Born To Run

He watched the embers waltz skyward with the campfire tendrils, mixing and twisting until they all faded to black. Despite the warmth of the evening, he felt a shiver run through his shoulders that felt so much older than the candles at last weekend's birthday party indicated. While he appreciated everyone’s attendance, he stole every glance at the clock, counting down the moments until they left and he could depart.

She sat across the fire, face distorted by the heat radiating off the fire. Still, he saw her smile clear as day. He skewered a marshmallow and let it roast till molten before placing it between the graham crackers. No chocolate. Never any chocolate. She hated chocolate.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How many times did we move? I lost count after the fifth time. Then once we finally bought the house how I bitched that I was never moving again. So much for that I suppose.”

The whiskey burned better than the heat on his face. Not a single sip in two years—a self-induced exile born of prudence, but the occasion seemed to call for it.

“I’m sorry we didn’t do this sooner, I’m sure you understand though. Everyone else seemed to give me a pass. I figured you understood. Time slips away and next thing you know you’re begging for more of it. Why did we always have to work so damn hard? I’m still pissed about that one night you yelled at me for getting home too late from the bar and wanting to do nothing but dance with you in the living room. You damn well know it was the right thing to do—and you damn well knew Charlie always got the best of me.”

He swore he saw her pull her jacket tighter, so he tossed another log on the fire. She hated being cold, and she so, so often was. The wind rustled the trees as the last rays of the dying sun gave way to a beautiful cloudless night. He stood up and rolled his neck. In truth, he hated driving. It always made him feel like a creaky old man.

“Don’t give me that, I wasn’t that drunk… Maybe a little. Maybe a lot. But damn it dancing was still the right call instead of going to bed angry. Well not angry. If you were really angry, there wouldn’t have been a warm cup of coffee and a donut waiting for me on the counter when I finally stumbled back down. The mop and bucket next to it was a nice touch.”

He paused, looking up at the stars. “Whole place was clean by the time you got back home though, wasn’t it?”

The open air, the open road, freedom. For the first time in a long time, he felt alive. And with the thought came the rush of guilt. He took another sip from the flask, using the pretext of wiping the drops rolling from the corner of his lips to wipe the tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

If this was the first sip of whiskey in two years, he didn’t know when the last time he cried was. There never seemed to be time for that either, though he admitted that was a trap of his own design, something his mother would have scolded him for almost certainly.

For months they planned this trip. No responsibilities but the open road. Then they got the call. He remembered cursing that bastard that came up with the stages of grieving bullshit. What they don’t tell you is there are no stages. It’s everything, everywhere, constantly, especially when the prognosis is six months at best. He’d cry, accept, fight, scream all in the same sentence most of the time, but always, always he begged for more time.

After everything else, all their plans seemed so small, dwarfed by arrangements, finances, insurance… That was until he finally found their itinerary tucked inside her planner and all those small plans became the only plans that mattered. A day later, he was on the road. He had a feeling it was a mistake. Then he missed the first exit he was supposed to take, and he swore he heard her calling him an idiot. From there on out, he knew it was exactly what he needed to do.

He smiled back across the empty campsite and hoped she danced amongst the stars with the embers. He had a feeling she was, and for the first time in two years, he felt a little less alone.

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A/N:

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