The closer we got to home, our tires eating up the miles and miles of winding mountain roads, the heavier my heart felt.
Tonight was the escape I needed, but coming back home was the reality slap I was desperately wanting to avoid.
“Are you okay?” Jack asks when he flicks on one of the lamps, illuminating the cabin in a warm glow.
It hurts to look around at the cabin, the space that has become familiar and homey the last few weeks. When I was back at the Airstream today, it didn’t feel like it used to. The walls seemed too close, and when I went outside my land seemed too vast, too empty. I was so alone until Jack showed up.
Until he swept me away.
And now we’re home, or rather in this temporary cabin, the clock on our time together ticking away.
“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “Just tired.”
The day feels heavy, weighing down on me like an albatross around my neck.
Jack looks like he doesn’t believe me, like he wants to press. But there are circles beneath his eyes, too, evidence of our late night. Silently, I will him to let it go. I hope he will mistake my mood as only the lingering upset from my conversations with Wren and my mom.
“Okay,” he finally says. “We better get to bed.”
“Yeah,” I agree, and he flicks the lamp back off, blanketing us in darkness.
We shuffle down the hall by memory and the light of the moon, stopping in front of our respective doors. They’re directly across from one another.
“Goodnight, Stevie,” he says.
“Goodnight, Jack.”
He disappears into his room, and I let myself into mine, closing the door behind me and leaning my back against it. I hear the faint noises of him getting ready for bed, a drawer closing, the sink turning on as he brushes his teeth. But I don’t move. I wait until I’m sure he’s in bed, sound asleep, and slip out.
The air is cold when I leave the cabin, crossing the short distance to my truck. The drive to the Airstream isn’t long, just enough time for the cab of my old truck to warm up.
The Airstream still needs work, but the heat is on and that’s enough for me to sleep here. I don’t want to be at the cabin when Jack wakes up. I don’t want to run into him as he’s making himself coffee before his shift, scarfing it down with his meal-prepped chicken, which I find heinous.
Tonight with Jack was too easy. He made my problems disappear for a bit. And that is far too tempting because they will still be here in a couple of weeks and he will not. I will once again be left alone to deal with them, and I can’t let myself rely on him.
I need distance. Space. Time to figure out how to deal with my problems myself, just like I always have. And I can’t do that when he’s around. He makes it too easy for me to lean on him, let him shoulder my burdens.
I go through the motions of getting ready. Showering off the day, brushing my teeth, and dressing in an oversized T-shirt I left in my drawers. When I finally lower myself into my bed and tug the blankets around my shoulders, I pull out my phone and open my camera roll. I scroll past the selfies Jack and I took tonight, the photo I snapped of his purple-stained smile, and click on the one of the magnetic calendar we have stuck to the fridge. He’s working a series of four overnight shifts, then he’s off for three days. My schedule is wide open as hiking season nears the end.
If I put my mind to it, I could probably finish the repairs on the Airstream by the time he’s off work. I could move out of the cabin. I know I’d still see him, but at least I’d have an escape, someplace I could come back to to keep my heart safe. It’s the only way I can fathom preserving this friendship past his Fontana Ridge expiration date. When he’s gone, the temptation will be too.
I let my head fall back on the pillow and stare up at the glow in the dark star stickers I stuck to the curved roof. After Jack showed me the constellations the other night, I know these stars make no sense. A haphazard arrangement.
My chest aches and my heart feels heavy. I press a hand to my sternum, feeling thethump, thump, thumpbeneath my skin. I want to go back to the cabin, open Jack's door, and let him tell me everything will be okay. But that’s the exact opposite of what I need to do.
Instead, I roll over and wrap my arms around my spare pillow, hugging it to my chest so I don’t feel so alone. It takes a long time before I finally drift off to sleep.
Ihaven’tseenSteviesince the night we went to Gatlinburg. She had already left when I got up to get ready for my shift, and every morning when I get home, she’s gone. There’s nothing on the calendar for her, so I assume she’s working at the Airstream, but the last few days at work have been so exhausting that I haven’t felt like driving out there to check.
The cabin feels lonely without her.
My phone pings with an incoming email as I lower myself onto the couch after finishing the last of my “dinner.” It’s from Amy with a list of contracts that start shortly after mine ends here. Most travel nurses take breaks in between contracts, and I do sometimes, too, although they're never long. Amy knows I prefer to move on quickly.
There’s a contract in Florida, and I briefly consider heading back there for the winter so I can enjoy the warm weather, but it doesn’t appeal to me for very long. There’s one in Chicago I don’t even read. Another in Oregon that I write off because it doesn’t start until the middle of January. I skim the list, and myeyes snag on a contract in Billings, Montana. Thirteen weeks, and only two hours away from home. It starts at the end of December, which would be one of the longest breaks I’ve taken since I started travel nursing. Before coming here, I never would have considered it, but things have changed since I stepped foot in this little town in the mountains. I’ve changed.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I reply to Amy’s email asking for more information on the Billings placement. As soon as thewhooshof the email sending sounds, my phone vibrates with an incoming call.
Evan’s contact photo fills the screen.
