Uncrossing my arms, I pushed off the doorframe.
“I need to pack.”
The short walk to my bedroom took only a few steps. Dragging my battered canvas duffel bag out from under the bare mattress, I tossed my clothes inside. I pulled up the Greyhound website and booked the evening bus back to campus. The ticket wiped out most of what was left in my checking account.
Waiting for the departure time was pure torture. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I watched Karter’s name pop up on my locked screen. Two new text messages waited for me. Before today, ignoring his texts felt like a necessary sacrifice to protect him. Now, staring at the glowing notifications, a knot of anxiety twisted in my gut. I desperately wanted to reply, but I had no idea what to say.
The cruel lies I fed him before walking away could not be undone with a quick message. Fixing this mistake required standing right in front of him and taking whatever anger he threw at me.
Hours later, I sat crammed against the vibrating window of the Greyhound bus heading out of Detroit with the steady hum of the engine seeping through the thin floorboards.
A cracked plastic vent under the seat blasted dry heat against my boots as I leaned against the rattling bus window.
To distract myself on the long ride back to Ridge Cross, I tapped my phone to keep the screen awake. Karter’s name sat at the top of my message app.
Taking a bare-knuckle punch to the jaw felt easier than figuring out what to type.
Tapping the keyboard, I drafted a quick line.
Coach called. I’m heading back.
The letters sat there, sterile as a line change update. I held down the backspace key until the screen went blank. The overhead vent rattled above my seat while I stared at the empty text field.
For the next twenty miles, I typed out a dozen different apologies. Every single attempt got wiped away.
Typing out the truth was the only way.
I’m coming back. I don’t know if you still want me after everything I said. But I’m done running. I’m done being afraid. You called me a coward, and you were right. Let me prove you wrong.
My thumb tapped send.
The green bubble loaded onto the illuminated screen. A tiny delivery receipt appeared right beneath the block of text. Pressing the side button, I rested the phone against my thigh.
For the next four hours, the dark cabin offered nothing but the rumble of the diesel engine. And every time the bus tires hit a rut in the asphalt, I checked the display.
The message thread remained empty, and anxiety began to churn at the base of my throat.
Karter saw my text. He is choosing not to answer.
I ran a frustrated hand over my face, shoved the phone deep into my coat pocket, then leaned my head against the cold window glass. The engine vibrations rattled through my jaw.
Walking into Karter’s room that day and lying straight to his face earned me this exact silence. Expecting forgiveness over a text message was a complete joke. I broke it, and now it was going to stay broken.
Yellow street-lamps bled through the tinted windows as the Greyhound bus lurched off the highway. Grinding gears vibrated through the cabin before the vehicle jerked to a halt beneath the concrete overhang of the Ridge Cross transit center.
Hauling my duffel bag from the empty seat beside me, I walked down the narrow aisle and stepped out onto the pavement.
The stinging wind cut right through my jeans the second I cleared the bus doors. Zipping my oversized winter coat up to my chin, I hoisted the canvas strap over my shoulder and started the mile trek toward campus.
Rock salt crunched under my boots as the college town was unusually dead, even so late at night. Past the dark storefronts and plowed snowbanks, the looming roofline of The Ice House finally appeared at the end of the block.
Ten minutes later, the front door of The Ice House clicked shut behind me. Down in the foyer, the grandfather clock chimed twice. At the third-floor landing, stopping dead on the top step, I stared down the narrow hall.
Karter sat on the hard floorboards directly outside my empty room. Drawing my first full breath in days, I just stood there and took him in.
Digging my fingers into the canvas strap of my duffel bag was the only thing keeping me from crossing the space between us and hauling him up against my chest. He wore my old gray hoodie, the thick material swallowing up his shoulders. However, instead of staring down at a phone screen, he was resting his empty hands over his bent knees.
Then he lifted his head and noticed me.
