Chapter 4 - The Return of the Highlander
Thursday afternoon, exactly thirty-six hours after the judge’s ruling, a dull, familiar rumble echoed up our gravel driveway.
I was sitting at the kitchen island, going over the final itinerary for our flight to Vancouver, when Callie peeked out the blinds above the sink.
“Mom,” she said, her voice tight with disbelief. “He’s here.”
I stood up, smoothing my jeans, and walked out the front door. The Arizona sun was beating down mercilessly, but a cool desert breeze rustled the paloverde trees in the front yard.
There sat my 2021 Toyota Highlander, idling roughly by the curb.
Grant stepped out of the driver's side, looking smaller than usual. He didn't look at the house; instead, he stared fixedly at the asphalt, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his windbreaker. He walked around to the passenger side, retrieved a battered cardboard box containing a few loose items—an ice scraper, a pack of old napkins, and a phone charger—and set them neatly on the retaining wall.
I stood on the porch, my arms crossed, watching him.
He finally looked up, his jaw tight. “Keys are in the ignition. Gas tank is three-quarters full. Happy now?”
“I’ll check it,” I said calmly, walking down the steps.
“Go ahead! Look under the hood, check the mileage, do whatever paranoid check you want,” Grant snapped, his voice rising in frustration. “You got your car back. Are you happy you humiliated me? Are you happy Mom is still crying every time my name comes up?”
“Grant, you humiliated yourself,” I said, reaching the driver's door and peering inside. The interior smelled faintly of stale fast food and cheap pine air freshener, but otherwise, it was intact. I reached in, turned the ignition, and checked the dashboard. The mileage was high—nearly twenty thousand more miles than when I’d handed him the keys—and the service light was blinking insistently.
I pulled the keys out of the ignition and stepped back out onto the pavement.
“Where’s the second set?” I asked.
Grant hesitated, his hand twitching toward his pocket. “I... I left them at Mom and Dad’s house. I’ll drop them off there later.”
“No,” I said, holding out my hand, palm up. “Right now. The judge said *both* sets of keys handed over. You have a spare. I know you do. The one labeled ‘Grant Temporary’.”
A muscle twitched in his cheek. With a muttered curse, he reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a silver key ring with the faded blue tape peeling off the plastic tag, and dropped it heavily into my palm. The metal felt cold against my skin.
“You’re a cold person, Jolene,” Grant muttered, stepping back toward the curb where an old sedan idling down the block was waiting to pick him up—likely one of Courtney’s relatives. “You always have been. Ever since the divorce, you think everyone is out to cheat you.”
“No, Grant,” I said quietly, pocketing the keys. “Just the people who actually try to.”
Without another word, he turned, jogged down the driveway, and hopped into the passenger seat of the sedan. The car sped off down the suburban street, kicking up a small cloud of dust.
I stood in the driveway for a long moment, listening to the quiet hum of the neighborhood. The Highlander was back where it belonged. But the victory felt hollow. My phone buzzed in my pocket—a text from Mom.
*“Are you coming to dinner tonight? Your father made pot roast. Please, Jolene. Let’s talk about the trip.”*
I stared at the screen for a long time before typing back: *“We’ll be there, Mom. But we’re not talking about the cruise. It’s already settled.”*
An hour later, Callie and I drove over to my parents' house in my newly reclaimed SUV.
Dinner was agonizingly quiet. Dad carved the pot roast with painstaking slowness, while Mom kept jumping up to fetch butter, napkins, or extra water glasses, desperately trying to bridge a chasm that had grown too wide for polite conversation.
“The weather in Vancouver looks lovely this time of year,” Dad offered hesitantly, chewing a piece of tender beef. “Crisp. Clear. The boys are really excited about the glacier helicopter tour.”
Callie looked down at her plate, pushing a potato around with her fork. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to; the unspoken reality hovered over the dining table like a thundercloud. Grant’s kids were going on the helicopter tour. Callie was going to be on the same ship, but she wouldn’t be on that excursion.
“We have our own plans, Dad,” I said smoothly, passing the gravy boat. “Callie and I are going to check out the port shops and do the private whale-watching charter.”
Mom stopped mid-reach for the salt shaker. Her hand trembled slightly. “Jolene... Grant told us you booked a concierge suite. Is that... is that true?”
“It is,” I said.
“Jolene, those suites cost a fortune,” Mom whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “Why would you spend that kind of money? You could have just... well, Grant said there was a mistake, and I could have paid to upgrade—teamed up with——”
“Mom,” I interrupted gently, laying my napkin on the table. “Grant didn’t make a mistake. He deliberately excluded my daughter from a trip you paid for because he didn’t want her around. And instead of apologizing, he tried to bill me for storing my own car while I sued him in court.”
Mom flinched as if she’d been slapped. She looked at Dad, who simply stared down at his plate, his jaw clenched in quiet exhaustion.
“I’m not angry at you, Mom,” I continued, softening my tone. “You wanted a wonderful seventy-ieth birthday trip with all your grandchildren. But Grant made sure that wasn't going to happen. So Callie and I made our own arrangements. We’ll be on the ship. We’ll see you at the ports if you want to say hello. But we are not staying in their orbit.”
Mom burst into quiet tears, burying her face in a linen napkin. Dad reached across the table and awkwardly patted her shoulder, casting a tired, helpless look in my direction.
“You’re a stubborn woman, Jolene,” Dad said quietly. “Just like your mother.”
“Takes after the best of us, Dad,” I replied softly.
When we left my parents’ house that evening, the tension in the car was thick. Callie stared out the passenger window at the passing streetlights, her profile illuminated by the amber glow of traffic signals.
“Mom?” she asked softly.
“Yeah, sweetie?”
“Are we really going to be okay? Thirty-two thousand dollars... that’s a lot of money.”
I reached across the console and squeezed her hand. Her fingers were cold, but she squeezed back with surprising strength.
May you like
“Don’t you worry about the money, Callie,” I said, shifting lanes as we merged onto the highway toward home. “Your mother is very good at organizing things. And we are going on that ship, even if I have to sell every last organizer bin in my garage.”
TITLE: The VIP Boarding Pass
