Detour to Somewhere familiar

The sky was the kind of gray that made everything look washed out, like an old photograph left too long in the sun. The parking lot outside Collins Hall was nearly empty, aside from a few straggling students finishing their own last-minute exodus for fall break. The air smelled like damp leaves and the crisp bite of oncoming winter—Boston in October never quite knew if it wanted to be warm or freezing.

I shoved the last of my bags into the trunk of my car, patting the top as if to say, Stay shut, don’t make me tussle with you today. Just as I was about to slam it closed, my phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket.

Tyler.

The name alone pulled me back a few years, like an old song playing from a speaker you forgot was still on. I stared at the notification, surprised but not surprised—because if anyone was going to text me out of nowhere like no time had passed, it was him. We hadn’t talked in months, hadn’t seen each other in years, but he was the type of person who could show up after an eternity and pick up the conversation right where we left off. No hesitation, no preamble.

I tapped the message open.

Tyler: "What would you do if you woke up tomorrow and it was 13 years in the past, but you still had all your current memories and experiences?"

I huffed a small laugh, shaking my head. Of course, this was what he texted me after months of silence. No “Hey, how’ve you been?” No “Long time no talk.” Just straight into some existential time-travel hypothetical. Classic Tyler.

I climbed into the driver’s seat, flicked on the ignition, and thumbed out a response.

"Well, I’d be seven. I’d probably take all my lemonade stand money, all my chore money, and keep it in savings so I could actually use it later for something big—like a car."

The car hummed as I backed out, the Bluetooth kicking in just in time to announce a new message.

Siri: "Message from Tyler: ‘Smart answer.’"

I smirked, making a right onto Forest Street. "What about you?" I asked through voice text.

A few beats later, Siri’s robotic voice responded: "Probably start over again, find out new ways to make money."

That made me pause.

Start over? That was… extreme. Completely unlike him. I chewed on my lip, drumming my fingers against the wheel. But at the same time, starting over wasn’t always a bad thing. It could mean new opportunities, a fresh direction, a chance to build something better. Risky? Sure. But sometimes, risk is exactly what pushes things forward.

I let the thought sit for a moment, rolling it over before responding. "Why not start over now?" I asked, curious but careful.

A moment later, his reply came in.

"Why not start saving now?"

I felt that one.

"Good point," I admitted.

I sank a little into my seat as I cruised down the highway, watching the trees blur past in a mix of oranges and reds. He wasn’t wrong. I’d spent my life planning ahead, calculating my next move, but when it came to money, I wasn’t always as strategic as I could be. I was focused on the now—on experiences, on building my career, on figuring out what actually made me excited to get out of bed in the morning.

But Tyler? He was thinking about something else. Was he unhappy with his major? Was he feeling stuck in exercise science? Did he regret his choices?

I could ask. I should ask.

But instead, I changed the subject.

Me: "When’s fall break for you?"

No response.

The road stretched endlessly ahead, a winding ribbon of asphalt cutting through the trees. It was the kind of beauty that felt effortless, like a painting hung in the background of a room—always there, but rarely noticed. The kind of view you didn’t really stop to appreciate until you were alone in a car, with nothing but your thoughts.

The silence between us grew with every passing mile. I could hear the low hum of my tires against the pavement, the rhythmic whoosh of cars passing in the other direction, the occasional ding of my dashboard telling me my gas was getting low. I steal a glance at my phone in the cup holder. Still nothing. Maybe he had just thrown the question out there without thinking, the way he always did. Or maybe he didn’t actually want to talk—just wanted to see if I’d respond.

The last time we talked, I was still untangling my feelings for him, trying to make sense of something that never fit neatly into a category. The last time I saw him, I had to walk away.

Because he had used me to cheat on his ex.

And that hurt—not just because of what he did, but because of what it revealed. It wasn’t about love, or even betrayal in the romantic sense. It was about respect. Or the lack of it. Even though his choices were his alone—I still carried the weight of it. Being collateral damage in someone else’s recklessness doesn’t make the impact hurt any less.

Over one hundred miles passed like that, me lost in my thoughts, the world outside blurring by in streaks of gold and rust.

Then, finally—

Tyler: "I’ve already been home for break, are you?"

I blinked, glancing at my phone like it had just come back to life.

Me: "I am driving home now actually."

Tyler: "Interesting. Well, that’s not dangerous at all, texting and such."

I smirked, shaking my head.

Me: "Siri’s doing most of the work here, eyes are glued on the road. You can’t tell me you haven’t done that before."

Tyler: "Not with my new car Jenny. Message sent with invisible ink."

New car? That was surprising. He’d always been sentimental about his old one, the beat-up Dodge that smelled like Axe body spray and whatever Taco Bell fast food he left in the backseat.

I glanced at my gas gauge. Thirty miles left.

I could stop at the next station.

Exit in three miles.

I pressed the gas pedal a little harder, shifting into the right lane, and pulled off onto the exit ramp. The gas station was tucked next to one of those old, rundown rest stops with a convenience store that probably smelled like bubble gum and broken air fresheners. The neon lights flickered slightly, and the only cars in the lot were a couple of truckers taking a break and an old minivan parked near the entrance.

I rolled into an empty spot by the pumps, shut off the engine, and leaned back for a second, phone in hand.

I swiped my thumb across the invisible ink, watching the words fade into view. My stomach clenched.

Tyler: "What if you change the map's destination to 113 Howard Street in Morris Hills before your home address?"

I stared at it, the cold air from outside creeping in through the cracked window.

113 Howard Street.

That was… his house. Or at least, that’s what I last remembered. I hadn’t been there in years.

My grip tightened around the phone. That house had once been familiar—the place where we’d spent late nights talking about things that didn’t matter, the basement that held more secrets than either of us probably wanted to admit. But that was a long time ago.

I leaned my head back against the seat, staring at the dull glow of the overhead lights.

"Why?" I typed. Then deleted it.

"You’re available tonight?" I sent instead.

No typing bubbles. No immediate response.

I shut off my phone and exhaled, trying to steady my hands as I reached down to unlatch the fuel release lever. The car door creaked as I stepped out. I slid my card into the pump, the machine beeping as it processed. I grabbed the fuel pump, selected regular, and slipped the nozzle into the tank. The scent of gasoline filled the air, and the screen blinked to life. Numbers started climbing, gallons pouring in, the total cost ticking higher.

And yet, my mind wasn’t on the gas.

My pocket vibrates. I pulled my phone out with my free hand.

Tyler: "Maybe."

I exhaled sharply through my nose, shaking my head. Of course.

I should just drive home.

I should.

But my thumb hovered over the maps. I stared at the two addresses: Mount Olive or Morris Hills.

I pressed my lips together. Flicked my eyes back at the message. 

"Maybe I just want to see if you’d actually show up."

I let out a slow breath, tapping my fingers against the car door. The numbers on the screen in front of me began to blur, my focus slipping somewhere else—somewhere years ago, in a different kind of silence.

Tyler was all fire, all motion, all instinct. He never tiptoed around decisions, never sat still long enough to let doubt creep in. He played sports like his body wasn’t built to stop—driven, relentless, pushing himself harder, faster, like slowing down wasn’t an option. I remembered the way he carried himself at the YMCA gym, always the first to call next game, the first to line up for a shot. How he played not just to win, but because he had something to prove—to himself, to the guys on the court, to the air around him. And he never turned a dare down.

I could still hear the echo of sneakers squeaking against polished wood, still see the way he stood at the three-point line, blindfold tied tight, the whole rec league watching, waiting for him to miss. Someone muttered he wouldn’t make it. Tyler just laughed, spun the ball in his hands, and let it fly. Nothing but net. The gym erupted, guys throwing up their hands, calling it luck.

So he did it again.

And again.

When the ball swished through a third time, he didn’t gloat, didn’t wait for anyone to say anything. Just grabbed his water bottle, rolled his shoulders, and walked off like he had never doubted himself in the first place. That was Tyler. The one who didn’t hesitate, who didn’t question himself. The one who moved forward like there was never a reason to look anywhere else.

So why was he hesitating now? What made him want to start over? The thought sat wrong in my stomach, a slow, twisting discomfort that settled deep, pressing against my ribs.

I could see it—him in a lecture hall, head down, pen tapping against his desk, eyes drifting to the window instead of his notes. Him at the gym, tying his sneakers slower than usual, stretching out a workout just to avoid thinking about whatever came next. The pause in his voice when someone asked about his major, the way he’d probably shrug, offer up some vague answer that didn’t really say anything at all. And I felt it—a pull, a quiet itch in the back of my mind that comes when you realize someone you thought was unshakable might actually be breaking.

The fuel pump clicked, breaking my train of thought. The numbers froze.

I replaced the nozzle, shut the gas cap, and climbed back into the driver’s seat. The car’s interior felt warmer now—less like something mechanical and more like something settling inside me.

I grabbed my phone, the screen flashing awake as I swiped it open.

8:00 PM.

My thumb hovered over the Maps app before tapping it open. The search bar blinked, waiting.

I typed: 113 Howard Street.

For a second, the screen froze, the pixels shifting, glitching for half a breath before the map recalibrated, zooming out, then snapping back in. The route loaded, a bright blue line tracing its way across the screen, winding through highways and side streets, curling around sharp turns I hadn’t taken in years.

I watched as it calculated. One minute. Then another.

58 minutes. Arrival: 8:58 PM.

I tapped the route details, eyes flicking across the roads ahead. Highway stretches, exit numbers, backroads cutting through familiar territory. I zoomed in, scanning for red patches, closures, delays—nothing. The path was clear. Every turn, every mile, leading straight to him.

I wrote: "It’s possible. I’m like an hour from home."

The response came almost immediately.

Tyler: "Great. Just text me when you get here. You are welcome to stay over."

My fingers tingle against the screen, like the charge in the car was moving them forward, sending currents in my thumbs to type before I could think twice. "Okay, see you soon."

I swallowed hard, shifted into drive, and pulled back onto the highway.

By the time I pull up, it’s around 9 PM. The garage door is already open, spilling a honey-colored glow onto the pavement, casting long, stretched-out shadows down the small slope of his front yard. It looks exactly the same as I remember—except now, there’s a sparkling black Jeep parked in the driveway.

It stops me for a second. I’m guessing that’s Jenny?

Tyler had never been the type to drive carefully. His old cars weren’t just transportation—they were experiments, machines he pushed to their limits because he knew exactly how to fix them when they broke. He loved the challenge of running them into the ground, testing what they could handle, driving them hard and fast because, in his mind, nothing was ever beyond repair. If a bumper got scraped, if the brakes wore down, if the engine needed tweaking—he’d fix it himself, no hesitation. It was just part of the process, part of the fun.

But this? This Jeep is spotless. Polished to the point where the overhead garage light bounces off the hood like glass. It looks untouched, like it’s never seen a pothole, never skidded through a sharp turn, never been put through the kind of tests he used to love throwing at his cars. Like he actually cares about keeping it that way. I let my gaze linger on it for just a second longer before shifting back toward the garage—toward the figure moving under the light.

And I know exactly who it is.

His back is facing me, body angled just enough to show the familiar cut of his shoulders, the slight bend in his stance like he’s mid-task. He’s wearing a gray hoodie, the hood dropped down, exposing the light blade-like layers of his hair. The back of the sweatshirt reads: Ithaca College Liberty League Athletic Conference. And, of course, black joggers. Same ones he always wore. Like he never quite left the version of himself I knew best.

One hand is tucked behind his back, hidden from view, while the other is lifted—fist clenched, pointer finger drilling toward the garage floor, stern, commanding. His entire focus is directed at the creature in front of him.

A white, curly-haired, shaggy thing—like an extra large stuffed animal come to life. The pup stares up at him, tail swinging like a wrecking ball, smacking the concrete in frantic excitement. Tyler’s trying to get him to sit, but the dog’s hind legs hover hesitantly, bouncing up and down like the floor is too cold for his big boy body.

I pull my car to the side of the road, just past the driveway, where the cul-de-sac curves into darkness. The second I cut the engine, the night swallows the sound, leaving only the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional crunch of gravel shifting under tires further up the street. I lock the driver’s side door, keys jingling as I shove them into my pocket. My sneakers press into the lawn, the grass freshly cut, damp with evening dew—that sharp, earthy smell rising as I move toward him.

The dog notices first.

His ears twitch. His big, dark eyes flick toward me, tongue lolling out, dripping onto the floor. His entire body vibrates with excitement, paws scraping against the concrete like he’s barely holding himself back.

Tyler’s stance shifts slightly, weight rocking from one foot to the other. He’s impatient, but not because of me—because of the dog, who refuses to sit, refuses to focus, refuses to acknowledge that he is, in fact, supposed to be in training. The hand behind his back finally moves, sliding up to scratch the back of his head, few fingers raking through his hair. I smirk, watching as the pup slurps up a line of drool hanging from his mouth, tail thumping wildly. I want to pet him. Badly. 

I walk slowly, deliberately, each step feeling heavier than it should. Part of it is nerves—I haven’t seen him in years, not like this, not in person. From behind, he looks the same. Same haircut, same height, same way he carries himself—relaxed, but with that underlying energy, like he’s always waiting for something to happen. And, from what I can tell beneath the layers of fabric, he’s still in shape. Maybe even more cut from the last few years of college athletics and training.

If I can notice that through the hoodie and joggers, I can only imagine—

Nope. Not going there.

I shake the thought away, clearing my throat and picking up the pace. My sneakers scuff against the garage floor, and I raise my hand and tap him on the shoulder.

Tyler’s feet leave the ground for half a second, his entire body jolting forward like I just pulled a jump scare in real life. In the process, he drops the leash, a handful of dog treats slipping from his fist and scattering across the concrete. His hand flies to his chest, gripping at his hoodie like I just shaved a few years off his life expectancy.

Oops.

He turns around so fast, eyes locking onto mine—wide, startled, pupils nearly blown. For a split second, his expression is pure shock, like he’s trying to convince himself I’m actually here. But then, just as quickly, recognition settles in. And that smile spreads across his face, slow but certain, the same one I remember. He exhales, chest rising and falling as if he’s just run a sprint. “Marissa,” he breathes, finally catching up to reality.

I swallow hard, shifting my weight on my heels. “Hi.” I raise a hand in a small wave, suddenly hyperaware of my own body, of the way my cheeks feel warmer than they should. Oh, god. Another thought crashes into me like a freight train of regret. I didn’t put foundation on this morning. Which means my natural rosacea is already making an appearance. If I start blushing now,  I’ll turn into a full-blown tomato right in front of him.

Perfect.

His gaze drops, eyelashes flickering downward as he scans my outfit—currently bundled up like a human burrito in my puffy jacket, the collar practically swallowing half my face. Before I can make a joke about it, he steps forward and pulls me in, arms wrapping around my shoulders. It’s warm. Firm. Familiar in a way I didn’t expect.

“How are you?” he asks, drawing out every vowel, like he’s trying to keep it casual but still means it. There’s something careful in the way he says it—like he’s measuring the moment, making sure it lands right.

I nod against his shoulder before pulling back, clearing my throat. “Good, good. You?”

He takes a step to the right, pivoting slightly, his focus shifting.

Because now, at my knees, paws stretching upward in an unapologetic plea for attention, is his fluffy troublemaker. Tyler’s jaw tightens. His thumbs crack as he presses them together. “GIZMO. OFF.” His voice is sharp, commanding, like a coach calling out a bad play. His finger snaps toward the mudroom entrance, a clear order.

I laugh, caught somewhere between entertained and uncomfortable. “It’s okay, he’s cute.”

Tyler shakes his head immediately. “No. He’s being bad. He’s an attention wh*. And he just inhaled all the treats off the floor without doing the commands.”

I gasp dramatically, clutching my hands over my mouth. “The betrayal.”  Tyler rolls his eyes but doesn’t fight the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Still, he turns toward the mudroom door, takes the wooden stairs in two strides, and presses the garage door button. The heavy metal gate rumbles to life, closing us in.

I follow him inside, stepping onto the warm hardwood as Gizmo zooms past both of us, a fluffy white blur making a beeline for the kitchen. He skids to a stop by the island, head dropping instantly into his water bowl, slurping down every last drop.

Tyler crosses his arms, watching him, then mutters under his breath, “Unbelievable.”

I stifle a laugh. “I think he’s perfect.”

Tyler sighs. “You would.”

He stares at the white tile floor like he's trying to work through something in his head. "I think he's going to die soon," he says finally. "He's been drinking a lot of water lately, and that can be a sign of liver disease."

I glance at Gizmo, who’s still lapping up water like it’s his full-time job, paws shifting against the floor, completely unbothered. His tail gives a slow, lazy wag, like he's in his own little world. I shift slightly, not sure what to say that won’t sound dismissive. "I hope that's not the case," I say, keeping my tone light. "Maybe he's just thirsty from all the treats he just devoured."

Tyler shakes his head. "No. He's 13, and he gets sick at night too."

His jaw tightens again, the muscle flickering for just a second before he lets it go. His fingers curl into his palms, then flex open again—a hesitation, barely noticeable, but there. And I wonder—is the fuss really just about Gizmo? Or is this just the thing that’s easiest to say out loud? The distraction, the surface-level worry that keeps him from having to name what’s really on his mind.

I picture him alone in this house, standing like he is now—jaw set, shoulders tense, hands fidgeting just enough to betray him. Maybe he’s been pacing, stopping in front of the fridge like he was about to open it, then shutting it again without taking anything. Maybe he sat on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over my name before locking the screen, unlocking it, and doing it all over again. Maybe he sighed, deep and slow, before finally typing the first message. The one about starting over. Not about being lost, not about feeling stuck—just a question, distant enough to make it sound hypothetical. But now, standing here, watching the way his body holds tension the same way he holds back words, I wonder if he wasn’t really looking for answers.

Maybe he was just waiting for someone to ask.

Then, just as quickly, his stance shifts, feet widening slightly, body angling toward the white door past the fridge with a movement so smooth it’s like flipping to a new scene in a script. He grips the handle, spinning it with a casual, almost practiced ease, like he’s done this a hundred times before and he’s already onto the next thing. "Anyway."

He swings the door open with a grand, theatrical flourish, stepping to the side with an exaggerated wave of his arm, like he’s unveiling something important. "After you," he says, flashing a grin wide enough to sell the performance. I hesitate, not because I’m unsure, but because I’ve seen this before. This version of him. The host. The guy who keeps things moving, who fills the silence before it can get too loud.

Still, my feet move forward, down the first step. And then the next.

The air cools as we descend, the temperature dropping just enough to make it feel separate from the rest of the house, but not far enough to be unfamiliar. The scent is exactly the same—faint detergent mixed with the slightly stale smell of the carpet, the kind that’s absorbed too many years of people coming and going, too many late nights, too much history. The light from the stairwell spills down, catching on the edge of the old leather couch that sits in its usual place against the wall. The cushions are still slightly misshapen from years of people sinking into them, the armrest slightly darker from where elbows have rested too many times.

The ping pong table sits in the corner, folded up, pushed against the wall, the paddles probably still stuffed inside the netting. The mini fridge, the one we used to stuff with whatever food and drinks we could get away with, hums softly, a low, familiar buzz. This was the place where we played King’s. Where I beat him at ping pong enough times to make him stop suggesting it. Where we sat with the TV on, the movies half-watched, the conversations more important than whatever was playing. It all looks the same, but it feels different now. Not untouched, just… paused.

Tyler reaches the bottom first, stretching his arms out like a tour guide, turning back to me with a smile. “Congrats, you made it. Welcome back." And just like that, I step the rest of the way down.