Page 2 of Palingenesis

My gaze flicks to the rearview like I might be able to see all the things I left behind nipping at the hitch of my truck but of course, I see nothing on the vast expanse of highway separating me from Chicago stretching beyond the rusted bed. The moving totes are still there, filled with everything I own in just a few containers–the only pieces of my past I was willing to bring with me.

Sucking in a breath, I scrub a stiff hand across my jaw and readjust my non-dominant hand on the wheel. I hate when my digits hold the tension; a silent tell of the stress I can’t yet release.

Nineteen hours is one hell of a trek, but it’s almost over.

“It’s almost over,” I tell myself in sign with a flick of the wrist.

The realization of what “over” truly means leaves a sweet taste on my tongue, lightening my stomach in a way that’s reminiscent of relief.

It’s enough that I draw an easy breath.

Though fleeting, I let myself bask in the possibility of having left it all behind as I follow the onscreen instructions to turn, a wooden sign toting the few miles left in this journey. I imagine what it’ll be like to accept the keys to my new place, alone, as I curve around the mountainside.

Another carved sign, this one separating from its post, is a marker of the final stretch and the sole reason for my jaw to unclench.

One would think that I’d be freaking out, having never spent much time out of the city and going straight into living somewhere I’ve only ever seen pictures of, fantasized about, but with every mile I put between me and my past, my chest is expanding. Each breath feels fresher, easier.

I relax in my seat; the tension begins to unravel in the base of my spine as the small town forms around me.

Glancing at my phone, I confirm the direction I already know by heart. I’ve studied it a million times, researched for hours on end and spent every waking moment for the last six months memorizing every aspect of this place I could, so much so that it feels like I already know what’s coming next. It’s like I’ve already lived here, not that I’m witnessing everything for the first time. It’s like a balm to the small side of me that needs structure and stability while still giving my wild side a chance to thrive.

The flash of a notification catches my eye, letting me know that the realtor is waiting for me with keys in hand, and I let my smile ease.

Perfect timing.

It almost feels like kismet as I turn onto my new street only a moment later, my cheeks aching, a buzzing blooming beneath my skin.

And there it is–my new beginning.

I pull up the cracked driveway of my fixer-upper home, with all its faded glory and half hung shutters clinging to chipped paint, and a renewed sense of energy humming through my blood. The place needs a ton of work, but the distraction will be nice. I’ll get to keep my hands busy while not having to explain myself.

Throwing the truck in park, I pause and take a moment to collect myself lest I terrify the poor older women selling me this place. It was already a feat to buy it through captioned video calls and emails since traveling before the move didn’t fit my budget. Marge certainly already thinks I’m a loon of a city-slicker that won’t last five minutes in Montana, but there’s no reason to add to her judgment of me.

It’ll be hard enough without any extra misconceptions.

Unfastening my belt with slow, calculated movements, I climb out of the truck and run a hand through my hair. My fingers get stuck in the tangles left behind from the drive and–whatever; the state of my hair won’t impede the keys to my future being pressed into my palm in just a few short moments. The hefty down payment I wired over last week made sure of that.

The front door opens with a jittery swing I’ll have to fix and my spine straightens, then stiffens when it’s not a middle-aged woman that steps out.

Where I was expecting a vintage pantsuit and two cans worth of Aqua Net to greet me, there's nothing but animosity honing in on my old truck, and then me as I lean back against it. His sharp gaze narrows.

My stomach drops, that sweet-tasting air growing bitter.

He’s already here.

Chapter 2

Shannon

My hands start flying in sloppy, quick signs, echoing the spoken words that roll thickly off my lips. “I thought you were flying in tonight.” I emphasize tonight, as in later–so much later. My palms are sweating, fingers shaking as he tilts his chin up.

Judging by the look on Marge’s face, I’m a bit on the louder side. Silently excusing herself, she vanishes into the house, leaving me alone with him.

Henry.

My partner.

Housemate.