Page 102 of Shut Up and Jingle Me
Every message sits there like an echo—unread, unanswered. The last one I sent wasPlease just tell me you’re okay.It’s been days. I stopped checking for the read receipt.
Now it’s the morning of my flight back to Michigan. My suitcase waits by the door, heavier than it should be, and Mom’s moving around the kitchen like she can delay time just by keeping busy.
“Your flight’s on time,” she says, checking her phone. “You’ve got plenty of time to eat something before we go.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She gives me that look—the one that says she knows I’m lying but won’t push. “You sure you don’t want to stay another day? We can change the ticket.”
I shake my head. “If I put it off, I won’t go back at all.”
She sighs, crossing the room to straighten my beanie. “Then promise me you’ll be kind to yourself once you’re there.”
I nod, but my throat’s too tight to answer.
Dad carries my bag out to the car while I stand in the doorway, looking around one last time—the old wreath still hanging crooked on the porch, the faint scent of cinnamon from last night’s candles. It’s home. It’s safe. And I’m about to leave it for the place where everything’s broken.
The drive to the airport is quiet except for the soft hum of the radio. I stare out the window, watching the coastline give way to highways and city sprawl. My chest aches with every mile.
At drop-off, Dad kills the engine but doesn’t open his door. “You don’t owe anyone an apology for loving somebody,” he says quietly.
I grip the handle of my bag. “Maybe not. But maybe I can protect him, and he can keep his job and stay in school.”
He nods once, steady. “Then do what you think’s right, son.”
Mom hugs me before I step onto the curb, her arms tight, her breath trembling just a little. “Don’t lose yourself trying to fix what someone else broke,” she whispers.
I nod against her shoulder. “I’ll try.”
She pulls back, brushing at my hair like she used to when I was little. “You’ve got a good heart, baby. Don’t let anyone make you doubt that.”
I force a smile and promise to call when I land.
The airport’s all noise and motion—rolling suitcases, muffled announcements, the sharp smell of coffee that reminds me of him. I keep my hood up, head down, pretending I’m just another student heading back after the holidays.
When I board, I slide into my seat by the window and let my forehead rest against the cold glass. The plane takes off, the ground falling away in slow inches, and I tell myself not to look back. But I do.
The ocean fades beneath the clouds, and the ache settles heavier in my chest.
By the time we land in Michigan, it’s already dark. The cold hits the second I step outside the terminal—sharp, biting, honest. It feels like the right kind of punishment.
A cab takes me to campus. The streets are empty, the snow piled up against the curbs, and everything looks smaller than I remember.
I drop my bag in my dorm room and stand there for a minute, staring at the empty space where he should be. Then I grab my phone and scroll through our messages—every unanswered text, the still half-typed thought I never sent.
Me: Please, just talk to me.
Nothing.
So I focus on packing away my Christmas cheer, because it’s lost all of the joy it had before. I pause at the stocking that I made for Max and never gave to him. Then I toss it in the box, still full of the silly stuff he’ll never see. When my room matches my mood, I flop down on the bed and stare at the gray ceiling. Tomorrow I’ll do what I came back to do.
The next morning,I’m outside Coach’s office before he’s even unlocked the door. The air smells like cold metal and disinfectant, the way it always does this early—like the rink hasn’t woken up yet. My pulse hasn’t slowed since I left my dorm.
When Coach finally rounds the corner, coffee in one hand and keys in the other, his eyebrows lift. “Starling. Didn’t expect to see you before practice starts back up.”
“I needed to talk,” I say.
He studies me for a second, then unlocks the door and nods me inside. “Alright. Go ahead.”
