The logical side of my brain is already racing forward.
Lena's settled in a quiet little town just outside Raleigh, a cozy spot where rumors spread faster than the mail ever could.
My more reasonable side asks what the hell I think I am doing.
She didn't invite me. She didn't answer my text.
She probably wishes that message had gone to anyone else. Showing up on her doorstep isn't smart, fair, or the move of a sane man.
I book the flight anyway.
There is a red-eye in three hours. I pay extra for the changeable ticket and shove my wallet into my back pocket. Phone in my hand, bag on my shoulder, I lock the apartment and head for the car.
The drive to the airport is a long strip of highway and bad radio. I put something on to fill the silence and kill it two songs later when the talk show host starts giving relationship advice he clearly does not follow.
I would laugh if I were not busy proving that grown men can still act like idiots over one woman.
At the airport, I move through check-in on autopilot. My body remembers lines, trays, scanners. All the years in uniform trained that into me.
The only difference is the reason my heart is beating harder than it should. I find my gate and sit near the window.
An old habit kicks in. I check exit paths and assess faces. I clock the guy who drinks too fast, the woman who keeps checking her bag, the teenager who looks one argument away from a meltdown. Then I check my phone again.
Nothing from her.
I open the chat one more time.
I need to see you.
This is the most honest thing I have told her in five years. I still dressed it as a command. Old habits.
Boarding starts. I take my middle seat without complaining, buckle up, close my eyes, and lean my head back. Sleep doesn't come. Instead, I get the usual parade of history.
The night on her father's porch. Her soft mouth under mine. The taste of beer.
Her body opening for me.
The sound she made when I pushed all the way in.
The trust in her eyes when she called mesirand let me take everything I wanted.
Then the morning I handled like a coward. Making her coffee, warming her brownie, leaving a note instead of a plan. Telling myself I would sit her down, explain why I was wrong for her, walk away before I ruined her life. Telling myself that hurt now would save her more later.
She beat me to it. She walked first. I came back to an empty room and a folded note. I sent a text that got no answer. Then another. Then a third. After that, I told myself the decent thing was to stop.
I have built a life on reading threats and taking action before they land. I watched one land on both of us and sat in my own fallout for five years.
The plane touches down in the gray edge of morning.
My muscles are stiff from pretending to sleep.
I collect my bag, find the rental counter, and pick up the keys to a car. Her city is waking up as I pull onto the main road. Shops lifting shutters.
People in suits and sneakers, coffee in hand. Traffic lights blink through patterns that I obey without thinking.
I know where she lives. I would love to say I do not, but I am a security professional and a stubborn bastard.
After she went off the grid on me, I checked public records to make sure she was at least alive and not in any visible trouble.
