Page 158 of Fake As Puck
I wake up before sunrise, grab terrible coffee and a stale muffin from the motel lobby, and get back on the road.
I stop for gas in North Sacramento, then again outside Mt. Shasta, each fill-up bringing me closer to the moment when I’ll have to explain why I drove seventeen hours without telling him.
By the time I hit Oregon, my back aches and my hands are cramped from gripping the steering wheel, but I’m too wired to stop for more than bathroom breaks and gas.
This is it. This is me choosing him, choosing us, choosing the possibility of something real and permanent and scary.
This is me driving toward the rest of my life.
The miles tick by—Grants Pass, Eugene, Salem, countless small towns I’ve never heard of. The landscape changes from California brown to Oregon green, and then suddenly I’mcrossing into Washington and the evergreens are so thick I can barely see the sky.
My phone shows 2:47 PM when I finally see the sign for Seattle. It’s only fifty more miles.
Fifty miles between me and West.
Fifty miles between me and the biggest risk I’ve ever taken.
Fifty miles between me and home.
I press the gas pedal a little harder and keep driving north.
45
My house is too quiet.
I’ve been home from practice for two hours, and the silence is driving me insane. Usually I like the quiet because it’s peaceful, gives me space to decompress from the chaos of training and team dynamics.
But today it feels oppressive. Like the walls are closing in.
I keep walking past the guest room, the one that still smells faintly like her perfume even though she’s been gone for months. I haven’t changed the sheets. Haven’t put away the toiletries she left behind. Haven’t admitted to myself that I’m keeping it exactly like she left it because it makes me feel less alone.
My flight to LA would’ve flown out of Seattle already. And I’ve barely spoken to her in the past day. Not because I’m upset or mad but because I’m bummed. I want to see her so badly, and I don’t want her to think I’m a lovesick puppy…even though that’s exactly what I am.
She said she’s going to move in with me, but we haven’t solidified anything. We haven’t planned when or how, and with every day that passes by, it eats at me because I want her here more than anything. I just don’t want to push.
I’m pacing the living room, trying to figure out how to tell her all of this without sounding completely desperate. I need to text her. No, I should call her. I pull out my phone and exhale.
Hey, what’re you doing?I text, starting with casual.
As soon as I send it, there’s a knock at my door.
Probably a package. Or a neighbor. Or someone trying to sell me something I don’t need. Definitely going to be a salesman.
I open the door without checking the peephole, already preparing to politely decline whatever—
And freeze.
Liv is standing on my doorstep.
Two suitcases beside her, nervous smile on her face, looking like she just drove eighteen hours straight to get here.
Which she probably did.
“Surprise,” she says, her voice slightly shaky. “I’m here to move in.”
I stare at her for exactly three seconds, my brain trying to process what I’m seeing.
She’s here. On my doorstep. With suitcases. Saying she’s here to move in.
