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My dad sets the dishes on the counter, then steps into the space behind my mom and wraps his arms around her.
“And. . .that’s my cue,” I say, walking away before I see anything I can’t unsee. My parents have gotten used to living alone, and I definitely don’t want to witness any of their newfound frisky freedom.
I pull on a sweatshirt and step out onto the porch. It’s cool, and the sunlight is fading, but I need to clear my head. Mostly I need to have a very deep, very pointed conversation with myself.
About. . .things.
And. . .people.
Well, person.
Because my heart is not obeying.
I step off the porch and inhale. The air in the mountains is crisp and cool, and it instantly calms my nerves. The leaves have started to turn, and I’m struck by how the earth beautifully lets go of the things that need to be reborn.
I also briefly think that, if trees were alive like people, how horrified they’d be that humans basically rake their hair into piles and burn it.
Letting go of dead things doesn’t seem to be my forte.
I walk out behind the house and stand, looking out through the stretch of yard.
How long has it been since I’ve visited the pond?
In college, I always took time down there when I visited home. But after Owen left, I stopped going. Soon after, I bought my own house, and my spot became a thing of the past.
Now though, I’m curious. Pulled, almost. I take a step, then another, and begin to make my way across the yard.
As I walk through the familiar stretch of trees, and a deep, peaceful calm washes over me, I realize I missed this too.
There really is something about being home.
My calm is shattered the second I step out of the trees and see Owen, sitting on my dock, just like he did all those years ago.
He must’ve heard my footfalls, the cracking twigs underneath my feet, because when I spot him, he’s already looking at me.
I freeze, like a psychotic deer, one foot kind of up in the air.
He tilts his head slightly, and I slowly put my foot down.
I instantly want to turn and run the other way, but then he stands up, almost like he expects me to take my spot on the opposite side of the dock.
Just like we used to.
“I can go,” I say.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, and I see a flash of the high school version of him. Moody. Hurting. Broken. Misunderstood.
A tingle rushes down my spine at the memory, and I’m struck by how easy it is for me to conjure those same feelings I had all those years ago. They’re right there on the surface, and if I give them even an ounce of attention, they’ll grow like dandelions in a meadow.
Which is to say fast. And all over.
“You can stay,” he says. “This was always your spot first.”
I walk over, slowly, and when I reach the dock, I finally glance up and meet his eyes. “You can stay too.”
“You sure?”
I nod.
