Chapter 5 - The Snowfall Outside Gate B
Julian opened his mouth to argue, took one look at the absolute, immovable resolve in my eyes, and snapped his jaw shut. He adjusted his tablet under his arm, gave a curt, professional nod, and turned on his heel, disappearing back into the stream of holiday travelers without another word.
The silence that followed in the baggage claim area felt heavy, charged with an unfamiliar kind of electricity.
Cassandra was staring at me, her hands clasped tightly over the handle of the stroller. "You just committed corporate suicide."
"I bought my life back," I corrected softly, stepping closer to her.
Around us, the baggage carousel clanked into motion, its rubber belt grinding against the metal frame as the first wave of red and black duffel bags tumbled out onto the slide. Passengers swarmed forward to grab their belongings, but we remained standing in our own quiet pocket of the busy terminal.
Luke reached down from where he was still perched on my shoulders, patting my hair with a sticky hand. "Daddy?" he asked, trying out the word for the first time, his voice innocent and clear above the din of the airport.
My heart seized in my chest. A hot, sharp tear broke free and tracked down my cheek, catching in the dimple on my left cheek.
"Yeah, buddy?" I choked out, looking up at him. "I'm right here."
Cassandra turned away, wiping her own eyes with the sleeve of her coat, trying to maintain her composure. But the wall she had spent three years building brick by brick had finally started to crumble.
"Come on," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion as she reached out and grabbed the handle of her suitcase off the belt. "Let's go find a taxi before the snow gets worse."
"You're not taking a taxi," I said firmly, grabbing her suitcase with my free hand. "My car is in long-term parking. We're driving to your place."
"Damon, you don't even know where I live."
"Then you're going to give me directions."
She looked like she wanted to argue, to deploy another defense mechanism, but the exhausted, defeated look in her eyes gave way to something softer—something terrifyingly hopeful.
We walked out of the terminal sliding doors together into the biting midnight air of Denver. A thick blanket of fresh Christmas Eve snow was falling over the city, wrapping the parking structures and the distant highway lights in a quiet, pristine white.
I loaded the bags into the trunk of my sedan while Cassandra settled the twins into their car seats in the back. As I slid behind the steering wheel and turned the ignition, the dashboard clock flashed 11:45 PM—the exact minute the Merritt Systems deal had officially died.
I didn't feel a shred of regret.
As I put the car in drive and pulled out of the airport lane into the softly falling snow, Cassandra reached across the console, her fingers brushing lightly against my knuckles.
I turned my hand over, interlocking my fingers with hers for the first time in three years.
"Where to?" I asked softly.
She gave a small, weary smile, looking out at the snow-covered road ahead.
May you like
"Take a left at the light," she said. "Drive slow."
And for the first time in my life, I did.
