Chapter 7 - Returning to the Frost
On the afternoon of December twenty-seventh, the Boeing 737 descended through a thick, slate-gray ceiling of clouds over the Denver plains.
When the wheels hit the tarmac at DIA, the reverse thrusters roared, spraying a fan of brown, treated slush against the passenger windows.
I wore wool trousers, a heavy cashmere turtleneck, and my winter coat, which had spent five days stuffed into the overhead bin like an unpleasant reminder of reality.
My skin still smelled faintly of coconut sunscreen, a secret, golden armor beneath the layers of wool.
The airport was full of exhausted holiday travelers—families dragging weeping toddlers through the concourse, ski bags piled high on metal carts, faces pinched with the post-holiday reckoning of credit card bills and delayed flights.
I walked through the terminal with my small rolling carry-on, moving with an easy, unhurried stride that felt entirely new.
My phone was still set to *Hide Alerts* for my mother, but as I waited at the baggage carousel for the oversized duffel I had checked with my Bahamian rum and Clara’s watercolor sketch (she had insisted on giving it to me on our final morning), I unlocked Jason’s contact.
There was a voicemail from him, left yesterday afternoon.
I pulled my AirPods from my coat pocket, put one in my ear, and pressed play.
Jason’s voice sounded different. The frantic, high-register whine that had characterized his speech for the last three years was gone. He sounded like a man who had spent forty-eight hours sitting in an empty room, looking at the wreckage of his own house.
*“Hey, Riles,”* he said. A pause. A long, shuddering breath. *“I know you’re landing today around three. I’m not going to ambush you at your apartment. I swear to God I’m not. But… whenever you’re unpacked, whenever you’re ready, even if it’s next week or next month… I need to see you. Just you. No kids, no Mom, no Steph. Just me. I owe you something I should have given you five years ago. Text me if that’s okay. If it’s not… I understand.”*
The message ended with a soft click.
I stood by the revolving stainless steel carousel as a battered gray suitcase tumbled down the chute.
*I owe you something I should have given you five years ago.*
An apology? A reimbursement? A recognition that I was an autonomous human being with an actual business to run?
Probably all three.
I took an Uber back to the Montgomery Lofts.
The city of Denver looked stripped, cold, and austere under the December sky. The mountains to the west were jagged teeth of white granite against the gray horizon.
When the car pulled up to my building, Dave, the daytime doorman who had worked there since I moved in three years ago, hurried out through the double glass doors to grab my bag.
“Welcome back, Miss Hughes,” he said, his breath fogging in the freezing air. He glanced around the empty sidewalk before leaning in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Uh… your mother was here on the twenty-third.”
“I’m aware, Dave,” I said, offering a wry smile.
“Yeah,” Dave grimaced, adjusting his uniform cap. “She tried to tell Marcus—he was on the desk that afternoon—that there was a medical emergency in your unit and that he needed to let her up with the master key.”
A cold prickle of anger moved across my scalp. “What did Marcus do?”
“Marcus told her that if there was a medical emergency, he was required by municipal code to dial 911 immediately and let the paramedics handle the door with an axe.” Dave grinned, showing a gold crown. “She left pretty quick after that.”
“Thank you, Dave,” I said, slipping a twenty-dollar bill into his palm. “And thank Marcus for me.”
“Always, Miss Hughes. Welcome home.”
I took the elevator up to the fourth floor.
The corridor was quiet. The faint scent of someone’s pine-scented floor cleaner hung in the air.
I stopped outside door 412.
The brass deadbolt was brand new, its edges sharp, clean, and unmarred by scratches.
I pulled my new key from my purse, slid it into the cylinder, and turned it.
*Click.*
The mechanism moved with a heavy, satisfying precision.
I opened the door and stepped inside.
My apartment was exactly as I had left it on the morning of December twenty-second.
The air was clean, smelling faintly of the cedarwood diffuser on the console table. My large fiddle-leaf fig stood in the corner by the floor-to-ceiling windows, its broad green leaves catching the pale winter light. On my dining room table, my large monitor sat dark, sleek, and silent, flanked by a neat stack of client files and my favorite ceramic coffee mug.
No plastic cups on the coffee table.
No stray socks behind the television.
No snot on the sofa pillows.
No smell of sour milk.
Just my life.
Ordered, quiet, and completely, undeniably mine.
I set my suitcase by the closet, took off my boots, and walked across the warm hardwood floors in my wool socks. I walked into the kitchen, filled the electric kettle with filtered water, and switched it on.
Then, I pulled my phone from my pocket.
I clicked on Jason’s contact card.
*I’m home,* I typed. *Come by tomorrow at ten. Alone.*
I hit send.
May you like
Then I leaned back against the counter, listened to the kettle begin its low, steady song of boiling water, and watched the snow begin to fall softly over the roofs of Denver.
***
