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Seven years later.
Quietly and efficiently, Justin and I walk through the airport. It isn’t long before we’ve taken the elevators to parking and he’s opening the passenger door of a black 4Runner sport utility for me.
“I’ll put your bags in the back,” he offers, holding his hand out for my pack. After taking my phone from one of the smaller front pockets, there’s nothing else in my bag I need, so I hand it over.
The doors closing echo in the concrete walls of the parking garage.
When Justin starts the vehicle, music blares loudly. “Sorry,” he mutters, rotating the dial left quickly.
“It’s okay.”
In the confines of his personal vehicle, I’m more aware of him.
Yes, my heart stuttered in my chest when I saw it was him picking me up from the airport, but now, my entire body feels like it’s alive.
The energy coursing through my veins is unlike any attraction I’ve felt for a man in recent years.
In my peripheral vision, I watch as his strong hand grips the top of the steering wheel. When he slowly rotates the wheel, maneuvering the vehicle toward and down the exit ramp, the muscles in his forearms bunch. I am practically salivating at the show.
Mentally shaking my head, I unlock my phone and open the email app. I’m renting a small home near campus, and the landlady was going to email me to let me know when I could drop by to pick up the keys.
“How’s your father?” I ask, making small talk as I wait for the device to load. Belatedly, I realize I still have airplane mode on.
“He’s good,” Justin answers, slowing to a stop in a line of vehicles waiting to pay parking. “Retired last month.”
“He was…Army?” I only met Justin’s bio dad once, when Justin had his appendix taken out. He brought Justin home from the hospital and then played with Noah in the backyard when the six year old asked if he and Bill wanted to play catch.
Once more, I’d been hit with the realization that the Johnson family—with the Weigand dad—were a far cry different from my own family.
“Air Force.”
“Oh, yes. That’s right. Planes and things.”
I don’t know who my father is, and Layne’s dad? Never laid claim to me. He certainly wasn’t playing catch with me, when his own daughter was nearby.
Honestly, if it weren’t for Layne, I’m not sure I’d have survived to adulthood.
Now though, I’m twenty-four and happily moving on with my life.
I’ve taken a position as an assistant coach for Denver’s college gymnastics team, with the career path to become the head coach in two to three years. I was one of the most decorated young gymnasts in Australia before I completely gave up elite training, but ended up going back to the sport, coaching throughout university.
At that point of my life, gymnastics was finally on my terms. My mother’s thoughts and opinions no longer mattered.
I do my best to ignore as Justin lifts his hip from the seat, retrieving a wallet from his back pocket, and instead, refresh my email screen. Unread messages pop up that weren’t there during my layover in LAX.
Including one from my upcoming landlady.
The email I was waiting for.
Except, the message is the opposite of what I hoped to read.
“Well, bugger me,” I groan, the first wave of oh shit, what have I done? hitting.
“What’s up?” Justin glances at me as he presses the ‘up’ button on his window, pulling away from the payment kiosk.
“My rental fell through.” I type out a courteous reply, even though I’m feeling the exact opposite of kind.
“What do you mean, it fell through?”
