Before You Go | A Millhaven Story

Every time Alicia moved, I found her.

I woke up with one arm around her waist and half my body hanging off the wrong side of the mattress. Sometime during the night she’d drifted toward the edge of the bed. Sometime after that, I’d followed.

“You’re crowding me.”

Her voice was rough with sleep.

I smiled against her shoulder.

“This is my bed.”

“Then explain why you’re on my side.”

I tightened my arm.

“Possession.”

She laughed softly and turned toward me. Morning light spilled across the freckles on her nose and the curls she’d started wearing loose three years ago because I’d told her once I liked them that way. She never admitted that part. Alicia collected art, rescued dying plants she couldn’t keep alive, and argued with strangers about nonprofit budgets. Admitting she did something because it made me happy wasn’t in her skill set.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

The smile slipped from her face for half a second.

“There she is,” I said.

“Who?”

“The responsible adult.”

She rolled her eyes and grabbed the phone.

“Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You absolutely were.”

She answered before I could defend myself.

“Hey.”

I watched her disappear toward the bathroom.

“Yeah, everything’s packed.”

A pause.

“No, I already handled that.”

Another.

“Tomorrow morning should be fine.”

I looked away before I heard anything else.

The house felt different when she was leaving.

Not empty.

Just aware.

I wandered into the kitchen and started the espresso machine.

The familiar hum filled the room.

A second coffee mug already sat beside the sink.

I stared at the refrigerator.

Marvin’s baseball schedule was still attached with a magnet from the aquarium.

A crayon drawing from Mia sat beside it.

Purple dragon.

Pink wings.

Misspelled title.

DRAGEN PRINCESS.

I smiled.

Alicia appeared a minute later wearing my T-shirt and one of those expressions that meant she was pretending everything was normal.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward the refrigerator.

Then back to her coffee.

“You know normal people just buy coffee.”

“Normal people don’t know good coffee.”

“Normal people also don’t spend mortgage payments on espresso machines.”

I pointed toward the counter.

“That watch cost thirty dollars.”

“Exactly.”

She stole a strawberry from the bowl and popped it into her mouth.

“You’ll spend a thousand dollars on coffee equipment and twenty-nine ninety-nine on a watch.”

“Priorities.”

“Terrible priorities.”

The espresso machine hissed.

For a minute neither of us said anything.

Outside, rainwater still clung to the trees lining the street.

Inside, Alicia wrapped both arms around my waist and rested her cheek against my back.

I covered her hands with mine.

Neither of us mentioned tomorrow.

“Did Mia ever finish that volcano?” she asked.

“Finished it. Presented it. Took all the credit.”

“Smart girl.”

“Almost burned down my kitchen.”

“Worth it.”

“Easy for you to say.”

She laughed.

I closed my eyes for a second longer than necessary.

Then I turned around.

“Bookstore first?”

She looked up at me.

The answer was obvious.

“Always.”

Langston House smelled like coffee, old paper, and money that had been around long enough not to talk about itself.

The bookstore sat tucked inside the rear corner of the building, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling shelves and soft afternoon light spilling through tall windows.

Our rule had never changed.

No hints.

No help.

No questions.

One book each.

Three years later we were both annoyingly good at it.

“You get thirty minutes,” Alicia said.

“Forty.”

“Thirty.”

“Thirty-five.”

She pointed toward the fiction section.

“Go.”

I smiled and disappeared between the shelves.

Finding books for Alicia used to be difficult.

Now it wasn’t.

The hard part wasn’t choosing something she’d like.

The hard part was choosing something she hadn’t already read.

I found it twenty minutes later.

A slim poetry collection.

Love.

Longing.

The kind of book she’d pretend was too sentimental before underlining half of it.

Perfect.

I carried it to the register.

Alicia was already there.

Of course she was.

“You’re late,” she said.

“I still had fifteen seconds.”

“Excuses.”

Behind the register, Mila looked up from her computer.

The smile appeared immediately.

“You two again.”

“Unfortunately,” Alicia said, a little too quickly.

I smiled.

Mila nodded.

“At this point I should start a loyalty program.”

“I’d use it,” I said.

“I know you would.”

Alicia paid first.

I paid second.

Neither of us looked at the other’s purchase.

That was another rule.

Outside, we claimed our usual bench beneath one of the oak trees lining the courtyard.

The books came out together.

Alicia handed me mine.

I handed her hers.

For a second neither of us opened them.

Just looked.

The way people sometimes do when they know something small matters more than it should.

“Ready?” she asked.

“No.”

“Good.”

We opened them anyway.

Inside my cover, her handwriting curved neatly across the first page.

For once, I hope you stop doing the sensible thing.

-A

I read it twice.

Then a third time.

My thumb stopped against the edge of the page.

When I looked up, Alicia was watching me.

Not smiling.

Waiting.

For what, I wasn’t sure.

I cleared my throat.

“That’s a lot of pressure for one book.”

“There are worse things.”

I looked back down before I answered.

When she opened hers, I watched her expression soften.

Some things deserve to be said out loud.

-M

She traced the words once with her thumb.

Then closed the cover.

Neither of us spoke.

The afternoon stretched between us.

Warm.

Quiet.

Dangerous.

Alicia looked away first.

Toward the fountain in the courtyard.

Toward the parking lot.

Toward tomorrow.

I followed her gaze.

“Still time to change your mind.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Hope flashed across her face so quickly I almost missed it.

Then it disappeared.

“About moving?”

I forced a smile.

“What else?”

She laughed softly.

Not because it was funny.

Because it wasn’t.

And because neither of us said the things we actually meant.

A few minutes later she stood.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

I grabbed my coffee.

She grabbed hers.

For a second our hands brushed.

Then she started walking.

And I followed her.

Just like I always did.

The Paiton Turner Children’s Wing sat on the east side of the hospital, bright and loud in a way most hospitals tried and failed to be.

The walls were covered in murals.

Animals in rain boots.

Astronauts.

Dinosaurs wearing sunglasses.

Alicia slowed near the donor wall just inside the entrance.

Glass panels stretched from floor to ceiling, covered in names that had helped bring the expansion to life.

Churches.

Businesses.

Families.

Foundations.

People who wanted recognition and people who didn’t.

Three years ago, neither of us had spent much time thinking about the Paiton Turner Children’s Wing.

She’d been trying to raise money for it.

I’d been trying to survive a fundraiser.

Those weren’t the same thing.

“You know,” she said, studying the wall, “I almost didn’t talk to you that night.”

I laughed.

“You tell that story every year.”

“Because it’s true.”

“You walked over to me.”

“Eventually.”

I looked at her.

“Eventually?”

She shrugged.

“I’d seen you with someone else first.”

“And?”

“And you still looked miserable.”

I laughed.

“That’s rude.”

“It’s accurate.”

“You weren’t exactly subtle either.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

She smiled.

“And then you spent fifteen minutes talking about childhood healthcare access.”

“I care about childhood healthcare access.”

“I know.”

The way she said it made me look at her.

There were hundreds of people at that fundraiser.

I barely remembered any of them.

I remembered exactly what she wore.

A dark green dress.

Gold earrings.

Hair pulled back.

A clipboard tucked under one arm and a look that suggested she was the only competent person in the room.

She caught me staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

Before she could push further, a voice echoed down the hallway.

“Dr. Mercer!”

A blur of motion came sprinting toward us.

I barely had time to react before a little girl wrapped herself around my waist.

I laughed and crouched down automatically.

“Well, hey there.”

Behind her, her mother hurried after her looking mildly embarrassed.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

The little girl grinned so hard her whole face seemed involved.

“I lost my tooth!”

She pointed proudly into her mouth.

The gap was impossible to miss.

I gasped dramatically.

“No way.”

“Way.”

“When did this happen?”

“Tuesday.”

“And nobody called me?”

She giggled.

Her mother rolled her eyes.

“You would think she won the lottery.”

“I did.”

The girl nodded seriously.

“I got five dollars.”

“Five?”

I looked at her mother.

“We’re just handing out money now?”

The little girl laughed.

For the next few minutes she told me everything.

About her tooth.

About summer break.

About the dog she wanted.

About how unfair it was that her parents kept saying no.

I listened to every word.

When she finally ran off toward the elevators, her mother paused beside me.

“Thank you.”

I shook my head.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

Her smile softened.

“But thank you anyway.”

Then they were gone.

The hallway felt quieter afterward.

I stood and looked over at Alicia.

She was watching me.

Not smiling.

Just watching.

“What?”

She shook her head.

“You know that’s why I fell for you, right?”

For a moment neither of us said anything.

I put a hand over my chest.

“My devastating good looks?”

She rolled her eyes.

“That.”

She nodded toward the elevator where the little girl had disappeared.

Understanding settled between us.

Soft.

Familiar.

Dangerous.

Children’s laughter echoed from somewhere deeper in the wing.

A nurse walked by carrying stickers.

A cartoon played softly from a waiting room television.

Life moved around us.

Alicia looked down the hallway.

Then back at me.

“You make it look easy.”

“What?”

“Being exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

The smile slipped from my face.

I shoved my hands into my pockets.

Outside the large windows overlooking the parking lot, people came and went.

Cars pulled in.

Cars pulled out.

Everything moving forward whether anybody was ready or not.

Beside me, Alicia tucked a loose curl behind her ear.

Tomorrow she’d be gone.

For a second I tried to imagine Millhaven without her.

I couldn’t.

So I didn’t.

“Come on,” she said finally.

“Where are we going now?”

She started walking backward toward the elevators.

“Anywhere that isn’t a hospital.”

“That’s rude.”

“You spend too much time here.”

“I work here.”

“You’d live here if they let you.”

“That’s not true.”

Alicia laughed.

The sound followed us down the hallway.

For a few seconds, it almost convinced me tomorrow wasn’t coming.

Sunday Table deserved every bit of its reputation.

The food was incredible.

The desserts should have required permits.

And Alicia spent the first ten minutes criticizing the menu before spending the next twenty admitting she was wrong.

“I hate when you’re right.”

“No you don’t.”

“I really do.”

“You absolutely don’t.”

She pointed her fork at me.

“Don’t ruin this.”

The restaurant hummed around us.

Conversations.

Laughter.

Glasses clinking together.

For the first time all day, neither of us seemed interested in watching the clock.

We talked about everything.

The fundraiser.

The bookstore.

The first VR game we’d ever played together.

“You ran into a wall.”

“You ran into two walls.”

“I was immersed.”

“You were blind.”

“I still won.”

“Pure luck.”

“It was skill.”

I shook my head.

Alicia smiled.

The same smile that had followed me through three years of bookstores, coffee shops, hospital hallways, and late-night phone calls.

At some point she pulled the poetry book from her bag.

The one I’d given her.

“You still haven’t told me why this one.”

I looked at the cover.

“Because you’ll underline half of it.”

“I might.”

“You definitely will.”

She opened the front cover.

Read the inscription again.

Some things deserve to be said out loud.

-M

Her thumb lingered against the page for a second.

Then she closed the book.

“How many patients did you cancel on for this?”

I looked at her.

“That’s what we’re doing?”

“Answer the question.”

“Three.”

“Maverick.”

“Two and a half.”

She shook her head.

“Unbelievable.”

Outside the windows, afternoon sunlight spilled across downtown Millhaven.

People moved along the sidewalks.

Cars drifted through intersections.

Life continued.

Exactly as it always had.

Alicia looked out the window.

I asked her, “What are you going to miss?”

“The bookstore.”

She laughed.

“The coffee.”

“Worse.”

“And you.”

The smile she gave me then stayed with me long after the conversation moved on.

Eventually Alicia checked the time.

The smile faded just a little.

“I should probably let you get back to your patients.”

“You mean you should probably finish packing.”

She didn’t argue.

That told me enough.

A few minutes later we stood.

The check was paid.

The lunch was over.

And suddenly there wasn’t anything left to do.

We stopped outside her apartment building.

The afternoon was beginning to slide toward evening.

Tomorrow she would leave.

Tonight she was still here.

The boxes were packed.

The movers were scheduled.

The decision had already been made.

There was nothing left to solve.

Only goodbye.

Alicia leaned against the passenger door of my truck.

“You’ll call?”

“You make it sound optional.”

“It isn’t.”

“I’ll call.”

“Good.”

A breeze lifted a few curls from her face.

For a second neither of us said anything.

Three years is a long time.

Long enough to build routines.

Long enough to create traditions.

Long enough to know exactly what book the other person would buy without asking.

Long enough to miss somebody before they’ve even left.

Something rose into my throat.

A sentence.

A request.

Maybe a question.

I swallowed it before it could become any of those things.

Finally she stepped forward.

I met her halfway.

The kiss wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was familiar.

Comfortable.

The kind that comes from knowing somebody too well.

When we finally pulled apart, she smiled.

“You still taste like expensive coffee.”

“That’s a compliment.”

“It isn’t.”

I laughed.

She turned to leave.

Something slipped from my jacket pocket and landed on the sidewalk.

Neither of us heard it.

Alicia spotted it first.

“Hold on.”

She bent down and picked it up.

I frowned.

“Trying to steal my wallet?”

“The watch wasn’t enough?”

“Absolutely not.”

She smiled.

Then looked down.

Just for a second.

At the photograph in her hand.

The smile faded.

Not completely.

Just enough.

I recognized the photograph immediately.

Marvin stood tall in the back row.

Mia grinned in the front.

And beside me, a woman smiled at the camera.

Alicia’s eyes lingered there a moment longer than they needed to.

Neither of us said anything.

She looked up.

I knew what she’d seen.

She knew I knew.

The silence settled between us.

Familiar.

Careful.

Then her expression shifted.

So slightly most people would’ve missed it.

She handed the photograph back.

“Don’t lose this one.”

I slipped it back into my pocket.

Neither of us mentioned it.

Alicia brushed an invisible wrinkle from my jacket.

Then smiled.

“Tell the infamous Mrs. Lauren Mercer good luck with her gala.”

I laughed.

“How do you know about the gala?”

Alicia raised an eyebrow.

“Your wife is infamous, Maverick. People talk.”

I shook my head.

“I’ll let her know.”

Alicia smiled.

Soft this time.

“And thank her for sharing you all this time.”

For a second I thought about saying something.

An apology.

An explanation.

Something.

Nothing felt big enough.

Alicia shook her head before I could try.

Then stepped forward.

The last kiss wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t desperate.

It was goodbye.

When she pulled away, neither of us tried to say anything else.

She took a step back.

Then another.

Then she turned around.

And walked away.