His dad nods at us from the doorway, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
“Drive safe, you two,” he says, and it’s the warmth in his voice rather than the words themselves that makes me smile.
We settle into the car, the engine humming to life beneath us. Oliver doesn’t pull away immediately, instead taking a moment to glance in the rearview mirror at the figures of his parents on the porch.
“Everything okay?” I ask, sensing the swirl of emotions that must be coursing through him.
He exhales, a long breath that seems to carry the burden of a past he’s only just beginning to make peace with.
“Yeah,” he says, finally shifting the car into drive. “Just… a lot to process, you know?”
I nod because I do know. This trip has peeled back layers of Oliver’s life that he’d kept hidden even from himself, revealing truths that are both painful and necessary. As we drive away, I can feel the shift between us, an unspoken understanding that we’re leaving behind more than just a visit to his hometown.
“Thank you for being here with me,” he says after a few miles, his hand finding mine across the center console.
“Of course.” I give his hand a gentle squeeze.
That’s what you do when you care about someone; you stand by them as they face their ghosts, and you walk with them toward whatever comes next. And right now, what comes next is a small airport, a private jet, and the sprawling cityscape of Chicago waiting to welcome us home.
The road unfurls before us, a ribbon of asphalt that cuts through the rolling hills and farmlands of Oliver’s past. Trees blur into green smudges on either side as we drive through the country. I’m in the passenger seat, my gaze shifting between the landscape and the man at the wheel — Oliver, who seems to both navigate and escape this part of his life with every mile we put behind us.
“Hard to believe this was all you knew once upon a time,” I eventually say. “It’s such a small area.”
It’s not just small talk; I’m genuinely curious about what it feels like for him to be back here.
He lets out a soft chuckle, one that doesn’t sound happy. “Yeah, it is.” His grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. “Every time I come back, it’s like stepping into a pair of old shoes that don’t fit anymore.”
I turn toward him, watching the play of emotions across his face. There’s a vulnerability there that he rarely shows, a crack in the façade that’s as disarming as it is endearing.
“Does it make you feel… I don’t know, trapped?”
“A little,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “When I’m here, I feel like that kid again — the one who used to lie in the grass, staring up at the sky, dreaming of another life.”
He glances at me, a wistful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “A life that didn’t involve becoming my father.”
My heart twinges in sympathy. “Those dreams brought you pretty far, though. You’ve built something amazing, Oliver. Your own legacy.”
He sighs, still processing the visit as the car speeds along. “That’s true. And yet, coming back here…”
He trails off, shaking his head as if to dispel the ghosts of memory. “It’s a reminder of where I started. Of all the things I wanted to leave behind.”
“You did leave the things you didn’t want behind. You’re not that kid anymore. And your dreams? You’re living them, every single day.”
Oliver looks at me then, really looks at me, and there’s a depth of gratitude in his gaze that tells me he understands. His hand flips over, fingers intertwining with mine, a silent thank-you that resonates more deeply than words ever could.
“Thanks,” he says, and I know he means it for more than just my words. For being here with him in this town, in this car, on this journey back to where it all began, and forward to where we’re meant to go.
“Hey,” he adds.
“Yeah?” I tip my chin up.
“How about some snacks for the plane?”
“Your fancy private jet has snacks,” I counter playfully, recalling just how nice the fresh fruit and slow-cooked chicken were on the way to Pennsylvania.
“Not junk food.” He grins.
“True.” I giggle. “Let’s stop and get some junk food.”