My mom called with bad news just after I landed in Denver.
Except, of course, she thought it wasgoodnews.
“We got lucky!” she declared as I picked up. “Walker can join us, after all.”
I’d just reached baggage claim. I stopped walking. “What?”
“He just landed, too,” my mom went on, “according to Taffy.”
“You said he wasn’t coming!” I protested. “You said he couldn’t walk!”
It had been a glorious, golden relief to hear—just a few days ago—that he’d torn the meniscus in his knee playing pickup basketball and couldn’t make the trip.
“The trip” was a weekend in the Rockies, in the cabin where our two families had vacationed every summer my whole childhood. Our dads had both died—years apart, but still—and since they’d always joked they wanted to be scattered off the top of Turnaround Pass, our moms had decided to make it happen. This spring break. At last.
They kept calling it a “get-together,” like it would be something fun. They’d even bought matching group T-shirts.
But getting together had been harder than they expected.
Our moms were empty-nester widows who had worked hard to make friends, pursue hobbies, and dive into “the wisdom of midlife,” as Taffy liked to say, and they had all the time in the world for getaways. But I was well out of college now and working nine to five plus weekends and nights as a graphic designer. And Walker was even worse: He’d joinedthe navy straight out of high school, prowled the seas in a submarine for years, and now that his service was up, he was back—doing nonstop prerequisites before starting an undergrad feeder program for med school in the fall.
Tricky for scheduling.
But no matter. The moms were determined to make it happen. They texted us relentlessly until we all had plane tickets—and my monthslong countdown of seeing-Walker-again dread began.
Days before the trip, when Taffy called to say Walker was out, my mother wanted to reschedule.
“Let’s just go next year,” she said, holding out the phone with Taffy on speaker.
“Another year could turn into a decade,” I argued—utterly unwilling to let this chance to avoid Walker go. “Don’t you think Dad has waited long enough?”
Was I protesting too much?
But Walker had made the same argument. The logistics were settled. Everything was planned. We should just go ahead without him.
In the end, our moms agreed.
“But what about the ashes?” my mom asked. “Walker was supposed to take Steve’s up the pass.”
Ever practical, Taffy said, “We can save some for him in a sandwich bag.”
Beautiful. Perfect. It was settled.
If we played it right,I thought,we might never have to see each other again.
It felt like the luckiest near miss in the world.
But now, after all that ... here he was.
Looking unhurt. Looking fine, in fact—better than fine. Looking, to be honest, like some kind of peak representation of the human form. All the schlumpy people milling aroundthe carousel blurred into the background, and for a second, Walker was all I could see.
Walker, who I hadn’t talked to since he enlisted. Walker, who had turned into a grown-up man. I took it all in: The way his T-shirt sleeves squeezed just above his biceps. The way his pants hugged his hips. The way the tendons in his neck curved down toward his collarbones.
Hisshoulders.
Good god.
I spun around at the sight of him—and seriously considered walking right out of the airport and leaving my bag unclaimed at the carousel.
