Chapter 6: Off the Map

I opened the family group chat—the last message five years old, a photo of Annie and me at the county fair, blue ribbons bright against our smiles. I typed and deleted, then finally sent: [Congratulations.]

No reply. My thumb hovered over “leave group.” I told myself it didn’t matter. It still felt like jumping off a ledge.

Back in my room, I packed up my painting tools—old sketchbooks, tubes of paint, charcoal sticks. I wrapped them carefully, as if they were fragile. Carrying my portfolio and dragging my suitcase, I bought a train ticket south.

The platform was empty except for a tired conductor and a family wrangling toddlers. The train rattled past fields dotted with Waffle House signs and faded billboards for fireworks. Most passengers slept, the carriage dark except for the occasional snore or rustle. For the first time in years, I let myself exhale.

The train moved slowly, the gentle rocking hypnotic. I watched the landscape slip by—fields, barns, the distant gleam of streetlights. My thoughts drifted back to the year I met Ethan Caldwell, in a downtown Maple Heights gallery, under the too-white lights and overpriced canapés. I first noticed a painting: a twisted shadow under a streetlamp. I reached out, mesmerized.

“You really like this painting.” A deep, pleasant voice behind me. I turned, startled, and met Ethan’s gaze—confident, magnetic. In that moment, my heart fluttered. I experienced love at first sight, embarrassing and real.

Through our conversation, I learned the painting was by Ethan’s mother. He spoke of her with softness, and I wanted to be part of that tenderness. It took three more gallery visits and awkward small talk before he gave me his number. But now, on this train, I realized it didn’t matter who met him first. I was moving on.