“Uh…” Megan said, voice muffled. “I’m sorry again for calling you a coward.”
“It’s okay,” I told her. “I needed to hear it.”
“You weren’t being a coward,” Stacey said for what must have been the fifth time.
I shrugged. “Maybe not, but I was definitely losing my battle with fear.”
Megan reappeared from under the bed, bra in hand, expression victorious. “Got it.” She turned to look up at me. “You going to get a therapist recommendation from Sophia?”
“As soon as I get home.” I still had things to work through, and it wasn’t fair of me to continuously burden my sister-in-law with them.
Megan and Stacey walked me down to my truck a few minutes later. It was mid-morning, and the wind that whipped off the Charles River was frigid, reminding me of the deep cold I was about to return to.
“Have a safe ride home. Text when you get there so I don’t worry,” Stacey said.
I chucked my bag into the passenger seat and turned to her. “I will. And thank you both again so much.”
Megan surprised me by pulling me into a hard hug that lasted a few beats longer than normal. “I really am sorry,” she said. “You’re not a coward. That was a shitty thing to say. I just love you so much, and believe in you so much, that I felt like I needed to do something drastic to snap you out of it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you as down as when you got here, and honestly, it freaked me out. I didn’t handle it well.”
I squeezed her before letting go. “I get it. And I accept your apology. Love you too.”
“I hope things work out with you and Stan,” she said.
“Me too,” I told her.
I said goodbye to them and then carefully pulled out into traffic. Parallel parking the truck had been a bitch, and I was thankful no one had parked in the space in front of me.
The drive out of Boston took all of my focus. I swear the Massachusetts Department of Transportation was run by some sort of sadist who took pleasure in the misery of commuters. Half of the streets I traveled down were familiar, because, over the years, I’d visited Megan enough to learn them. I knew which ones weresupposedto be two-way streets, but twice I came to intersections expecting that and was instead faced with “one way only” signs, the last of which led me straight to a brand-new toll.
Imagine that.
“You win today, MassDot,” I said, merging onto the highway and heading toward the Tobin Bridge, where I’d get to pay yet another toll.
Traffic stayed heavy out of Mass and well into New Hampshire. By the time I hit the Maine bridge on I-95, it started to clear up a little. After exit 75, I was the only vehicle on the road.
I spent the rest of the long drive stuck in my own head. At dinner, Megan had kept harping on the fact that over a month had passed since Ben and I had last seen each other. Was that enough time for him to decide if it was healthy to let me back in? How did I even broach the subject without him feeling like I was pushing him?
I ended up doing that thing that I’m sure everyone does when they’re nervous: I rehearsed the conversation in my head, coming at it from all angles, practicing what to say if he seemed uncomfortable or uneasy or even standoffish. This exercise took up the entire last leg of the drive, because apparently Ben still brought out the neurotic side of me.
The sun sank behind the mountains as I crested the hill leading to Jack’s, its dying rays staining the sky an ugly, mottled puce that spoke of another storm rolling in.
Jack waited for me on the front porch.
I got out and hugged him.
“Hey there, kiddo. Glad to have you back.”
“Glad to be back. Thanks again for watching the dogs.”
“You’re welcome. They’re pretty worn out.”
I let him go. “Did you take them snowshoeing?”
He turned and led me up the porch. “Nope. I had Boots and Doodle too, and those little gremlins have even more energy than yours do.”
I paused halfway up the stairs, shell shocked. “Is Ben here?”
Oh, God. Was I ready to see him right now if he was?
