As the wheels touch down at Salt Lake City International, the dread in my stomach increases tenfold, causing a ripple of unease to fire through my body. I don’t want to face my family. I don’t want to see the looks of disappointment and failure written all over their faces.

I’m a coward—a fact only solidified by the dastardly way I left LA.

That’s right. After the amazing night I spent with Quinn, I slunk away under the cover of darkness. I went downstairs, packed my things, woke Fisher, and told him I’d wait down in the lobby until Elder Shaw arrived. The man got there in record time. I hadn’t even been waiting twenty minutes when a black car pulled to a stop outside our building, the familiar baby-faced man coming around to open the back-passenger door for me.

He was far from silent on our way back to his office, but I didn’t hear a thing he’d said. He wasn’t telling me anything I hadn’t already known. Besides, I had bigger things to worry about.

When I didn’t try to defend my actions, Elder Shaw told me he’d booked me on the first flight back to Salt Lake City. He said my family had been informed and would be there to collect me.

Collect me. Like I was a package they weren’t looking forward to receiving.

I’m not sure which is worse. Imagining the looks on my parents’ faces when they take in my dishonored state. Or the look on Quinn’s face when he woke to realize I was gone.

Just the thought of the heartbreak I surely caused him is enough for me to want to slam my face against the window of the plane.

So, why did I do it?

Because I am a goddamn coward.

I couldn’t say good-bye. I couldn’t handle seeing any tears that might spring to his eyes as I left him. I’d caused him enough pain already. I couldn’t bear the thought of being the source of any more.

And, instead of facing it like a man, letting him make the choice for himself and owning up to whatever might come next, I had made the decision myself. I didn’t want to see him upset, so I’d left. I took everything we’d shared and flushed it down the proverbial toilet. Once again, instead of facing my fears, I took the easy way out.

Because I am a fucking coward.

There’s no other way to describe it.

And, now, as I walk down the corridor that will lead me to my family, I want to bolt in the other direction. I don’t want to face them. I can’t face them. I can’t look my mother in the eye, knowing she knows what I did. And my father…

His reaction will break me.

Guaranteed.

But I keep walking forward. Because, despite how much I wish I could avoid this whole situation, I need to face the music. I’ve already run from one person I love today. If I do it again, I’ll never be able to look myself in the eye. Let alone live with myself.

I take a deep breath and step out into the terminal, my jaw clenched as I attempt to remain stoic over what is surely going to be one of the worst moments of my life.

But there’s nobody.

Oh, there are plenty of people in the large space, each of them waiting anxiously for their loved ones to arrive. The smiles that erupt around me should be enough to put anybody in a good mood. Too bad I’m not just anybody.

I thought seeing their upset faces would gut me. Turns out, not seeing them hurts even worse. Evidently, I wasn’t even worth collecting. I’m not just an unwanted package. I’m like a chain letter, spam, or junk mail that nobody wants, sent straight to the recycle bin without ever being looked at.

I bite my bottom lip, the pain I’m creating the only thing that’s able to keep the agony I’m living at bay. I walk quietly through the crowded airport, careful not to look up at any of the happy families that surround me. I wasn’t expecting a grand welcome. But I was at least expecting someone to be here.

I make my way over to the baggage claim, staring down at my feet as I wait for my luggage, wondering how I’m going to get home. I don’t have money for a cab. Heck, I don’t even have money for a pay phone to call anyone, and I’d left my burner phone behind in LA. Are there even pay phones anymore? I look up, glancing around the airport in search of the ancient tech that might be my only saving grace. Can you still call people collect?

Spotting a bank of phones a few yards away, I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing I won’t have to walk home. That is, until I realize, if my parents didn’t show up, that probably means my brother wouldn’t either. My aunts and uncles probably haven’t found out about my indiscretion yet. And do I really want to be the one to call and inform them? My friends are out; there’s no way I could stand listening to their self-righteous judgments as they drove me home. They were bad enough to deal with in high school. Facing them now? No, thanks. I’d rather walk the thirty miles back to Lehi.

A red tag catches my attention as it drops down onto the carousel, and I move over to grab my bag. Another hand reaches for it at the same time I do.

I open my mouth to let the person know they must be mistaken because this is my bag when my eyes meet the man next to me.

My father.

His hard eyes look me up and down, taking in my rumpled appearance, his lips pursed together. I didn’t iron my dress shirt this morning, and a few hours stuffed into economy has made the already-wrinkled fabric look even more like the rolls of a shar-pei.

“Hi, Dad,” I squeak out, hating the sadness that is so evident in my voice.

“Jaden,” he says simply, grabbing the bag and turning to walk out. “We need to get going. I’m parked in a no-parking zone.”

I trail after him, his brisk stride keeping him three steps ahead of me at all times, no matter how hard I try to catch up. As we exit the airport, I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face at the sight of his car, a car I’ve ridden in more times than I can possibly count. The shiny blue paint feels like a welcome home even if the man currently chucking my luggage in the trunk does not.

Surprising me, he opens the passenger door before walking around to the driver’s side. I was half-expecting him to demand I ride home in the trunk, so nobody in the neighborhood would be witness to his apostate son. I wasn’t expecting him to want me to ride next to him.

The drive home is silent, not even the static sounds of the radio breaking through the tension. It’s not a long ride back; traffic at ten a.m. on a Wednesday is never very heavy. It’s not until then I realize that my dad must’ve missed work to come down and pick me up.

“How’s work going?” I ask when we’re only a few minutes away from our exit.

Dad shoots me an incredulous look, as if he can’t believe I’m asking about his job in a situation like this. He turns his attention back to the road before offering a terse, “Fine.”

That’s all the sign I need that he’s unwilling to talk to me. I turn and prop my chin on my hand, resting my elbow on the armrest, as I watch the signs and other cars we pass.

When we pull into the driveway of our house, I notice all the blinds are closed tight. This is so unlike my mom, who always insists a house is not a home without a little sunshine beaming in, that I know it was a conscious decision for my father to come alone. He turns to me when we step inside the front door, the house dark and not smelling of my mother’s constant cooking, confirming my suspicions.

“Best to leave your mother to it for now. She’s had a rough morning.”

I want to protest, to tell him, if he thinks their morning has been rough, try living my life for the past forty-eight hours. I was accosted on the street, I watched my boyfriend get the crap kicked out of him while simultaneously taking a few hits myself, and then I spent the most wonderful few hours with the love of my life and then left him without a word. If anybody knows what rough is, it’s me.

But I know reminding him of my actions over the past two days will only worsen the situation. So, instead, I nod, grabbing my suitcase as I make my way over to the stairs.

“I’ll just go to my room then. I need a shower.”

My father lets me leave without a word. I woodenly climb the stairs, each step more difficult than the last. Stopping in front of the door to my room, the custom nameplate my parents bought me when I was only six still fixed in the center, I drop my head against the white paint, letting the tears I was holding back finally fall. Not wanting my mother to hear me, just in case she is down the hall in her and my dad’s bedroom, I open the door and let myself in, dropping my suitcase to the floor, before kicking the door shut behind me.

I fall face-first onto the bed, my already-tearstained cheeks burying deep into the down pillows as I release my sobs.

What have I done?