Finding Carolina's
Copyright© 2026 by duncan idaho
Chapter 8: The Long Way Home
The plane lifted off from St Maarten with a lurch, the turquoise water tilting away from my window. I pressed my forehead against the cold plastic and watched the island shrink, the green hills folding into themselves, the white fringe of surf becoming a thin line, then nothing.
The seatbelt sign dinged off. The woman next to me pulled out a romance novel. I stared at the back of the seat in front of me, the little plastic tray table, the safety card in its mesh pocket.
I hadn’t expected to feel this.
The flight attendant came by with drinks. I ordered a rum and Coke, watched her pour, took a sip. The rum was different here, not the smooth dark stuff from Carolinas. Colder. Sharper. It didn’t settle the same way.
I closed my eyes and saw Adrianna. The way she’d stood in the courtyard, the string lights catching the wetness on her cheeks. The way she’d said, “Then I can let you go.,” like she’d been holding something heavy and finally set it down.
But I hadn’t let go. Not really.
The plane hummed through the clouds. I pulled out my phone, swiped through the photos I’d taken. Beach shots. A blurry picture of a plane coming in over Maho. The sunset from my balcony. Nothing of her. I hadn’t asked. It hadn’t felt right, like a photograph would cheapen what we’d had, turn it into a souvenir instead of a memory.
Now I wished I had something. A proof. A thread to hold onto.
I put the phone away. The flight was six hours. I slept in fits, waking with her name on my tongue, the phantom feel of her skin against mine. Each time I opened my eyes, the cabin lights were dim, the other passengers sleeping, the engines droning their steady song.
Somewhere over Puerto Rico, I gave up on sleep. I pulled out the notebook I’d bought at the airport gift shop, the one with the cartoon sea turtle on the cover. I flipped to a blank page. The pen hovered, then touched paper.
Adrianna.
Just her name. I wrote it again. Then again, filling the page with the loops and curves of her letters, as if the act of writing could anchor her to something real.
The plane landed at JFK in gray morning light. The sky was low and heavy, the clouds pressing down like a ceiling.
I walked through customs, collected my duffel, and stepped outside.
The air hit me, cold, damp, smelling of diesel and wet concrete. I’d left the island in eighty-degree heat. Now I shivered in my linen shirt.
The taxi ride to my apartment was a blur of highways and toll booths. The driver played AM radio, a talk show host yelling about something I didn’t catch.
I watched the city scroll past, the billboards, the traffic, the faces of people who had no idea that somewhere in the Caribbean, a woman with sandy brown hair was waking up in a small room behind a bar.
I paid the driver, hauled my duffel up three flights of stairs, and unlocked my door. The apartment was exactly as I’d left it. The same dishes in the sink. The same stack of mail on the counter. The same stale air, trapped and waiting.
I dropped my bag by the door and stood in the middle of the living room, the silence pressing in. No reggae bass. No fan clicking. No sound of her breathing.
I opened the fridge. Nothing but a half-empty jar of pickles and a takeout container I was afraid to inspect.