Page 178 of Just One More Thing
He lifts his hand.
When we get to the lot, Bethany’s there in her car, engine running.
I stop short. “I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow night.”
“I’m not.” She pops the trunk. “I’m also not letting you drive yourself to the airport looking like that.”
“Looking like what?”
“Like a country song.”
I laugh. “I needed that.”
“I know.”
I load the bags into the trunk and open the back door for Hank. He hops in, circles twice, and plants himself on the seat. I lean in and buckle him.
By the time we pull up to the private terminal, the team jet is waiting.
Bright white on the tarmac. The old logo of Bucco Bruce on the tail.
No turning back once I walk onto it.
Bethany puts the car in park and looks at me. “You’re allowed to want football,” she says. “Even now. Even after everything.”
I nod. That’s all I trust myself to do.
She reaches across the console and squeezes the back of my neck, quick and firm. “Go.”
I get out, open the back for Hank, and grab the bags.
The air smells like jet fuel and hot pavement.
Nothing like salt.
Nothing like home.
A staffer meets us at the gate. Another takes the bags. Somebody crouches to say hello to Hank, who accepts the attention like he’s being welcomed to the Hall of Fame.
Inside, the cabin is cool and low-lit. Leather seats. Bottled water. The same kind of place that used to feel normal.
Now it feels like stepping into a life I set down with both hands and didn’t plan on picking back up.
I push up the armrest and hook Hank’s harness to the seat beside mine. He settles quickly, resting his head on my thigh.
The engines start. The plane begins to move.
I look out the window as the runway rolls by faster and faster until there’s not enough ground left to keep us.
Then we’re up.
Blue Crab Bay falls away beneath the wing.
The Point goes small. The Green turns into a pale curve and a patch of color. The docks flatten into thin lines. Everything that feels so big from inside it looks small the second you leave it.
Home.
It’ll always be home.
