But I wait.
For now, that’s enough.
The plane takes off, the city drops away, and I close my eyes, letting the sound of the engines drown out everything else.
Next time, I’ll take the shot.
———
SeaTac is a zoo.
Every terminal is choked with bodies, the echo of PA announcements drowned out by the chorus of wheelie suitcases and the wet cough of Seattle rain hammered into every jacket and backpack.
I haven’t slept. I haven’t even pretended to sleep. I move through the crowd on muscle memory alone, barely feeling my feet on the ground.
At baggage claim, I stare at the carousel, watching it spit out identical suitcases, each one more beat up than the last.
My bag is third off, navy blue, duct-taped at the corner from the time it got run over by a shuttle in Calgary.
I grab it, the handle cold in my palm, and for a second I just stand there, letting the swirl of strangers blur around me.
My phone vibrates. It’s not Ash. Just an alert from the airline, asking for feedback. “How was your flight?” I want to write “Uneventful” but that’s a lie, so I delete it and toss the phone back in my pocket.
I drag my bag to a bench by the window, collapse into the seat, and stare out at the parking lot.
Raindrops race each other down the glass, merging, splitting, a thousand tiny collisions that end in nothing.
I take out my phone, unlock it, and open the message thread to Ash.
I type: “Made it back.”
Delete.
Type: “You around?”
Delete.
Type: “I’m sorry.”
Delete.
I think about all the things I want to say.
But the thought that stops my thumb every time is the same one, what if he's still with Vincent? What if I pushed him away and someone else caught him?
I don't know if Ash is still seeing him, and the not-knowing is worse than any answer could be.
Every attempt at a message makes it worse, like digging a hole and throwing the dirt straight up into the wind.
I look up and watch the flow of people in the terminal.
There’s a couple by the arrivals gate, clinging to each other like they survived a shipwreck. The woman is crying, but the man just holds her, palms flat on her back, face buried in her hair.
Farther down, a kid in a puffy coat is losing his mind over a paper bag full of popcorn. Two old men are laughing at something on a phone, one of them slapping the other on the knee with each punchline.
I think about my parents, about my mom’s quiet acceptance, about my dad’s lecture on risk and reward.
I think about how neither of them ever said, “Don’t be who you are.” I think about how I’m still scared anyway.
