Chapter 29 Lottie
We would’ve made it by seven if we’d driven the three hours straight. But Charlie was too restless, and I was too distracted for a clean run.
My thoughts kept drifting — looping back to yesterday, to the office, to the moment everything almost tipped past the point of no return. The memory played on repeat in the back of my mind, uninvited and relentless. And Charlie kept shifting in his seat like he had caffeine in his bloodstream instead of blood, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, adjusting the radio every five minutes, rolling his shoulders like he couldn’t settle.
So when he pulled the SUV into a rest stop two hours into the trip, I barely blinked. I only glanced at the dashboard clock and silently marveled that he’d lasted that long.
I climb out and stretch my arms high over my head until my spine cracks — sharp and satisfying. Even with how tall I am, even with the absurd amount of legroom in this vehicle, sitting still too long makes my muscles feel like they’ve been shrink-wrapped.
The cold hits immediately. Sharp. Biting. The kind that doesn’t just brush your skin but sinks through fabric and settles deep in your bones. Snow drifts lazily around us, catching in my hair and melting against my cheeks.
“Snacks?” I ask, already heading toward the squat brick building glowing under flickering fluorescent lights.
Charlie huffs a laugh as he starts pumping gas. “You know it!”
I shake my head, amused despite myself, and push through the heavy glass door.
Warmth rushes over me — stale and artificial, but infinitely better than the wind. The place smells like burnt coffee that’s been sitting too long, industrial floor cleaner, and the faint sugary sweetness of packaged pastries. A radio somewhere behind the counter plays a tinny pop song from five years ago.
I wander the aisles slowly, letting my eyes skim half-empty shelves. Chips. Snack cakes. A bag of gummy worms I’ll probably regret at midnight. Beef jerky. A chocolate bar for Charlie, because he’ll pretend he doesn’t want one and then steal half of mine if I don’t.
The store looks like it’s perpetually mid-restock — cardboard boxes shoved under shelves, price tags half peeled off, rows of bottled drinks with gaps like missing teeth.
At the refrigerated section, I grab two large bottles of water. The cold plastic bites into my fingers, grounding me for a moment. Something solid. Something present.
I carry my armful to the register.
The cashier looks like they’ve been stationed here since the invention of highways — slouched posture, glazed eyes, name tag missing half its letters. They scan each item with the enthusiasm of someone reading tax instructions.
They mumble the total. I hand over cash.
They hand me change without looking up.
It’s all painfully ordinary. Wonderfully boring. No tension. No charged silence. No almost-mistakes.
Just a transaction.
I stuff everything into a plastic bag and step back outside. The cold slaps me again, sharper now. The snow has picked up — not a storm, just a steady drift that softens the edges of everything, muffling sound, turning the parking lot into something quieter and more distant.
Charlie is still at the pump, leaning against the SUV with his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. His breath puffs in white clouds as he scrolls on his phone, the glow lighting his face from below.
For a second, he looks younger.
Like the kid who used to drag me outside after the first snowfall, insisting we build the biggest snow fort on the block. The one who’d stay out until our fingers went numb and Mom had to threaten us with hot cocoa bribes to come inside.
He glances up when he hears my boots crunching against the salted pavement.
And for a moment — just a small, fragile moment — the world feels uncomplicated.
Just me and my brother. Just a road trip home. Just distance from everything I’m not ready to face.
I lift the bag in the air like an offering. “Got the essentials.”
Charlie grins. “You’re a saint.”
I toss him the chocolate bar before he can ask.
He catches it with exaggerated gratitude. “See? Telepathic.”
And for the first time since yesterday, I feel something close to steady.
By the time we finally pull into our parents’ driveway, it’s just after eight.
The sky is a deep winter navy, almost black, and the air has that brittle quality that makes every breath feel sharpened. Snow crunches under the tires as Charlie eases the SUV to a stop.
The porch light glows warm against snow-dusted steps.
Our house rises behind it — big, beautiful, unmistakably ours. A wide wraparound porch curves along the front, its railings draped in soft white Christmas lights that glow gently against the falling snow. Tall windows spill golden light across the yard, illuminating the stone walkway lined with evergreen shrubs dusted in frost.
High gables. Pale siding. Dark shutters. A front door painted a deep, welcoming red.
Even from the driveway, it radiates comfort.
Before Charlie even kills the engine, the front door swings open. Mom stands there, framed in warm light. His hair is pulled back, sweater sleeves shoved up his forearms like he’s been busy in the kitchen. He looks exactly like home.
I don’t wait.
I drop the suitcase handle and cross the distance in long strides. The cold barely registers.
The second I reach him, I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face in his neck. He smells like cinnamon and apples and something sweetly familiar that makes my throat tighten.
It hits me so hard my eyes sting.
I missed this. I missed him.
It’s been months since I’ve seen them in person, and the relief of being here settles over me like a weighted blanket.
Dad appears behind Mom, smiling that soft, steady smile that always makes my chest loosen. I let go and step into his arms next. He smells faintly like ocean breeze and laundry detergent — clean, warm, grounding.
For a second, I just breathe.
Charlie barrels in behind me with his usual volume and chaos, hugging them both at once and nearly knocking Mom off balance.
I step inside, warmth wrapping around me instantly.
That’s when I see them.
Lilliana and Luca hover at the edge of the living room, both in pajamas, both vibrating with contained excitement.
Luca’s face splits into a grin the moment he spots me.
“Squirt!” I exclaim.
He launches himself at me without hesitation, arms locking around my legs. He’s still tiny for eight — all soft limbs and boundless energy. I scoop him up easily, lifting him high and spinning once before pulling him tight against my chest.
His giggles vibrate through me — bright and infectious.
I kiss the downy top of his head before setting him down.
Then I turn to Lilliana. She stands with her arms crossed, chin tilted up, pretending she’s far too mature for any of this. Thirteen going on thirty.
I pretend not to see her. I walk right past.
Her expression morphs instantly — outrage flashing across her face.
Before she can protest, I pivot back, laughing, and wrap my arms around her shoulders. She sighs dramatically like I’ve inconvenienced her entire evening, but her arms slide around my waist anyway, squeezing tighter than she means to.
Mom shoos us toward the living room like we’re still little. “Go sit. I’ll make hot chocolate.”
We obey without argument.
I sink onto the couch next to Lilliana, who immediately leans into me like she wasn’t just posturing. Luca climbs up on my other side, half in my lap.
“So,” I nudge her gently, “I heard you were running for school president. How’d that go?”
She shrugs, impossibly casual. “I got it.”
Like there was never another outcome.
I grin and bump her shoulder. “Of course you did.”
Mom returns with a tray of steaming mugs. The rich smell of chocolate fills the room, mingling with pine from the Christmas tree and something savory drifting in from the kitchen.
We talk over each other. Tease. Catch up. Dad flips through channels until he lands on a holiday movie and leaves it playing softly in the background.
Mom offers food before bed. I decline — still full from rest-stop junk — but Charlie immediately accepts and follows him into the kitchen, already asking what leftovers exist.
Human vacuum.
I lean back into the couch, Luca curled against my side, Lilliana tucked into my shoulder, Dad’s steady presence across from us.
I look around at them — warm, loud, familiar. And something inside me finally unclenches.
Professor Hale hasn’t crossed my mind this entire time.
Not once in the last few hours.
Not until now.
And even then, the thought doesn’t land like a punch to the ribs the way it has all day. It’s quieter. Distant. Manageable.
Being here — being home — is exactly what I needed.
Space. Noise. Love.
A reminder of who I am outside of tension and temptation.
For the first time in a long while, I feel like I can breathe all the way in.