Maybe I haven’t been as directionless as I thought, though. Maybe I just needed someone to point me in the right direction. All along, I was holding off on putting down roots because I always knew I would leave again, that I don’t belong here anymore.
Sure, my family is here. But my cousins haven’t stayed for that. They’ve made families of their own, moved on and made lives for themselves here or outside Faulkner. This town isn’t a trap unless I let it be.
I finish my cigarette and turn to Dad.
“Would you be pissed if I left?”
“Depends on where you’re going,” he says, giving me a suspicious look, like he thinks I’m headed to the bar. But that urge doesn’t come.
That realization settles something inside me. I used to get wasted to escape, but this isn’t something I want to escape. Even though it’s scary, for once, I want to run toward it instead of away.
“I think I left something I need back in New York,” I say.
Dad lifts his brows. “Something? Or someone?”
“Someone,” I say, swallowing hard. “A man.”
I’m not ready to tell him who it is, but in this way, I had it easy compared to Duke. I never had to worry about losing the most important people in my life. I never even had to come out to my family. We’ve always accepted each other exactly as we are in every aspect of our lives, from my brother’s rebellion to my sister’s neurospicy quirks to who I have in my bed, without judgment or criticism. I know that for Dad, it’s because his father was the opposite, but I’ve never fully appreciated it as much as I do now.
Dad puffs on his cigar for a few seconds, watching me over the fat stub, before he says, “I’ll be less upset if you leave now than if you keep coming back here every year for Christmas until you’re my age.”
I stand, then bend and kiss the top of his thinning hair. “Thanks, Dad.”
A few hours later, I’m flying back into New York. Between getting a flight and travel time, it’s late in the evening by the time I arrive. The tarmac is swirling with snow, but we make it in. I get a ride to the only place I know besides my hotel. Luckily I’m good with that kind of thing and clearheaded enough to remember where he lives. I could never have done that when I was fucked up all the time.
The driver leaves me, and I walk up to his building through the soft carpet of snow covering the ground. It hasn’t piled up high yet, but the driver said it’s supposed to keep going all night. For a moment, I stop and marvel. Christmas lights are twined around the building, and inside the lobby, I can see big shiny ornaments and a twinkling tree. Outside, though, everything is quiet, soft, and still under the layer of white.
I ask the doorman to call up, but no one answers. I try a few more times before I accept defeat. He’s not here.
I wait outside, stomping my feet and blowing into my hands to keep them warm. At last, I give in and text my sister.
Dynamo: Is Duke there?
MaybeItsMabel: no he left a while ago
My mind immediately goes to dark thoughts—he told her to say that because he doesn’t want to see me; he’s home but not answering the door because he looked out the window and saw me out here. Then worse thoughts come. He could be at a club right now, meeting a stranger to take the edge off what heprobably perceives as rejection. My stomach knots at the idea, and I finally admit to myself that whatever the reason, I’m not going to see him. It’s too late.
I got a chance, and already blew it. Maybe in this life, I don’t get another.
I turn away from the door, pull my hood up, and shove my hands into my pockets, hunching against the cold as I start to go. I don’t know where I’m going, just that I need to get away. I glance in both directions, trying to decide. There’s a figure ahead on the right. My chest tightens, and I stop in front of his building, on the sidewalk.
He’s walking with his head down, hands in the pockets of his coat, but I know. I know his stride, the shape of his broad shoulders, the hat pulled down over his hair, so just a few curls sneak out at the bottom. Something in the image makes me sad, how lonely a figure he cuts, alone on Christmas Eve, plodding through the falling snow by himself. His gait is slow, his shoulders slumped a bit, as if in defeat, as if he’s dreading making it home.
My heart hammers harder with each step he takes. I don’t know what to do with myself. Is that dread because of me? If it is, will he even want to see me? He might be angry about the way I left.
I don’t want to just stand there with my hands in my pockets waiting for him to notice me like some pathetic dog sniffing around outside his house. My fingers close around a book of matches in my pocket, and I remember how much he loves fire. How much it calmed him just last night, though it feels like a lifetime ago.
I strike one, watching the flame flare before it flickers and goes out. I light another one, and then another, until he finally looks up and notices me. He stops under the closest streetlamp, the snow swirling down around him in a cold blue haze.
The match dies, and I strike another.
He stares at the bright flare, then tears his gaze away, back to me.
“What are you doing?”
“Lighting your way home.”
“With matches?”
