I imagined him laughing at a story that made no sense to anyone else. I imagined the way he’d set the mug down, slow and precise, before opening the door. I imagined the first look, and what it would do to me.
I checked the rearview again, not for the hundredth time but close. The glass was black except for my own reflection, gaunt and sharp and years older than the man in the old photograph I still kept folded in my jacket pocket. I looked at the house. Then at myself. Then at the house.
There was a spot at the base of my left thumb where the steering wheel leather had peeled away, exposing the foam underneath. It had torn, probably from the hundreds of other hands before mine, and the edges were sticky with old sweat. I dug a thumbnail into the seam and worried it until the skin went raw.
If I made it to the door, would I be able to speak? What was left, after the letter and the note and all the ways I’d failed to finish anything? Did you just show up and hope the universe owed you a conversation, a second shot?
I replayed the last week. The forum post from the attorney, first viral and then deleted, had gone dark. The message boards stopped updating. The Escalade had been spotted two towns over.
The silence should have been a relief, but it was just more room for guilt to echo. There was a part of me that wanted to believe Emilio was better off without me, that the ranch would make a better home than anything I could provide. That part of me had gotten loud, lately.
But louder still was the hunger. Not literal hunger, though I’d eaten nothing but vending machine crackers and cold coffee since the last town; it was the need to see him. Not just the baby—him. Hooper. I wanted to say I missed the way he talked, the way he could make a room feel safe even when it was collapsing, but mostly I just missed being a person in his gravity.
A light flicked on upstairs. The triangle of yellow stretched across the snow, turning it almost gold for a second before fading back into blue and gray.
I started counting in my head, the way you count seconds in a lightning storm: one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. How long did it take to go from kitchen to front door? How long did it take to recognize a car that shouldn’t be there? How long before he picked up the phone and called for backup?
A shape moved behind the curtain. Not a full silhouette, just the kind of shift you’d see if someone passed close to the window, then stopped to listen. I waited for the door to open. I waited for the porch light, or the sound of boots on wood.
Nothing.
The cold pressed in, starting at my toes and working up. The heater in the Subaru was dead, so the only warmth was from my own skin, and that was fading fast.
I considered leaving. I considered driving to the next town, renting a room, and waiting for daylight before trying again. I considered just turning the engine back on and driving until I ran out of gas or states or reasons.
I considered, and then I didn’t move. Just sat, frozen in the car, watching the house, waiting for anything to happen.
It occurred to me that maybe he had seen me, and decided not to open the door. Maybe he’d read the letter and decided the cleanest thing was to let the past stay in the past, to raise the baby with no further complications. Maybe, for once, my leaving was the right thing.
I pictured Emilio in the kitchen, maybe asleep, maybe just starting to babble. I wondered if he would recognize me. I wondered if I would recognize him.
The porch light flicked on.
That was all it took to make the decision for me. I checked the mirror one more time, then unlatched the door and stepped into the cold, the gravel crunching under my boots loud enough to betray me a hundred times over. I kept my head down, hands shoved in my pockets, shoulders up around my ears like I could make myself small enough to disappear.
I walked toward the porch, one step at a time, rehearsing what I would say, coming up empty every time. I didn’t notice my own breath until it plumed in front of me, a bright white marker against the yellow porch light. I reached the steps, paused, and looked up.
The door opened. Light and warmth and the smell of coffee spilled out, and Hooper stood there, huge as ever, baby cradled in the crook of one arm, the other hand loose at his side. He didn’t say anything. He just waited, letting the cold and the night and the past wash up to the edge of the porch.
I stopped at the foot of the steps, not trusting myself to go any closer.
The porch looked different from the outside. Every old board and bent nail was a test of memory, a quiz I never studied for. There were frost flowers along the railing, each edge catching what little light bled out from the kitchen, and the screen door was held half-open by a hook, as if someone knew I would need the path clear.
Hooper moved to the top of the steps, one hip braced against the porch post, baby in the crook of his arm, his eyes almost lost in the shadow cast by the porch roof. He just waited, steady as a landmark, like the wind or the moon.
I took the first step slow, letting the gravel settle behind me. I could hear every crunch and pop of the stones under my boots, could feel every beat of my heart in my ears.
When the wind cut between the houses and found me, it was a slap, but the shock brought my body back to itself, forced my head up and forward.
My hands were shaking so bad I had to jam them in the pockets of my coat. The old patch on the left sleeve was still there, rough under my knuckles, and I used it as a worry stone, grinding my thumb into the seam.
I was halfway up the steps before I realized I’d stopped breathing, and only the sight of Hooper’s steady, lopsided grin let my lungs start up again.
He looked the same and different, both. The same arms, corded and impossible, the same shoulders wider than the state of Texas. But there was a weight in his face now, something new. He looked at the world like he’d already survived it and wasn’t sure what to do next.
I opened my mouth, tried for words, but got only the first vowel out before my throat closed. He waited, not rushing, and I realized that’s what he’d always done. Let me get there in my own time, no matter how long it took.
“Hey,” I said.
