I know you said you have to drive to Connecticut after Hannah gets out of school, but you know where to find me when you’re free, that is, if you don’t completely hate me for running off like I did.
Hope you have a good day.
—Journey
I’m more than a little surprised by every word written on this piece of paper. Not only does this sound nothing like Journey, but the person who wrote this sounds exactly like the thoughts running through my head. There’s more to her—more that I want to know, not fix, just learn.
The heaviness in my chest fades, and though I can’t say it’s okay that she ran off the way she did, I’m willing to hear her out. She made the effort of driving down here to leave me a handwritten note. It’s something more than a text, and it isn’t a mind game.
I grab my phone out of my back pocket and type up a quick message to send her.
Me:Thank you for the note.
I’ll leave the message at that. She’ll know I got and read it. The rest will have to wait until after I return from Connecticut.
Journey:There are things I want to tell you.
Dammit. For one second, I thought I had the upper hand. I should have known I was walking right into a trap with her.
Me:Like what?
Journey:I’d prefer to speak in person.
Me:No problem, I’ll just wrack my brain thinking about whatever it is you want to tell me while I drive to and from Connecticut this afternoon.
Journey:Oh. Well, let me know what you come up with!
I’ve met my match. There is no doubt in my mind that she is back in my life for a reason. She will be another challenge, on top of the one I already have raising a tween daughter alone. Why are women torturing me? What have I done so wrong that they all want to suck the life out of me?
Me:Enjoy your day. I’ll talk to you later.
Journey:Do you always need the final word?
Me:No.
Journey:Okay, good.
Me:Good.
I should be pulling my coveralls on and starting on the lineup of barrels, but instead I’m staring at my phone for the battle of the last word to end. Five minutes pass by before her last text pops up. It’s a photo of her from the chin down, wearing my sweatshirt that she somehow snagged from my truck at some point last night.Me: Looks good on you.
Journey:It’s a little big.
Me:No, it’s just right.
Another five minutes pass and I tell myself I’ve won the last word challenge, but I have a feeling this isn’t the end of our conversation today.
12
I hate this drive.I hate this drive.
I hate Kristy.
I hate party-boy.
I hate subjecting Hannah to both.
“Dad, does it bother you to drive this far every three weeks?” Hannah asks. She’s never asked this question before. I would never tell her my genuine feelings on the subject, but I wonder if she just assumes it.
