Page 95 of The Long Way Home
RACHEL
My phone buzzes in my jacket pocket.
Sissy Margs:
You want me and Anderson to swing by and grab you?
Me:
All good. I'll just meet you there.
I make my way to the breakroom. The heat hangs stubbornly, even with the A/C still humming in the car. I sit for a minute before turning off the engine, dragging my badge from around my neck, and tossing it into my bag.
Work had been a mix of steady and emotionally draining. I spent most of the afternoon helping a patient in his forties relearn how to step onto a stair. His leg had been shattered in a car accident six months ago: multiple surgeries, days spentin the hospital, pins, and metal plates. Now he is feeling angry more than anything else. At the pain. At the time it was taking. At needing help.
I’d stood next to him, guiding his steps, watching his frustration tip toward rage and then buckle under the weight of it. At one point, he sat down hard on the mat and said, “It’s like I’m not even me anymore.” I didn’t know what to say except that healing is slow, but it doesn’t make it any less real or valid. But watching him, I realized something: he is doing all the work to find his way back to himself. And if he can do that, maybe I can, too.
Breaking up with Ben had been an important step in reclaiming myself, but it was just the first one. I know now that the journey isn’t over—not even close. There is more to do, more edges of myself to uncover. A thousand more pieces of myself to stitch back together.
I walk out of the break room and head over to my office. The application link Faier emailed me is open, waiting on my computer like a challenge I can’t ignore. I click it. The page loads, and I start filling in the details.
I can do this, right? If they think I can, maybe I really can.
The cursor blinks at me on the final page, and doubt sneaks in like a shadow at the edge of the room. My hand hovers over the “Apply” button. I feel the weight of everything—the fear of failing, of putting myself out there—and instead of clicking “Submit”, I hit “Save Application.”
There’s still time. I have until the Tuesday after Labor Day to apply. I can come back. I can review and revise my application. I can apply when I’m ready. And maybe that is enough for now.
I grab my things and step into the heat, heading toward my car. Once I get home, I unlock the front door, push inside, and kick my shoes off.
The silence hits first.
Ben’s stuff is gone. Closet space is half-empty, and bathroom drawers are finally cleared out. His jacket isn’t hanging by the door. No keys on the hook. I didn’t expect it to feel sofreeing.
I drop my bag on the counter and walk into the bedroom. His dresser is empty. I open a drawer out of habit and close it just as quickly. It is strange how quickly a space shifts when someone’s presence is removed. It feels as if I can finally breathe a full, deep breath. A smile stretches my face wide, and I do a happy twirl. Okay, I need to focus. I’ve got to get ready for dinner.
The lake trip is this weekend. Labor Day Weekend. It is all anyone in the group chat has been talking about: who’s driving, who’s bringing what, how early they should leave. I said I’d just meet everyone there. It’s easier that way. No small talk, no awkward car ride or questions about Ben and why he isn’t on this trip. Tonight, we’re meeting at Gritty’s for dinner and drinks to go over plans.
Only Margo and Anderson know Ben and I broke up, seeing as I had to crash at their place until Ben finally moved out. I didn’t make a big thing of it. I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want to hear how they all secretly hated him and wished I’d done it earlier. I just want to move forward.
I shower, then work through my skincare without thinking much about it. My hair is damp when I towel it dry, and I curl it until it falls in loose waves around my shoulders. I stand in front of my closet for a few minutes, flipping through hangers before grabbing a cropped tank and my favorite jeans.
I’ve gone no contact with Ben. I wish I could say he is doing the same; however, Ben’s texts have been coming in steadily since we broke up last week.
Last Monday I got:
Ben
Babe, come on. Just come home.
Ben
I miss you so much.
Then Tuesday was:
Ben:
You know I love you…. Right? No one knows you like I do.
