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“Why not?”
“I don’t date hockey players.”
“Do you date baseball players?”
“Shane–”
“Just asking questions.”
“I don’t date at all.”
“Why?”
“I just have other priorities.”
And major trust issues.
“I’ll accept that answer for now but not forever.”
I try laughing his comment off but when I see him staring at me with a focused intensity, I nervously clear my throat and pivot my neck to stare out the window.
The flight staff gives their safety presentation, and we buckle ourselves in.
“I’ll expect you to open your laptop the minute we get to our cruising altitude,” I whisper, not trying to interrupt the presentation. “You’ve got way more important things to worry about than who I’m dating.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, beautiful.” He throws the hood of his sweatshirt up and over his head then leans into my shoulder as if he’s going to take a nap. “It’s all I worry about.”
“Dude, are you about to go to sleep?” I ask incredulously, nudging his heavy body with my elbow. “We’ve got work to do.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” he replies flippantly grabbing my hand as the plane picks up speed for takeoff. “I hate to fly.”
kennedy
I lugmy suitcase through the front door of our family's Philadelphia home, the November chill clinging to me like an unwelcome shadow. It took some convincing, but I persuaded Shane to take his Uber directly home instead of sharing one with me. It wouldn’t have made any sense if we did. The airport sits dead smack in the middle between his home and mine, both of us living about thirty to forty minutes away in opposite directions. Plus, I’m still annoyed with him that we got very little accomplished on the flight because he failed to mention his strong fear of flying. Of course, none of that matters to him because he shamelessly texts me before I can put my things down.
Shane: In case you’re concerned, I’m still 20 minutes from my house. A tree is blocking the road.
Me: I wasn’t concerned.
Shane: That’s glaringly obvious.
Me: What do you want, Shane?
Shane: We should decide when to meet over break to tackle this project.
Me: You’re kidding, right?
Shane: I don’t joke about my grades.
Me: I bet snot is flying out of your nose as you laugh typing that lie.
Shane: You’re right! It is!
Me: I’m about to block you
Shane: Good night, beautiful.
Nothing about the front of the house looks like it should for this time of the year. If my mom still lived here, it would have had a variety of pumpkins arranged on the front steps and a wreath of Native American corn hanging on the front door. Instead, the steps and door are bare, reminding me that the warm traditions I once took for granted are over.
