As I exit the restaurant into the brisk Chicago night, the wind whips across my face. I’m wide-eyed and giddy. I can’t believe my own crazy mother is the one who finally helped me break free.
***
The only flight back to Atlanta with an available seat is on the red-eye. The plane sits on the tarmac and prepares for takeoff, and my phone calls and texts to George are left unanswered. I shoot Jenny a message letting her know I’ll be there tomorrow. Hopefully, she will let him know.
A tired businessman in a disheveled suit sits next to me. I’m glad he immediately slides headphones over his ears and ignores me as I go through my list of plans, my body buzzing with purpose.
Once I land, I’ll take an Uber home, repack my bags, get a few hours of sleep, and head to Jamison Farm first thing in the morning. I wish I could have told George I got Jenny’s message before takeoff. I wish I could have told him in person that I was on my way.
Why won’t he answer his phone?
Beverly answers on the first ring.
“Hey! I’ve been dying to hear about tonight with Mom. How’d it go? How was the show?” she asks.
“I didn’t make the show.”
“What? Oh, no…”
“It’s not like that. I met her for dinner, and then her fiancé, Mike, joined us.”
“What a minute. Mom isengaged?”
A mature flight attendant walks by and pauses. “Handbag under the seat, please,” she instructs.
“Oh, yes. Sorry.” I quickly tuck my purse into the space by my feet. “Bev, I don’t have much time. The plane is about to take off.”
“I have so many questions!”
“I know. I’ll call you in the morning and explain everything, okay?”
“Just answer me this: Are you all right?”
I exhale a long breath and close my eyes, the slight smile on my face translating to happiness through my voice. “Yes. I’ve never been better.”
“Okay. Safe travels, sistah. I’m proud of you.”
“Why?”
I haven’t told Beverly anything. Not about how I planned on calling my boss first thing in the morning to give him my notice. Not about my plans to head to the farm. And most importantly, I didn’t tell her my true feelings for George.
“Because I think you’ve made a big decision. Am I right?”
“You know me better than anyone.”
“Ya got that right.”
The same flight attendant walks by again and gives me the stink eye, shaking her head.
“I’ve gotta go, Bev. I love you.”
“Love you back. Bye!”
As the plane ascends into the night sky, I scroll through my phone photos of George from the day he snapped pictures of me skipping through the lavender fields. The slew of unintentional selfies often soothe me on my worst days. Photos of the gentle man in various degrees of mishap always make me smile, my longing to be near him becoming a growing ache deep in my bones.
But my grip on those days has gotten away from me, and I know the weeks and months we’ve been apart are my fault. Will George forgive me? Can I make him understand how sorry I am for ghosting him?
Running my thumb across the phone screen with his incredibly handsome face staring back at me, I whisper, “I’m coming home and never leaving again. I promise.”
