Page 9 of Penalized Love

PRESENT DAY

“Home sweet home,” I mutter to myself as I pause the true crime podcast I’m listening to. I thank the flight attendants and pilots just before I step off the airplane. I adjust my bookbag as quickly as possible to better manage the weight on my back, walk past the gate, and head toward baggage claim. The faster I got out of here, the better.

How fast I can get out of here depends on how much my body is willing to cooperate with me. That’s why I’m standing in this airport, anyway.

The trek to baggage claim doesn’t take long, and I find my parents standing there just as quickly. I’m somewhat surprised to see Dad there at all, given his busy schedule coaching hockey, but it’s the one tiny bit of happiness I have given the situation. Having both of my parents here means the world to me. I put a smile on my face and wave, bracing myself for our reunion.

“Isla!” Mom rushes forward, pulling me in a hug that threatens to squeeze the life out of me. “How are you feeling? Was the flight okay? Do you need to sit down?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, although I understand her overreaction. “I’m fine, Mom. Just tired.”

Dad gives me a knowing look and rescues me from Mom’s embrace. “Let’s get your bags and head home. You look like you could use a nap.”

He’s not wrong about that. Although I’d dozed off somewhat on the plane, there’s nothing like a warm bath and lying in my bed to make me feel better. Or so I hope.

As we wait for my luggage, I can’t help but feel sad and disappointed with myself. I thought my return to Crestwood would go differently. Hell, I planned to fly home in December, and yet here I am, back stateside a few months early with a body that feels like it’s betraying me.

Dad moves forward to grab my bags as they appear on the carousel. As I reach out to help, Mom’s hand on my arm stops me.

“Let your father handle it, sweetie,” she says softly, “You shouldn’t strain yourself. In fact, hand me your bookbag, so you don’t have to carry that either.”

I bite my tongue, holding back the response that I want to make because I know what she’s saying is coming from a place of love. However, that doesn’t stop my frustration, which continues to build. I can pick up a suitcase, for crying out loud. But as I watch Dad snatch my overstuffed suitcases off the belt, I admit that maybe she has a point.

I hand over my bookbag, and my parents and I make our way through the airport and out to where they parked the SUV they bought several years ago. Dad pops the trunk while Mom makes her way to the back passenger-side door.

“I brought a blanket, pillow, and some snacks in case you wanted something for the ride home,” she says as she places my bookbag on the seat.

I walk around to the other back door and open it so I can stare at her. “Mom, the airport is, like, twenty-five minutes from our house.”

“You might need something in that time.”

I shake my head and take my time getting into the vehicle. For now, I feel okay, but who knows how quickly that will change.

As we pull out of the airport parking lot, I lean against the window, watching the familiar scenery that showcases we’re on our way home. The fatigue is already settling in, but I don’t want to fall asleep because we’ll be home soon enough. I try to focus on what’s outside my window instead of the dull ache in my lower abdomen.

“How are you feeling?” Mom asks for what feels like the hundredth time since we left the airport.

“I’m fine, Mom,” I reply, trying to keep my voice neutral. “Just tired.” That buys me some time before she asks again.

As we ride along, I spot the familiar sign for Crestwood University. All I can do is sigh as my stomach does a little flip because of the strange turn of events that has led me back here.

A few months into my high school senior year, I decided I wouldn’t attend Crestwood University the following fall and instead went to NYU. This funny thing called life has shifted my plans entirely, forcing me to come back to Virginia during the middle of the school year so that I can be close to home while figuring out what is wrong with me.

As we pass the campus, I think about all the what-ifs and could-have-beens. What if I’d just stayed here in the first place? Would things be different now? Would I still be dealing with my body deciding that now is the time to fight against me?

I shake my head because the thoughts are ridiculous. There is no use in dwelling on the past now, and whatever is going on with my body could have happened at any time or anywhere. I’m here, whether I like it or not, and I’ll have to make the best of it.

“Isla, I got your room ready,” Mom says, twisting in her seat to look back at me. “I thought you might want to rest when we get home, so I made sure everything was all set up for you.”

“Thanks,” I mutter. I’m not in the mood for conversation, but I don’t want to appear ungrateful. My parents don’t have to do any of this for me, and I’m grateful for my support system.

“Grace also asked how you were doing.” I know Mom is trying to keep the conversation going to help with the awkwardness of everything.

“I know. She sent me a text last night.” And that is all I offer because there is nothing else I want to say.

Surprisingly, the rest of the ride back to my childhood home is quiet. Once Dad pulls into our driveway and cuts the engine, Mom is out of the car and opening my door before I can unbuckle my seatbelt.

“Careful,” she says as she lingers nearby while I climb out of the SUV. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

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