I stepped onto the tarmac into a slap of cold air. The tropical breezes were gone, replaced by Seattle's chilly and damp welcome.
The driver didn't introduce himself. He popped the trunk, took my bag, and slid behind the wheel. I followed, still stiff from the flight, and every movement reminded me of the cut across my forearm and the muscles bruised from the fight.
As we pulled away from the airstrip, I realized there were no photographers this time. No questions shouted across a security barrier. No flashes.
We merged onto the highway, the skyline unfolding ahead. Seattle looked like it always did, with clouds sitting low on the mountains, but I worried I didn't fit anymore. The city hadn't changed, but I had.
We passed a billboard advertising a streaming docuseries about missing hikers in Olympic National Park. I wondered how long before my name ended up in that kind of project with a voiceover asking what really happened in paradise.
The car ride was silent, and I didn't try to fill it. The driver didn't ask questions. Maybe he'd been told not to.
When we pulled in front of my apartment building, he left the engine running and nodded once. I opened the door myself. No handshake. No parting words.
Inside my apartment building, I climbed the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. The hallway smelled of bleach.
The key fit and the lock resisted. It was a perpetual issue.
As I shouldered the door open, the scents of my life hit me—faint detergent, old coffee, and dust. I stood in the doorway for a long beat before stepping inside.
No one was watching, and that somehow made it worse.
Darkness greeted me, dense and undisturbed. I stood on the threshold, letting my eyes adjust. Everything was exactly as I'd left it, yet somehow foreign.
After switching on a light, I dropped my bag by the door and collapsed onto the couch, letting the silence of the apartment settle around me. I woke my cell phone.
My call log lit up.
Missed Call – Marcus (5:42 PM)
Missed Call – Marcus (7:13 PM)
Voicemail – Marcus (7:14 PM)
I tapped play and put the phone on speaker, letting it rest on the arm of the couch. My older brother's voice filled the room—rough, clipped, and charged with barely contained fury.
"Michael, Jesus Christ. What the hell happened over there?"
Metal clinked in the background. It could have been his keys hitting the kitchen counter or the sound of him pacing.
"You were supposed to take a break. Sit on a beach. Drink something with a paper umbrella in it. Not make the national news."
A long pause.
"You're okay, right? You're not hurt? Miles said he saw blood in one of the clips but couldn't tell if it was yours."
His voice dropped low.
"Call me back. Just... call me back."
The call ended. No lecture. No, I told you so. Only concern in a tone he failed at softening.
I turned to my messages. Two new ones since I'd last looked. Both were from the brothers who always knew how to wait until I had room to breathe.
Matthew:Still proud of you, no matter what the headlines say. Let us know when you're ready to talk. We're here. Always.
Miles:If you don't respond, I'm taking that as permission to show up with food and awkward emotional metaphors. Don't make me do it. Seriously. Love you.
I stared at the screen until it dimmed, the battery dropping low.
