3 weeks after the Saturday morning breakfast, Andre drove Clare to Hartsfield, Jackson. The drive was early, 5:40 a.m., the city still dark and quiet, the highway moving with the strange freedom of roads before the morning rush. Maya had insisted on coming. She was in the back seat in her pajamas and a hoodie. Her head tilted against the window.
Technically awake, but only barely in that half-conscious state that 12-year-olds achieve when they've decided that showing up matters more than being alert. Clare had one large suitcase and two carryons. She had packed and unpacked the large suitcase twice, and the second version was better than the first, but she still wasn't sure about it. They pulled up to the departures level at 6:23. The airport was already moving.
It was always already moving. Hartsfield never really slept, and the early morning light was the color of something not yet decided. Maya sat up in the back seat and became fully awake with the abruptness of someone who had timed their consciousness to the moment it was needed. "Don't forget Brooklyn," she said. "I won't forget Brooklyn," Clare said.
"And text me when you land, not just dad. Me separately. " Maya, I want my own text, Maya said firmly. Not a group text. Mine. Clare turned in the passenger seat to look at her.
This child, this specific extraordinary, unapologetic child who had helped her build a water filtration system in November and texted her about blazers on a Friday night and was currently sitting in Bajjamas at 6:23 in the morning at an airport because it mattered to show up even half asleep even without being asked your own text. Clare said, "I promise. " Maya nodded, settled back. Consider. I'm going to miss you being next door, she said. Not dramatically, just as a fact.
The kind of thing children say when they've decided that honest is better than careful. Something tightened in Clare's chest. I'm going to miss being next door, she said. Andre got out and got her suitcase from the back. She got out on her side.
They stood on the curb in the early morning, the city moving around them, and it occurred to Clare that this was not the version of goodbye that she had prepared for. She had prepared for the version where she said something elegant, and he said something grounded. And they both managed it with grace. What happened instead was simpler. He looked at her, just looked at her.
The way he had been looking at her for two years. The look she had been calling convenient, calling proximity, calling everything except what it was. "Call me when you land," he said. "You already know. I'm going to call you when I land. " "I know.
I wanted to say it anyway. " She reached up and straightened the collar of his jacket. A small gesture, domestic and certain. The kind of thing you do with someone when touching them is as natural as breathing. She hadn't planned it. Her hands just did it.