Fortuity (Transcend 3)

After Gabe goes to bed, I take a long bath, pressing a cold washcloth to my swollen eyes. Then I pour a glass of wine a few minutes before midnight and sneak back up to my room without waking Mr. Hans. With my lights off, I crack open my curtains a few inches. The light of the moon hits Nate’s balcony like a spotlight.

I narrow my eyes. He’s sitting on the floor of the balcony with his back against the door, knees bent with an arm resting on each knee and … he brings something to his mouth. He’s smoking. It can’t be a cigarette. I know he doesn’t smoke. So it has to be pot. A tiny laugh escapes me. Nathaniel Hunt is an incredible dad, and I’m sure a brilliant professor, but he’s also so incredibly human with a hidden vulnerability.

Me and my full glass of red wine take a seat on my bed, legs crisscrossed, and no judgment whatsoever toward Nate and his joint. If anything, I might feel a little envy.

I thought I was bad at goodbyes. He’s worse.

After our last time together, I prided myself and him on our level of maturity, making the right decision, knowing better than to drag it out any further. Yet, here we are … drinking and smoking. Not talking. Not saying a proper goodbye.

We sit in silent misery for two hours. I’m not even sure he’s still awake until he finally climbs to his feet, stares at my window for a few more seconds, turns, and goes back inside. Without turning to lie on my pillow or crawl under my covers, I collapse onto my side next to my empty wine glass and close my eyes.

The next morning I wake when I hear something outside. Sitting up, I rub my eyes and look out the window. The sun is just barely lighting the sky. Nate and Morgan load luggage into their rental car. Nate closes the trunk and glances up at my bedroom window. I step back behind the curtain, so he doesn’t see me. Reality has settled into its usual full-body numbness. It’s instinctual to protect the heart from exploding into a dust of nothingness. The pain will set in over time. I’m very experienced with pain.

I stiffen as footsteps tap the wood stairs to my balcony. Pressing my back to the wall on the other side of the door, I hold completely still.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I hold my breath because it’s loud and labored at the moment.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Gracelyn, please open the door.”

I scrape my teeth along my bottom lip over and over again.

“Please …” his voice breaks.

Something behind my ribs starts to break too.

“That wasn’t a goodbye … last night. It was awful. I don’t want to get on the plane with that goodbye. But … I have to go, so please just open the door.”

There is no good to this goodbye. It’s a bad bye. He’s right … it’s awful. Opening that door will not make it better. It just won’t.

“Fine …” Something thunks against the glass door. Sounds like his forehead. “There’s not enough time left to say everything that needs to be said. And Morgan is waiting in the car. So …”

I wait.

And wait.

Then I hear footsteps retreating.

So? SO?

My heart pounds my chest like a hard, angry fist. Every breath feels insufficient. He took the oxygen and left me with a long so …

Pressing my hands to my chest to keep my heart from breaking out, I squeeze my eyes shut, but all I see is him …

Nate carrying me and my sprained ankle off the beach.

Nate grinning at me shoving lingerie into my pocket.

Nate playing with the kids on the beach, chasing Morgan like a monster.

Nate stealing that first kiss behind the counter.

The second kiss …

Every smile.

Every touch.

Every whisper.

“Nate …” his name rips from my throat.

In nothing but gray boy-shorts and a white and pink heart patterned tank top, I swing open the door and run down the stairs and toward his car. He stops with his back to me a few feet before the trunk of the backed-in rental car. He’s wearing jeans and a black rain jacket, a good choice with the rumbling sky.

I open my mouth, but the only thing that comes out are loud breaths. I squint as the sky starts to spit drops of rain. My shaky hand finds the clasp to my bracelet, and I remove it, keeping it fisted in my right hand.

Still … he doesn’t face me.

“I was embarrassed …” I find my voice. “And I don’t know why, because it’s a necessary job that a lot of people would never do, but I shouldn’t have cut your hair. I should have told you the truth. And none of this matters because in a few hours you’ll be hundreds of miles away from here. I won’t tell you goodbye because I can’t. Even though I know this is the right thing, it doesn’t feel good right now. You can’t leave me with a simple so. You have to finish what you were going to say.”