I'm Not Leaving // lrh

29 || boston

weston, massachusetts
5:00pm

A

I leaned my head on the cab window, recognizing the trees that started at the front of the estate, but just barely. They haven't been trimmed in a while.

The dirt road that's been driven over for years and years, the light brown that was once dark, like rich soil, was stark against the green of the trees that obscure the dirt road from view, hidden.

I first learned how to drive and parallel park on this exact spot. This exact road. The Tulip trees, native to Massachusetts on either side were still tall, old, dark, leading up the gate of the house I (mostly) grew up in.

My heart raced as we reached the gate that led to the driveway, I sighed. No one works here anymore. Not since the divorce. I reached my hand out the window and entered the code, 20189. It's the day my parents met at a Nine Inch Nails gig.

My dad was going to stay here at first, he built it from the ground up. It's his home and has been for years. Eventually though, he decided it was too much, so he left too.

At first I was a little sad. But the thought of my dad in the big house all by himself made me sadder. So I'm glad he got out.

After the driver helped me with my bags and I paid him, he drove off, wheels crunching against the road. And I stood there, eyeballing the house as if it could see me too. I always felt like it could. All big and bold and grand.

And now, a little sad.

It hasn't been that long in the grand scheme of things. But the grass hasn't been trimmed. The fountain's off. Some of the plants and bushes are turning brown. And it was quiet. Almost eerily.

I didn't want to enter the house. Not right away.

So I dusted off the keypad at the side of the house, to open up the garage. The doors were louder than I remembered as they opened up, revealing some left behind treasures from another life.

My old field hockey sticks, some wrapped with sports tape, leaning against the metal shelves. My cleats tied up, hanging from the railway style coat hooks by the door that leads inside. The cushioned bench. The still muddy boots that my dad must've put down and not picked back up since. Some of my dad's car collection. The Jaguar. The Lamborghini. The keychain hooks that I used to skim through when I'd one of the cars for joy rides across bridges and through tunnels. I skimmed them against with my fingers and heard the twinkle of the metal. Like wind chimes. My dad's old golf clubs. Some boxes from my various apartments that somehow always ended up back here. With 'KITCHEN' and 'KITCHEN' again written on the sides. An old saddle from my horse camp I shouldn't have stolen, but I did since I engraved my name onto the side with a pocket knife.

And my car.

Not the one in the city, collecting dust in a parking garage and almost never being used.

The 1986 Mercedes 380 SL, half hidden underneath a tarp that I got for high school graduation. I almost laugh to myself. I must've left the top down the last time I drove it and my dad had to protect the buttery, leather interior somehow.

Immediately, my flight response kicks in.

I toss my bags into the backseat, remove the tarp, toss it aside. I don't bother with the door, I hop over, and into the drivers seat. I hunt for the keys in the car, sighing in relief when I find them in the glove compartment.

And I say a little prayer for the engine to start.

And it does. A low hum floods the room. A smile spreads across my face, I'm so excited I hug the steering wheel. I flick the teeny metal dice I've got hanging from the mirror. I hunt through the glove compartment once more, finding another gift from my past self. Sunglasses.