dad’s old classic, he comes into view as I curse my fucking fate and the night in equal measure.
I want to be pissed off and alone, not parented, and as long as I allow this dynamic, things will remain the same. Dad stands outside the truck I commandeered from him on my last birthday as I sigh and exit.
“Something happen?” He asks.
“No.”
“You been drinking?”
My father is militant about drinking and driving because of an accident he had decades ago in my truck. He hates the fact that I drive the ancient relic, but I’ve used it more with Natalie than I have in the last year, opting for it instead of utilizing Joel so we could have the time alone.
“I had one beer at the Needle,” I sigh out in reply. “One. Can I brush my teeth and go to bed now, Daddy?”
“Fuck,” he grins sheepishly. “Point taken. Sorry.”
“Yeah, well, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m moving the fuck out as soon as I find a place. It’s way past time, Dad. You two can’t protect me forever.”
He blows out a breath and nods. “Your mom’s going to lose her shit, but I get it.”
“Thanks. I won’t let her know until I’m halfway packed. Deal?”
“Yeah.”
We start the walk to the front door, and he mulls over my mood.
“Is this about the release?”