And yet, I can’t deny that there are gaps between us that have grown over the past year. There’s his relationship with Amanda.There are new friends I haven’t met. For everyjust back from a runtext I get, there is the run itself. For every picture of a dog he sends, there’s pausing to talk with its owner, scratch the dog’s head. Or maybe there’s a crosswalk because he’s headed somewhere or a table outside a coffee shop or an errand I know nothing about. I feel it like a constanttap tap tapat my skull: here are the pieces you’re missing. Here are the things you don’t know. I remind myself that even when I lived in Portland, there were moments like these I didn’t know about. I can’t have all of him. But the physical distance makes it all seem much more important, and these mundane, insignificant details only have me craving more. What else did you get at the grocery store? What color is the cat? Where did you go on a run and what did you see, smell, hear, think about? Let me crawl into your brain and make a home there.
That distance has me feeling even more anxious to get to him now.
By the time I make it to the pickup area, Ren is outside, frowning at his phone. A lump forms in my throat at the sight of him. He’s the same: faded blue jeans and a black crewneck, a white T-shirt just poking out underneath, sleeves pushed up his arms. But there’s something new about him too, and I can’t quite put my finger on it, and I hate that. Hate that it might just be a result of the divide that’s formed between us, the one we’re not talking about. “Webster!” I shout out the passenger window as I pull up to the curb, startling a tiny, elderly woman with a dog tucked under her arm.
Ren looks up, pockets his phone, and hurries to the car. He throws his stuff in the back seat before crossing to the driver’s side and opening my door.
“What are you doing?” I ask, looking up at him.
“Switching with you.”
“I’m a good driver, Ren.” I set my hands on ten and two to prove it.
“I know you are, Joni, but when have you ever wanted to drive on a road trip like this?”
I roll my eyes, but he’s right, and I get out of the driver’s seat. As I brush past him, he stops me with a hand on my elbow.
“Hey,” he says.
I squint against the sun streaming down behind him, the details of him fuzzy to me until Ren leans in a little closer and they come into focus, the almost teasing look in his eyes, the soft curve of his top lip as he smiles.
“Hey,”he says again.
His arms come around me, squeezing, and I feel like I’m home. “Missed you,” Ren says.
I fold my arms around his back. “Missed you more.”
He pulls away, nodding me toward the passenger seat. I comply, just in time to catch the eye of an older gentleman glaring at us from the front seat of his Toyota Corolla, blinker on, as he waits for our spot.
“So,” Ren says once we’ve gotten past the melee of airport traffic and are headed north. “Predictions for this weekend.”
I pout. “I’m so sad I don’t get to be at the house this year.”
“So we have to milk this weekend for all it’s worth,” Ren says, turning on his blinker to switch lanes. “I’ll go first. Your mom makes some comment about you looking tired within the first thirty minutes.”
“Ugh, no thank you,” I say and lean back against the headrest.
He taps his elbow against mine on the center console. “Your turn,” he says.
“Mmm, I don’t know. It’s hard to come up with stuff without everyone else there.”
“I predict we have a great time,” Ren says. He smiles at me in that slow, familiar way, and I find myself sinking into this moment. I reach up, rub the top of his head. He leans into my palm, pulling a laugh out of me.
It’s okay that we don’t talk every day anymore. We’re still us.
* * *
We make it to the venue half an hour later than planned due to construction on the road. We were meant to be at the rehearsal dinner fifteen minutes ago, a fact my mom has reminded me of in no fewer than three texts, all sent in five-minute increments.
We swing by the main building to check in before Ren guides the car down a loop dotted with the green-painted luxury yurts where the wedding guests will be staying. They blend in with the trees, and we almost miss number eight even though we’re practically crawling, craning our necks to find it.
Ren gets our bags out of the car while I step up onto the tiny front deck, unlock the yurt door, and hustle inside.
Ren changes in the bathroom while I throw on my dress in the main room and paw through the huge welcome gift basket on the bed. It’s stuffed with not only what Charlene and Mavis consider wedding essentials, but themed products from the farm too. “Can’t Goat You Outta My Head” shampoo and conditioner. “Forgoat Me Not” lotion. Two felted goat key chains, one of which I gleefully attach to my own key ring.
“You have to use the other one,” I say when Ren comes out of the bathroom.
After a beat of silence, I glance up to see him hovering by the door, tapping out a message on his phone. He’s in a white button-down and charcoal pants, his hunter green tie loose around his neck.
