“I’m leaving now.”
She hangs up quickly but not before I hear him struggling in the background.
My fear manifests strangely. I don’t overthink anything, focusing only on what feels right. Picking up my second phone, I power it up one-handed while pulling out my overnight bag. Kade shouldn't be a priority, not anymore, but in an emergency, it’s hard to lie about the connection we share.
I’m nearly sick when I see how many missed calls there are from Kade; I guess it’s been a month, but I hadn’t looked until now. They started seconds after I sent my text to him that night. I have to force myself not to look at the number of texts, the last one only late last night. It’s too raw, to see his pain like that.
I close my eyes and count down from twenty, trying to stop myself from passing out at the swell of stabbing pain in my chest and the buckets of regret and guilt I feel.
I knew it would be hard leaving him, but I didn’t know it would be this hard or take this long for me to move on from him.
I’m okay.
The instant I hit send, he tries calling back immediately. I power down my phone and drop it into a drawer before burying my face in my pillow and screaming out my anguish.
But I can’t wallow, and the small reprieve is all I can afford.
Packing is a blur. Getting in my car happens without me remembering. Thankfully, the more methodical side of my brain stays in control, and by the time I’m merging into the predawn traffic, I’m in a different headspace, focused as opposed to emotional.
The traffic is light; within forty minutes, I’m at the airport. Parking in short-term, I bundle my hair up, hiding it inside a beanie before I wheel my luggage through the terminal doors with all the other early travelers. I stop to get a large coffee to go and a selection of premade sandwiches, chips, and candy bars. I follow the other travelers toward departures but veer off after the gate and use the exit at the opposite end of the terminal. Using the elevator, I take it up to where I park this car permanently.
All this subterfuge might be overkill, but I’m not about to test the theory when others are relying on me. The airport works as a decoy because of its size and how busy it is. I also know where the security cameras are so I can hide my features as I pass them by.
Dropping my overnight bags in the back seat of my second vehicle, and setting my coffee and snacks within easy reach, I send a text, giving an update on my arrival time. The final thing to do is swap the beanie with a cap, add a pair of dark-framed glasses, and trade my usual watch for an easily distinguishable brand in case someone sees me at the lights. Again, I might be paranoid, but I don’t care.
The disguise and measures to make tracking me harder are always the same. They’ve been a part of this community for a while now, and I’ve visited enough that there’s a risk people could put us together. And this visit is too soon after my last one, which was meant to be my goodbye visit.
The first few hours, I distract myself by listening to a podcast. I try not to think about the throbbing bite on my hand or the grief chasing me down, but eventually, I switch off the podcast. As I move higher up the mountain range, the weather turns bad. It reflects my mood perfectly.
When I finally turn onto their gravel road and drive past the gate, the day has disappeared, along with my anxiety. Waiting for the gate to lock behind me gives me the chance to settle the last of any skittish energy.
Parking inside the garage connected to the house, I get out, and Deena’s leaning against the door, waiting.
She looks tired. Her eyes are still sparkling, like they always do, but they’re not as vibrant as they usually are.
“Quinn.” She opens her arms for a hug. I instantly feel safer. She pulls back so she can give me a full check over before we head in. “You look like shit.”
“Thank you. How is he?” I ask as I step out of her hold.
Deena gives me a scowl. Rightfully so, because I probably do look like death. I certainly feel like it. Later, I’ll happily listen to her advice and kindhearted lectures, but first, I need to see him.
She’s set the heater, so the house is nice and warm, and the softest touch of lavender lingers in the air. The steady hum of the humidifier guides me towards his room. Not that I need any help, Deena and Marco have been living in this house for as long as I have been in the city.
“He’s been mostly sleeping,” she says from behind me.
“And he’s eating?” I ask.
“He will, now you’re here.” Deena walks off because I continue with the hundred or so questions I want to ask.
The hallway down to his room is only lit with a small night-light. The very same light that is installed in every other room in the house. Marco and I share many things, including a deep-seated fear of the dark.
Deena doesn’t come in with me, instead taking most of my bags from my hands and walking further down the corridor to my room.
Pushing the door open quietly, so I don’t wake him if he’s sleeping or unintentionally scare him, I find him sitting up in bed.
His usual chaos of dark curls is flattened to his forehead, and he must be sick because instead of racing over, his arms shoot up for a cuddle. I’m pulling him into my arms, catching his quiet tears as they roll down his flushed cheeks.
“I missed you so much.” I talk slowly, so he can read my lips.
