A Different Route Home

Daniel will do anything for her, even after she walked out…

Daniel cried himself to sleep every night after Myra left. He couldn't help it. The emptiness was too much to bear. In the cold, impassive daylight, he continued the long hours at his IT job with grim disdain and numb acquiescence. Work wielded the double-edged sword of being both the thing that drove them apart, and the only thing he had left to give himself to. But the nights left him awake, tracing patterns in the ceiling, mourning what he'd lost.

One especially murky evening, the elements seemed to be ganging up on him. Rain tried to erase him from the earth, lightning peered in his windows and thunder knocked at his door, while wind howled diabolical messages through the rafters.

“Daniel! Help me, please…”

He jolted upright in bed. It was Myra. She was calling out for him – but from where? The anguish in her voice was unmistakable. Jumping out, he ran to the front door. Only the storm greeted him, mocking his desperation with a splash of cold rain in his face. He was about to turn back inside, when he saw her: on her knees, faint, almost transparent, distant like a ghost.

“Myra! Come back home…”

“I can't,” was her despairing cry.

Daniel saw the shadow towering behind her, a blackness so intense, even the lightning held back from it. He leaped forward, arms outstretched, falling away into levitating nothingness…

He dragged himself awake with a gasp, spine tingling. A dream! So clear, so vivid, so compelling. Where was Myra now? Was she safe in the arms of someone else? Was the dream merely a reflection of the deep-seated pain in his own heart, or was it something transcendent, a telepathic cry for help?

Sleep fled his grasp as he walked through the hall and looked out the front door, just as he had in the dream. Only tree branches could be seen, casting thrashing shadows across the ground as the wind agitated them against the streetlights. He went back to the bedroom and pulled out his phone. The letter she'd printed out expressly asked him not to try and contact her, that she was happy now and it was for the best. But…

He typed a text and hit send:

Are you ok? How's it going?

Then, without waiting for a reply, he called. It went to voicemail, her words clear and polite and chirpy as she'd been when they first met.

I'm not taking calls at present, but feel free to leave a message after the beep.

Daniel pulled in a sharp breath.

“Honey, Myra, it's me. I just wanted to make sure you're safe out there. I…” his voice slipped. “I miss you. I love you.”

Never the best at speaking his mind, he hung up before the tears could overcome him again if he stumbled through an apology. His stomach cringed as he stared at his phone. Three months. So many unspoken questions.

He moved to sit at his computer desk, lifting the keyboard to pull out a faded slip of paper. Her Gmail password. As husband and wife, they'd swapped passwords and two factor authentication devices in case of emergencies. He would never have snooped, but his nightmare redefined the situation with burning urgency.

A block of bold, unsorted emails met his eyes. Scrolling down, his heart skipped: Myra had not opened a single message since she'd left. Junk mail mixed haphazardly with newsletters, social media notifications, all things she would have taken care of as they arrived. Notably missing were any e-receipts for mobile payments. She loved ordering fast food from her phone, especially Arby's and Starbucks. Yet cobwebs lay thicker than a stack of unread mail.

He pulled up her Google account page and toggled Find My Phone, praying her device was still turned on and active. The simulated radar scan spun for an agonizing infinity. Why hadn't he thought of this sooner? Why let her go without at least finding out who it was she'd chosen? Perhaps he'd been afraid of what bitterness would arise within him if he exposed her actions any more clearly. But did he really think he could have closure with nothing more than a cold farewell typed on printer paper?

Maybe she'd opened a new Google account since leaving. It would make sense to begin afresh. Maybe she'd acquired a new phone, a new number, a new life. Maybe…

A map appeared, with a blue dot, latitude/longitude coordinates, and a unique five character identifier. Her phone was at an address in New Orleans, three and a half states away. Daniel stared at the map. He instinctively started copying the address into Google, then stopped abruptly. Any activity on her account, from unbolded emails to new searches, would be recorded, potentially monitored. He grabbed his phone, took pictures of everything, then signed out, removing his desktop from the list of remembered devices.

Armed with his pictures, he investigated, pulling up property records, Street View, Facebook pages and those semi-shady websites that gather and disseminate public information. The house: a grand Southern plantation, hidden behind live oaks shrouded in Spanish moss. The man who owned it, Trent, was one of Myra's high school friends, a quarterback on the team for which she'd been a cheerleader. He was the kind of boy and now young man that people swoon over. Daniel's entry-level tech job and glasses were hardly a comparison to Trent's sleek executive position and lantern jaw.

Misgivings lurked like shadows over Daniel's shoulders. If she was happy, why stalk her? But was she? How would he know? Perhaps the emails she'd written before she left would give some explanation, some hints. He signed in again, this time using Incognito mode, and went into Myra's sent mail folder.

It started when Trent messaged her through Facebook. Daniel traced everything, seeing how Myra had at first treated him coolly, then gradually opened up as he inquired about her wellbeing. Over the better part of a year, she'd spilled herself out in words, revealing the inner void that Daniel never realized she'd had.

He just doesn't understand, she wrote. Whenever I try to talk to him, he's too busy, or distracted, or not interested. He works too hard, spends hours on the computer, and meanwhile I'm dying inside all alone. I don't know where our love went. It's not the same anymore.

Trent led her on, expressing outrage, exploiting her vulnerabilities. He doesn't deserve someone as wonderful as you. If I were there, I'd be with you all the time. You're the woman of my dreams. We're meant to be together.

Daniel laid his head on the keyboard, stifling a sob. How had he ignored his wife, falling apart right beside him? All the late nights under the glow of screens, working on the project that would make or break his fledgling career. Her eyes, pleading for something, a word of affirmation, of presence. Nothing. The passion he and Myra started out with had shriveled to dust like a rotten fruit.

He followed their conversation as it evolved from emotional outpouring to making arrangements for her to move out. You know I'll always love and support you. There's no reason to doubt that what we have is something special. He won't even notice you're gone.

She wrote back, I'm so excited to finally feel alive again. I can't wait to see you!

Trent's last email had a few heart emojis. I'll be ready for you, my queen.

By now Daniel was sick to his stomach. What kind of man would lure away another man's wife like that? Then again, what kind of man wouldn't realize it was happening? Trent was right, he reflected; he didn't deserve Myra. Then again… He gripped a pen in his hand, waggling it back and forth at the infuriating thought that Trent hardly deserved Myra either if he would stoop to such a level. There was only one option left.

At 2AM, he signed out of her account again, leaving no traces. He spent the rest of the night planning for the trip. At 7AM, he called his boss and asked to take a week's leave.

“Are you crazy? We're so close to the deadline – if you take off now, you'll never finish our project in time!”

“I’m sorry. It's a family emergency.”

“Listen, you take your vacation days now, don't bother coming back. Ok?”

“Fair enough.”

Daniel hung up with a heavy sense of finality. All the work he'd done had come to nothing. If she hadn't walked out… Ah, but if he hadn't been working on it so intensively. It all came back to him, didn't it?

💔🖤💔

The drive South wound through forests, clattered across rivers, and meandered through swamps. With every mile, the air grew denser, the ground flatter, the lichens thicker, the towns smaller. By the time he arrived to the suburbs of New Orleans, it felt like a different universe, one with a lingering sense of dark, guarded secrets leaking from opulent French style mansions.

Daniel pinged Myra's phone one last time, made sure it was still at Trent's house, and turned on the radio as he circled the bayou. The channel was set to SiriusXM Coffeehouse, where cozy acoustics ruled. An intimate rendition of Bastille's Happier came on, entirely different from the usual bouncy dance version. This one was slower, more anguished, more real. He cried along with the singer as he spoke of letting her go so she could be happier. By the time it was over, he wondered why he was following Myra.

The next song was a live rendition of Mumford and Sons: Guiding Light. If Happier was about letting her go, Guiding Light was about finding her again. The anguish was still real, but the love had a pleading, apologetic quality, his words carrying a theme of hope, forgiveness and redemption. By the time this one was over, Daniel had renewed his resolve. He turned off the radio before any more songs could manipulate his fragile emotions.

Summer's sunlight dimmed as it filtered through tree branches arching over the two-lane road. He passed homes like cutouts from Southern Living, with gravel paths, carriage houses and plantation shutters; gardens filled with azaleas, crepe myrtles and roses. Myra was a “crazy” plant lady; it made sense for her to have run away from his cramped apartment to a mansion with a yard, in a climate more conducive to growing.

Finally, Trent's house appeared, obscured by bare, bony trees dripping with Spanish moss. Daniel pulled his car alongside the curb and stepped out. He was not a sneaky man; he would do what he had to in broad daylight.

The hedge was a tangled, overgrown mess of roses, single white flowers dotting rambling canes barbed with thorns. Daniel pulled out his phone and did a Google Lens. Darlow’s Enigma, it was called, having supposedly sprung from nowhere, a wild child, decades before. He reflected on the enigma of love. What would Myra say to him? Had he really been driven across three states by a cosmic dream? What if she wasn't home? What if…

Mourning doves haunted the treetops as he walked up the gravel driveway, shoes scrunching with each step. The Spanish moss swayed oppressively, almost in his face. A decaying odor hung in the air, of leaf mold and damp undergrowth. Something felt off about this picture-perfect home, as if it were slightly asymmetrical. Was it Antebellum, built by slaves’ unrequited toil? Or was his troubled mind overreacting, finding exaggerated Faulknerian themes?

There she was: standing, back to him, in front of a red rosebush, running her fingers across velvet petals. Her silhouette was thinner than it should have been, head bent low over the flowers.

“Myra!” Daniel broke into a run.

She spun around to face him. The cut rosebud she was holding slipped from her limp hand to lie at their feet. She was pale, with deep shadows under her eyes: ghostly, like his dream. He bent down to pick up her rose and held it out.

“You – you found me?” Her voice came out a thin murmur.

“I traced your phone. I – I had to know if you were alright.”

“You shouldn't have come.” Her tone was dull, confused. “Why would you –?”

“I was worried about you. Are you safe with him?”

“Of course. I'm fine. Really.”

Daniel tried to meet her eyes. She kept her gaze on the ground between them.

“Does he love you?”

“Yes.” It was faint, a whisper in the Spanish moss.

He waited, eyes also lowering, unsure, rubbing one sweaty hand on his pants as the other held her drooping rose.

“Myra, I… I want to apologize.”

She looked up at him for the first time, startled.

“What? You have nothing to –”

“I lost your soul before the rest of you left,” he said, taking a deep breath and stumbling over his words. “I saw it all in the emails – you needed me, and I wasn't there. Trent was. I'm sorry.”

“Ugh, the emails.” Myra hid her face in her hands with a moan.

More silence, filled in with mourning doves. He waited. She lowered her hands, a question in her eyes. He tried to smile reassuringly.

“My door is open. You can come back home.” He held out the rose again, lying in an open hand.

She shook her head, hair tossing loose in the warm wind.

“I can never go back. I broke our covenant. Broke your heart. I'm unclean. It's all over now.”

“I forgive you, honey. We can make this right. I still love you, or I wouldn't be here.”

“No. I'm fine here. You can go on without me. Focus on your job.” A smile flickered. “You'll be a real success someday.” She turned away.

“I quit.” Daniel couldn't hide a slight wryness in his tone, recalling his boss's ire.

Her head went up, back to him, eyes wide.

“What? Why? You shouldn't have – you didn't have to – it meant so much to you!”

“Too much. We can start over.”

“No. Go back. Find someone else – someone faithful, to support your career. I'll be here… With him.”

Myra turned again, walking towards the house with a rapid, faltering pace, head down, shoulders bent. The upper back of her right arm was blackened. Daniel's heart skipped a beat, the vivid brutality of incontrovertible truth hitting like a boulder. She was consigning herself to a living hell, one she thought she deserved.

“Wait! Myra, stay away from him!”

He ran after her, churning up gravel. Ahead, Trent strode down towards them, face a grim mask. Myra tried to block him. He brushed past her with a stern word,

“Get inside – now.”

She glanced back at the two men coming face to face.

“Danny, run!”

She slipped out of sight behind a stand of Leyland Cypress trees. Daniel stayed put, arms crossed. Trent eyed him with a cool, narrow glare, hands on hips.

“What are you doing here?”

“I'm rescuing my wife.”

“She's not yours anymore.”

“Myra doesn't belong to you. You seduced her.”

Trent raised an eyebrow with a smirk.

“An old-fashioned word, that. I think she made her own decisions.”

“You think she made the decision to get beaten up, too?”

Trent's face twisted. He leaned closer.

“What did she tell you?” It came out like the hiss of a copperhead.

“I know what I saw. You don't deserve her.”

“Ha, that's a good one. What is she, a saint? You're wasting your time chasing after her. Look what she did to you.”

“Look what you've done to her. She needs to get away from you.”

Trent grabbed him by the shirt collar, yanking him forward a stumbling foot.

“You need to get off my property. Whatever you think I did to her, I can do a lot worse to you, you nerdy little milksap.”

Daniel struggled against his grasp.

“I'm not leaving without Myra.”

“In that case, neither of you is leaving at all.”

With that, Trent hurled Daniel deep into the hedgerow of bristling Darlow's Enigma rose. He watched, laughing, as he thrashed, entangling himself more tightly in the thorny, vining canes.

“Try looking for Myra when you get out,” he mocked, spinning on his heel and heading back to the house. “You can leave together – horizontally.”

Every attempt Daniel made to extricate himself only drove the thorns deeper into his clothes and skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to avoid getting blinded by the microblades coming at him on all sides. Indeed, he was crying now, not for his own absurd situation but for the danger Myra was in.

“Danny! Hold still.”

He squinted up at his wife, standing in front of him wielding a pruning shears.

“How did you –?”

“I saw everything, heard everything. It'll take him a minute to figure out I'm not inside.”

She snipped away the branches, disentangling him with the cautious precision of a surgeon. He held out a hand. She took it, pulling him up to his feet. Looking him over, her eyes filled with tears. Daniel glanced at himself, his clothes torn and bloodied, cuts everywhere like a cat attack. He put his arms around her. She sank into his warm embrace.

“Hey, I'd do it all again for you. Come on, let's go home. Where it's safe.”

Myra shook with sobs as Daniel guided her to his car. The road stretched before them, afternoon sunlight blazing through gaps in the live oaks looming overhead. They didn't need words. Those would come later. For now, they had each other. That was enough.

Words: 2930.
Written for: "The Lodestar Contest" 
Chosen song prompt ▼

Bonus song ▼

Happier (for context) ▼

Follow You (yes, I'm a pophead... I couldn't write like this otherwise) ▼