It’s exactly what I’ve wanted.So why does my chest tighten every time I look at the calendar?Why did I spend this morning memorizing the feel of familiar kennels and cabinets like I’m never coming back?
Because you’re not.That’s how leaving works.
A brown blur finally catches in my flashlight beam.LoverBoy, Christmas sweater dusted with snow, stares at me with that unique mix of defiance and terror only tiny dogs can master.I lower myself, moving the way I approach all flight risks - slow, deliberate, nothing sudden.
Before I can reach LoverBoy, headlights cut through the darkness.The tiny dog runs again.Fast.
Fuck.
Then he freezes, caught in the beam like the world’s smallest deer.
“LoverBoy, don’t move,” I whisper, as if he’ll understand me better than Mrs.Clark’s chicken calls.
The driver spots him too late.They wrench the wheel.Amateur move on this stretch.The locals know better.I watch the tires lose their grip, the back end swinging out in that familiar, sickening slide.
The car fishtails, scraping to a stop against the shoulder with the distinct sound of metal meeting frozen earth.Not a T-bone into a tree, but enough to shake someone up.
“Something’s come up,” I tell Mrs.Clark.“I’ll call you back.”I can still hear her saying what she always says, “You’re a good boy, Adam.Always helping everyone.”
Before I can rush toward the car, the driver’s door opens a crack.Steps out of the car, scoops something up.Slams shut again.At least they’re okay.
“Hello?”I call out.But whoever is in the car can’t hear me with the wind.
My phone screen glows with my brother’s texts from an hour ago:
Kellan
Dude, are you seriously ditching Wes's birthday AGAIN?It's the third year in a row.
I’ll reply as soon as I get Loverboy.I might even make it for the end of it.
My brother adds,
Kellan
You do know this was more than a birthday party, right?
Fuck.I suspected it could be a surprise party.For me leaving.But, also didn’t want to assume.I’m the one who organizes parties, postpones events because my work comes first but makes sure everyone else can still party.
I scan the road with my flashlight, looking for any sign of LoverBoy.No movement in the ditches.Either he's hiding somewhere in the underbrush, or the driver did scoop him up.
Time slows as I approach the car, each boot crunching through ice.Still doing that chickenco, co, cosound in case LoverBoy is nearby.My pace is cautious, steady.The same one I use approaching injured animals.Don’t startle them.Don’t make sudden movements.
My phone vibrates against my hip.And my watch shows Mom’s latest message:
Mom
Your dad's new nurse practitioner is arriving today.Staying at your B&B.Please be kind.
Kind is my fucking middle name.
She and Dad taught me well.
“Everyone deserves another chance,” he'd say, hiring the receptionist with the DUI or the nurse with the anxiety disorder.I used to think it was noble.Now I wonder if it was his way of staying necessary.
Another text buzzes through:
Mom
