For now, though, I hope this is enough.
Dom? Oh God. How my voice breaks on his name. How my throat closes.
He stops walking. Turns to me. He’s big. He’s so very big.
Ty, h
e says, and this is Dom. Dominic. That lost and lonely boy who found a scared, precocious Kid and showed him how to breathe again. I owe him everything.
I… just….
Say it, it whispers. He deserves to hear it from you.
I—
He kisses me. The rest of my words are lost in him.
And then he clutches me tightly. As if I’m just a little guy. As if I need protecting from the world around us. As if our hearts are breaking with each passing second. And I hold him back as if all of this is true and it’s the only way things will be.
It’s inevitable, after all.
OREGON TO New Hampshire
Three thousand miles.
It’ll take me four or five days. Maybe six, if I take my time.
And I might.
I wipe my eyes. Grip the steering wheel.
Moments later, I pass a sign:
NOW LEAVING SEAFARE! COME BACK SOON!
I ONLY make it to the Oregon/Idaho border. The tremors in my hands have gotten worse, and I’m having trouble breathing. I’m gasping for air by the time I throw open the door to the hotel room. My legs crash into a chair. I tell myself to breathe and breathe and just fucking breathe! It’s funny, really. Panicking doesn’t help when in the grips of a panic attack, but that’s all you can do. Panic is all I know. I slide over the lip of the bathtub and knock my head on the faucet, and stars, stars, stars again, and they are bright and loud and how they scream.
I stay in the bathtub for the rest of the night.
Near dawn, I fall asleep and dream of Dominic.
He smiles at me and I can breathe.
I SIT in the parking lot of the hotel in this little Idaho town whose name I don’t know. West is home. East is uncertainty. There are texts on my phone, saying things like The key is under the mat, you crazy SOB (Corey) and Don’t buy drugs from truckers unless they’re good drugs (Creed) and Make sure you call us when you get there (Anna). There are others and I read them all.
I save three of them for last.
Otter. I miss you already. It’s too quiet here. Call me when you can.
Bear. I miss you already. Call me every day. Maybe two or three times a day.
And the last. Dom. Four words, and I read them over and over again. A few minutes later, I save the message and head east.
I MAKE it farther on the second day. Grand Island, Nebraska. It’s pretty. And flat.
I sit in a diner near the hotel. It’s late. I’m the only one in here. Apparently the fry cook knows how to make vegan waffles. His name is Abraham. Told me to call him Abe. He’s funny.
I sit in a booth. The menu has pictures of the food on it. Reminds me of the place where Bear used to work a long time ago.