Twenty Eight

It was a chilly February, and as the weekend came around, Joel had waited for me by the entrance to drive me to the airport for my trip to Montana.

As the plane descended on Kalispell, Montana, I took out my jacket. When I looked out the window of the airplane, a smile escaped my guarded lips. I was home.

A lot had happened half a year ago. When my divorce was finalized, there was a lot of buzz from the media. Rumors circled about the divorce when my ex-wife skipped town and started a new life in New York. But after a few more weeks and no feedback from me, it finally died, and no more paparazzi showed up outside my office or apartment building. It eased my worry about them finding out why I had been flying a lot for the past half year.

While I walked toward the exit, already accustomed to the place, I finally got the call I was waiting for. I answered on the second ring as the phone was already in my hand.

“Hey. I’m on my way out of the airport.”