Better Than Home: Better Than Good Novella

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“Your heart knows the way. Run in that direction.” — Rumi

Movers bustled around the near-empty apartment, pulling carefully labeled boxes from the living room and heaving them to the truck idling in front of our SoHo building. The creaky, old hardwood flooring and the blend of five-borough accents somehow complemented the opera music our neighbor had cranked at top volume.

It was the sort of thing my husband usually laughed about or counterattacked by blasting Bad Bunny till the picture frames rattled against the thin walls.

Today, he didn’t seem to notice.

Aaron stared blankly out the window at the street below. Sunlight glinted off his raven hair, his navy cashmere coat, and his shiny boots, washing him in an ethereal glow reminiscent of the lighting in a fashion magazine. He emanated sophistication, elegance, and beauty.

And…sadness.

I crossed the room and set my hand on his shoulder, bending to nuzzle his neck. He might feel like crap, but God, he smelled good. He looked good too, I mused, noting our reflections in the glass.

We were opposites in practically every way. I was tall, Aaron was short. I had dark-blond hair, blue eyes, and was reasonably in shape while Aaron had hazel eyes, olive skin, and the physique of a runner.

When he was stressed or unhappy, he ran more than usual. It was fair to say he’d worn out a dozen pairs of sneakers over the last year and a half.

But we were going to fix that. Starting now.

“Babe, they’re just about done here. Let’s get coffee and walk to the park. We can soak up some sunshine and listen to the grad students play Mozart on the piano one more time before we head to the airport.”

A smile ghosted across his lips. “A latte sounds nice.”

“You got it.” I laced my fingers with his and kissed our joined hands, pulling him toward the open door.

We bought lattes from our favorite coffee shop on West Broadway, then crossed Houston and made our way to Washington Square Park. Resilient daffodils popped through patches of melting snow in the flower beds along the path leading to the grand fountain in the middle.

Aaron adjusted his sunglasses and inspected our favorite bench for bird poop, crumbs, or morning dew before taking a seat. I held his latte while he pulled his gloves on and tucked his coat around him to ward off the late-March chill. Then I handed over his drink and settled beside him, mentally going over the day ahead.

There wasn’t much more to do in the city. We just had to give the apartment one last glance, return the keys, and hire a ride to the airport. I honestly couldn’t wait to get home. I had a lot of work on my desk.

“Will you have time to go to your office today?” he asked as if reading my mind.

“I’m not sure. I have to meet the movers at our storage facility. I think I’ll just do what I can from home and go in on Monday.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can meet the movers. I don’t have anything else to do.” His lips quivered as he valiantly fought tears—and lost the battle, with a dramatic sob followed by waterworks.