“Thanks,” Landon answers for us. “Have you seen Angie? She was supposed to pick us up at the airport.”
Holden’s brow furrows so deeply I can see it in the moonlight from here. “Yeah, Larry drove her to the airport.”
“What?”
“Who is Larry?” I ask even though that’s irrelevant.
“It’s his nickname for me. Don’t ask,” Winnie says, rolling her eyes but smiling as she steps onto the porch. “She said she told you she was heading back to California to tie up some loose ends.”
“She didn’t tell me,” Landon says quietly, and my stomach drops.
“Are you sure?” Winnie asks as Landon stomps up the steps to the cottage, his suitcase clipping each one as he goes. “Did you miss a text while in flight or something? Are you still on airplane mode?”
She wants desperately for this not to be a problem for her nephew. But sadly, it’s just one of many. I follow Landon up the steps. “I’m sure it was just a miscommunication.”
She nods, but she looks as confident as Landon sounds, which is not one bit. Angie and Landon are in what I would call a death spiral. I mean, not that I have any experience with long-term relationships. I’ve had exactly two in my life, one that ended after a threesome that made me realize I was gay and one that was fake from the get-go. Both of us gay, sick of being asked why we were single or being set up by friends, and both of us unable or unwilling to come out. So we decided to ‘date’ each other. That lasted sixteen months, four years ago, and my family still asks about Jill. She’s moved to Rochester, has a wife and two dogs now. She came out.
Landon leaves his suitcase on the porch as he steps into the dark, silent house. I step in behind him, bringing both our suitcases with me, and flip on the overhead light in the living room. He is marching through the dining room and toward the stairs. “Angie!”
There’s desperation in his call, like he’s trying to will her into existence in the house. Like Winnie is wrong, and he’s desperate to prove it. I turn, take his keys out of the lock, and when I place them on the hook by the door, that’s when I notice the note on the little desk under the window. She didn’t put it in an envelope or even fold it so I read it without thinking.
Headed back to L.A. I need some time alone to think. I think we both do. Will call. xx Angie
“Hey, Landon! There’s a note!”
He’s in front of the desk, holding the note two seconds later. I shove my hands into my pockets and debate what to do. I can’t tell what he’s thinking from his face. He seems to be reading it over and over. Does he need me here, or should I leave? Slink off to my room and give him some space. Finally, before I can decide what to do, he folds the note and puts it back on the desk. “This isn’t like her.”
“So call her. Figure it out.”
He mulls over the idea but then shakes his head. “No. She can call,” he says as he storms into the kitchen. “I’m making popcorn and gonna finish that show on Netflix we started.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Can you join, or are you busy?” It’s a casual question, but it makes me happy.
“I’ll join. Just gonna change first and bring my suitcase upstairs.”
“Cool.”
I head upstairs and peel out of my business casual wear, because we don’t have to wear suits on the plane ride home, and throw on a pair of workout shorts and a hoodie. The weather is crisp in Maine right now. Not cold enough for pants but cold enough for a hoodie. When I get back downstairs, I hear the first pops of the popcorn on the stove.
“Can you shake that so it doesn’t burn?” Landon calls from his room.
I head into the kitchen and tend to the popcorn, noticing there’s another small sauce pot with half a stick of butter melting in it. I guess this is the dude’s version of stress-eating. The popcorn begins to pop fast and furious, and he’s behind me a minute later, looking over my shoulder. He reaches around and turns the burner off. I can feel his shirt brush against my hoodie and instantly wish it was his skin against mine. “Pops are basically done. Bring it over here.”
He walks over to the counter and reaches up to open a cupboard. “Your favorite chip flavor is salt-n-vinegar, right?”
“Yeah.”
He pulls down a big red plastic bowl from the top shelf. The movement lifts the bottom hem of the soft gray Quake fleece sweatshirt that he’s changed into. My eyes zone in on the smooth, tight strip of skin across his lower back. I would love to touch it. I would have loved to touch it when we were all naked. I would love to press my palm there and bend him over and…
“You okay?” Landon’s question makes me realize he’s put the bowl on the counter and has turned around, waiting for me to dump the popcorn in it. I fight the urge to blush as he takes the pot from me, our fingers brushing. “Please don’t take her antics as a sign to leave sooner.”
“What? Angie? No. I won’t.” I turn to the fridge as he carefully pours some popcorn from the pot to the bowl, pauses to pour a little bit of butter, then salt, and then repeats the process. “What do you want to drink?”
“Since this is a lot of fat and crap, I will contain my urge to say a root beer and just have water.” He sounds depressed, but that’s probably more about Angie than his diet. “I’m eating my feelings. I can’t afford to drink them too.”
“If you were going to drink them, I recommend tequila, not root beer.”
