So it made perfect sense for me to ignore the actual details. Was I in a state of denial? Maybe. But it didn’t matter.
My plants were already dead, so I didn’t have to ask anyone to water them. No groceries to give away, because the fridge was empty anyway.
And, of course, without a job, I didn’t need to ask for time off.
Now here I was, running late, knowing Ashley would hate me if I did, in fact, miss my flight.
“Last call for American Airlines Flight 1775 to Denver,” the voice over the intercom said. It was probably just my imagination, but I thought she sounded a little annoyed this time.
The seating area at my gate had mostly cleared out by the time I staggered up to the agent, but I wasn’t the only straggler. Waiting behind three others, I fumbled for my phone and swiped through emails and messages to find my electronic ticket. I was still scrolling, looking for it, by the time I reached the front of the short line.
“It’s here somewhere… Come on… Oh, here it is.” I handed it over, and the agent scanned the code with a practiced flick of her wrist.
“Enjoy your flight,” she said, already turning away.
Her casual dismissal caught me off guard. The only time I’d ventured out of the townhouse since The Incident, to go to the grocery store, three people had stopped me to offer their opinions of the breakup. One older lady had even chastised me for my behavior that day, as if she had all the right in the world to lecture a perfect stranger just because she’d seen my face on TV. I’d been mortified.
In the anonymity of Logan Airport, there were no double takes, no hesitant smiles, no conspiratorial whispers. Just nice, impersonal interactions with people I’d never see again.
Shoving my phone into the big pocket I’d sewn into my skirt, my shoulders relaxed as I stepped onto the jet bridge, ready to leap, so to speak.
Maybe there was at least one silver lining to going on Mom’s trip.
For as long as I can remember, summer vacations were always the same. That’s just the way my mom was—routine, predictable, no deviations.
So the week after school let out, without fail, Mom and Dad would load me and Ashley into the car and drive us down to Matunuck Beach—a little coastal community in Rhode Island that, while charming in its own way, always felt like Newport’s scruffier, less-polished cousin. It had the same salty breeze and sun-bleached clapboards, just with more peeling shutters and weathered storefronts.
But best of all, it was where Gran lived—right on the beach, in a modest little cottage that smelled like sea air, sunscreen, and something baking.
It wasn’t big—two bedrooms, one bath, and a living room with an entire wall of windows facing the ocean. The floors creaked. The sliding glass door stuck.
Ashley and I shared a room, twin beds side by side, and the tile in the bathroom was some faded shade of seafoam.
It wasn’t fancy. But it felt safe—like the world couldn’t quite reach you there.
For the first half of the summer, it was just me, Ashley, and Gran. The rules were loose—borderline nonexistent—and I loved it. I spent my days digging in Gran’s garden, dirt under my nails, and learning to cook in her warm, cluttered kitchen. Ashley, ever the joiner, spent hers at the beach, swimming and making friends with whatever pack of kids happened to be in town.
Then, right around the Fourth of July, Mom and Dad would show up for my dad’s annual vacation, splitting our summer cleanly in two. Their arrival meant tighter schedules and “enriching” outings planned by Mom that always felt a little too educational to be fun. Still, it was a routine, and it had its own kind of comfort.
We went every year. Without fail.
Until the year I turned sixteen, when Gran died two days before Christmas.
And after that, all our summer vacations were just spent at home—with a mom who built our lives around the comfort of routine, the safety of sameness.
Which is why this whole Southwest Bucket List bus tour felt so…wildly out of character.
Colorado, the Grand Canyon? Las Vegas? Really?
Not once had she ever expressed interest in going to any of these places—to me, anyway.
Aside from a few day trips to Boston or the beach, my parents were homebodies. Dad, especially, had spent his time either at work, at the house, or on his way from one to the other.
The little pinching in my heart was familiar now.
Dad’s death two years ago had been sudden—a heart attack one morning while sorting mail. Sometimes I still opened messages he’d left me, just to hear his voice.
And although it had to have hit Mom even harder, she’d slipped back into her routines like nothing had changed. I’d taken that as a sign she was fine.
