At 2:45 p.m. I rolled my luggage to the curb and locked the front door.
The new owner’s security team would take possession in an hour. By then I would be on the freeway to San Francisco International with two suitcases, one carry-on, and the sort of internal quiet that feels like you have already died once and decided the second life will be handled differently.
Cassie drove. She wore sunglasses though the day had turned gray again.
“You good?” she asked as we merged onto 101.
“No,” I said truthfully. “But I am moving.”
“That counts.”
We passed the marshes, the billboards, the low industrial blocks near the airport. I checked in for my one-way flight to London using the app while she cursed at traffic. At Departures, she parked illegally, helped me unload the bags, and wrapped me in another bone-deep hug.
“You call me when you land,” she said into my hair.
“I’ll text.”
“Fine. Text. But if you vanish forever and become one of those mysterious women who only sends Christmas cards from Europe, I will still show up and make fun of your accent if you come back with one.”
It startled a real smile out of me.
Then I looked at her and almost broke. “What if this ruins all of them?”