Page 224 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

More authentic.

Less encumbered by my own insecurities.

“I’ll stay at the office late. Usually way later than is probably healthy,” I admitted. “My work-life balance is not…the best.”

“How late is late?”

“Depends on the day. Mondays are usually the worst though. If it’s a good day…I’ll hit the ice after. There’s a late night drop-in session that a lot of my buddies attend because they know that’s the main time I can go.”

“And then?”

“Then I head home.” I shrugged a shoulder, the pain in my chest only growing. “To my empty-ass house to shower. Order more take-out. Maybe pick away at something work-related to get me ahead for Tuesday. If I’m feeling horny I’ll swipe through Poundr for a hookup—meet them at a hotel, and call it good.” I maybe shouldn’t have added that last part, but I figured George actually wanted to know. “I’m boring.”

George snorted. “Nothing about you is boring.”

It felt odd to have my own words thrown in my face.

Cathartic.

I sucked in a breath, eyes on the road, my lips curling into a slow smile.

“What about Tuesday?” George asked before we could fall into silence.

“Well…”

It was surprisingly busy at the airport when we arrived. A summer storm had hit about halfway to Columbus from Hocking Hills, and the stubborn gray clouds refused to let up. Miserable, warm drops dripped from above. They’d wet the car, and the road, and the scent of the storm was thick in the air. Despite the stacked nature of the Columbus airport, and the fact I couldn’t see the storm as the levels above us blocked it, I could still sense its downfall.

Poetic almost.

It’d rained like this the day I met George in New York. And now the storm was here, like it was guiding him home. Symmetry.

There’d been no trains to delay our arrival.

No red lights.

Nothing to stall the inevitable.

The universe, for once, had decided to present George with good luck. If you could call this good luck. I certainly didn’t. Even if I was the one stubbornly clinging to our end date out of a sick sense of self-preservation.

I’d wanted to walk George to his gate, but knew that wasn’t a possibility.

So, here we were.

The car was parked behind us, windshield wipers blurring back and forth, back and forth. The thump-glide of them swiping away the last dregs of rain would’ve been soothing on any other occasion. Today, it, like everything else, only seemed to amplify my emotions.

A metronome of judgment.

My weakness as cold as the chill the rain left behind.

My hands were fists at my side, flexing. The bones creaking. It felt impossible all of a sudden to open my mouth. Cruelly, my silver tongue failed me right when I needed it. George had his phone again, in his pocket. He had his backpack, sans Neil—RIP. He had…everything.

My watch felt heavier than before. It itched and itched.

Beg him to stay,that awful, sneaky voice whispered.

What if it works out?

What if he?—

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