Tread

July 3

Why I booked my flight for the day before the Fourth of July, I'll never know. Every single seat on the plane is filled, and I swear half of them are just obnoxious babies. It takes forever and a day to finally get off the plane and make it through the terminal.

Despite my six-hour nap, I'm jet-lagged to hell. A quick stop in the bathroom shows my bun resembling something of a bird's nest and my eyes fighting to outdo raccoons. There's a crease on my cheek from the airplane pillow and everything sounds like it's in a glass jar since my ears still haven't popped.

All in all, I'm a bag of dicks. But at least I'm not a despondent bag of dicks.

Leaving Leo was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, and every step away from him felt like fighting through quicksand.

I love him.

I can't be with him.

Splashing water on my face, I try not to think about anything. The airport is obscenely crowded, and there is a surplus of people bobbing and weaving as if they've never walked in their life. I make it through security and go straight to the pickup spot, happy that I don't have any checked bags.

The weather is hot and humid even at six at night. I spot my mom standing next to her beat up purple Ford Escort in black jeans and an ancient Pink Floyd t-shirt. Beside her is a brown man in dark blue jeans and a gray v-neck. I would almost say he is Arab if not for his features. Latino maybe.

Moving toward them, I open my arms as a smile splits my face. "Mama!"

Her hug is immediate and enveloping, wrapping me up in flower scented fabric softener and peach shampoo. "Raiqah," she gushes, pulling back and holding me at arm's length, "You look happier, habibti. I see backpacking did wonders for you. Or was that Mr. Backpacker?"

I sidestep my mom and completely ignore her question. "You must be Damien," I direct to the Latino man who awkwardly steps forward and extends a hand.

"Yes." I shake his hand, feeling the thick calluses brush my palm. "It's nice to finally meet you, Raiqah. Kris thought you might need some help with your bags, so I volunteered."

"I thought you'd come back with more stuff," my mom defends instantly, looking over the lone backpack.

"Just call me Rai. And actually, this thing is pretty heavy," I say, lifting up the bag and handing it off. Damien takes it and quickly goes to place it in the car, leaving me to give my mother one helluva side eye.

"What?"

"My luggage? Really?"

"I thought you'd have more."

"Uh-huh."

After another minute of awkward inanities, we all shuffle into the car. Damien drives, and my mom shifts around in the passenger seat to talk to me. "Tell me everything! Damien is dying to know too."

Doubt that. I start with Ireland and the program, slowly working through my journey, leaving nothing out but the obscene amounts of alcohol and sex with Leo. The ride is an hour and a half home, and I only make it to Rome as we pull into the driveway and park.

"So you did meet with Mac?"

"Yup," I say as I climb out and Damien grabs my backpack.

"And what did you all do?" my mother asks as twines her arm around mine and leads me up with lattice brickwork to the entrance of the two story Victorian. It's one of my favorite houses of hers, all gothic exterior, wrought iron work, and brick. The interior is just as stunning with cherry wood floors and a wide curving staircase leading to the second floor. Double doors with hand-made carvings lead into almost every room but the bathrooms and kitchen, giving the house just that more class.