Page 117 of At First Flight
I want to say something. To break the silence. But I don’t.
She needs space to think. I’ve learned Lila is the kind of woman who feels things deeply but privately. Her mind is probably still replaying every second. How the boy’s face had swollen, how he could barely breathe, how fast she had to act.
She saved that boy’s life. Yet I know her well enough now to know she’s not feeling triumphant. She’s haunted.
When I pull into the driveway, the house is shadowed under a veil of soft dusk, the porch light flickering to life as I shut off the engine. I look over, expecting Lila to reach for the door handle, but she doesn’t move.
“Hey,” I say gently. “We’re home.”
She blinks slowly like she’s coming up for air, nodding, but she still doesn’t say anything. I get out, carefully lift a sleeping Evelyn from her seat, and press a kiss to her forehead. She murmurs something against my chest, curling into me like a kitten.
Lila finally steps out of the car. She closes the door with more care than necessary, like she’s afraid the sound might shatter something inside her. The light spills across her face, and that’s when I see it. Her eyes aren’t just tired; they’re unsettled. She’s somewhere else entirely.
I pause halfway up the steps, glancing over my shoulder.
She’s standing by the passenger side, one hand resting on the roof of the car, her eyes cast toward the night sky like she’s looking for a sign.
I want to ask what she’s thinking. If she’s okay. If she’s proud of what she did today because she should be.
“This isn’t pretend for me, Lila,” I say quietly.
“I know,” she says. “It isn’t for me either. That’s what makes this so hard. My mind is all jumbled, and I’m so confused after today.”
She doesn’t cry. Neither do I.
But when she steps away and heads for the door, it feels like something is unraveling anyway. The front door clicks shut behind her, and the silence that follows is sharp. Too biting.
I stay in the hallway for a minute, her unsaid words echoing in my head like footsteps in an empty room.
I’m scared… but I’m coming back.
But tonight? Tonight feels different.
This time, she isn’t walking away from me. She’s walking toward something—clarity, maybe, healing, answers. And I want that for her. Hell, I want everything for her.
Moving toward the front porch, I watch the taillights of the SUV narrow into little red dots in the night, taking my heart along with them.
I step back into the house and turn off the porch light. The air smells like rain again, heavy and thick. There’s a storm coming. But whether it’s real or metaphorical, I can’t be sure anymore.
Padding up the stairs, I pause at the kids’ doors. Evelyn is curled into a ball, one hand tucked under her cheek, her tutu crumpled at the foot of the bed. Oliver’s still clutching his stuffy, one leg flung out over the blanket like he’s trying to conquer the mattress in his sleep.
They're safe. They're okay. And Lila helped keep it that way today.
I walk into the kitchen, fill a glass with water, and lean against the counter as I debate drinking it or pouring over my head to wake myself up from this dream.
There’s a faint crease in the curtain from where Lila tugged it back earlier this morning. A folded dish towel that still smells like the lavender soap she uses. All these little pieces of her are scattered through my home like breadcrumbs.
She’s already part of this life. She just doesn’t see it yet.
I want her to chase her dreams. I do. But I also want her to know she doesn’t have to chase them alone.
The following morning, the house is too quiet. Oliver usually wakes me up before the sun, bouncing around with some catastrophic request involving cereal and dinosaurs. Evelyn, three and clingy in the best way, normally demands snuggles and cartoons before I’ve even had coffee.
But today? It’s just me.
No smell of Lila’s vanilla shampoo drifting through the hall. No humming while she folds laundry or cuts fruit for the kids. Just silence. And every creak of the floorboards sounds like an echo of her not being here.
The kids feel it, too. Evelyn curls into my chest, clutching her stuffed fox and lamb. Oliver’s quieter than usual, pushing around his breakfast with a frown.
