We stare at each other, and it’s as if we both have something to say but are holding our tongues.
“Goodbye.”
He kisses me, long and deep. Our eyes close at the contact. He holds my face in his hands, and my feet float from the floor. “Call me when you get home so I know you got there safe?” He pushes my hair behind my shoulders.
“Okay.” I smile up at him.
With one last big hug and another kiss, he lets me go, and I climb into my car.
He puts his hands into his jeans pockets as I pull out, and with one last sad wave, I drive off. My eyes watch him in the rearview mirror as I drive toward the exit of the parking lot. He’s standing still and watching my car disappear.
“Goodbye, Tristan.” I sigh. All good things come to an end . . . damn it.
Why do you have to be him?
An hour later I pull into the driveway at home.
I sit and stare at it for a while. There’s a bike on the porch and a basketball left on the ground near the hoop. Shoes are scattered everywhere, and no matter how many times I tell them to pack their crap away, it always looks like this.
I smile at the familiarity. I’m home.
I pick up my phone and text Tristan.
Arrived home, safe and sound.
xoxox
I climb out of the car, and the front door flies open. Patrick and Harry come flying out. “Hello.” I laugh. They both nearly tackle me to the ground as they wrap their arms around me.
“Hello, my darlings. I missed you.” I cuddle them both and squeeze them tight.
“Did you bring us presents?” Patrick asks.
“Yes, hello, Mom,” I correct him.
“Hello, Mom,” Patrick repeats.
“Mom, Fletcher is out of control,” Harry says. “He didn’t rinse the dishes before he put them in the dishwasher, and now it’s clogged.”
“Oh.” I frown as I pop the trunk.
“Him and Grandma are trying to fix it now.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I mutter as I grab my suitcase. Harry takes it from me and starts to pull it up the driveway.
“Let me do it,” Patrick says.
“No,” Harry snaps. “You’re too little.”
“I am not too little,” Patrick yells at the top of his voice as he swings a punch at his brother.
Harry pushes Patrick, and he falls over. “Oww. Mom, he pushed me!” he yells.
I roll my eyes. Ugh. I haven’t missed their bickering. “Shh, it’s late,” I whisper. “Keep your voice down. Poor Mrs. Reynolds will wake up.”
I glance up at the window next door. If the truth be known, Mrs. Reynolds is already watching us. She knows what happens in the street before it actually happens.
We walk up to the front porch. “Why are everyone’s shoes everywhere?” I ask. “The shoebox is for shoes.”