Rainbow Diapers

Nope nope nope.

No no, i is winner....yep yep yep i definitely winner!

Back in Hartford, everything is supposed to feel familiar: the bite of real winter, Patricia’s house humming with warmth, and Charlie waiting with that shy, steady smile that used to mean safety. For a moment, it does. He’s taller, closer, easier to be around, and Sally can almost believe the weekend will be nothing but hot chocolate, youth group, and the quiet comfort of coming home. But then a surprise reunion shifts the air, and Sally watches Charlie’s kindness land somewhere that isn’t her, effortless and practiced in a way that makes her chest tighten. It isn’t jealousy, exactly, and it isn’t anger. It’s something worse: the sudden, aching realization that the story she’s been holding onto might have only ever existed in her head.   Chapter 152 – Beginning of Something “I hear you’re as fit as a fiddle,” her father said lightly over the line, that familiar Swiss cadence slipping in whenever his guard was down. Sally smiled to herself. She was curled into one corner of the sofa, knees tucked under her, phone pressed to her ear. “As long as the fiddle doesn’t expect me to play a jig,” she replied dryly. “When are you coming back?” She could see her mother across the room, pretending very hard not to listen while absolutely listening. “Tomorrow evening,” Adrian said. There was a pause, then a softer admission. “It’s been a marathon. I miss you.” Sally pictured him instantly—Frankfurt, evening lights reflected on glass towers, the apartment he kept near the financial district. Efficient. Minimal. Too quiet. “You miss mom,” Sally corrected gently. A tired chuckle. “I do,” he admitted. She heard the faint clink of glass on a table, the sound of someone finally sitting down after a long day. Sally shifted, inhaled. “I have a proposition for you, Dad.” There it was. A beat of silence. “A proposition?” Adrian said, suddenly alert. “What kind of proposition?” Sally glanced at her mother. Bridget had raised an eyebrow, arms crossed now, curiosity openly declared. “A mafia one,” Sally said solemnly. “A proposition you cannot refuse.” Adrian laughed outright. “Alright, Don Weiss. I’m listening.” “Here it is,” Sally said, smoothing her voice into calm confidence. “A romantic solo weekend. You and Mom. No schedules. No meetings. Just rest. Enjoy each other.” Another pause—this one warmer. “And you?” Adrian asked. “What’s your plan? Lock yourself in your room and live on soup and documentaries?” Sally smiled. “No. I want to take Patricia back to Hartford. Just the weekend. A thank-you trip. She took care of me when I was sick. I want to return the favor.” The response came so quickly it startled her. “Granted.” Sally blinked. “Wait—really?” “Yes,” Adrian said simply. “Really. I’ll talk to Theresa, make sure logistics are covered. You talk to your mother.” Sally looked up just as Bridget leaned in, hands on the back of the sofa. “I’m already listening,” her mother said dryly. Sally grinned. “Love you, Dad.” “I love you too,” Adrian replied. “And Sally?” “Yes?” “Good instincts. On all of it.” The call ended. Sally set her phone down slowly, a little stunned, a little proud. Bridget studied her for a moment, then shook her head with a soft smile. “You’re growing up dangerously fast.” Sally shrugged, light and hopeful. “I’m just… arranging the pieces.” -- Jana didn’t like it—but she nodded. It was the kind of nod that came with conditions attached, mental timers running, and a clear understanding that this was a limited indulgence. Sally caught it immediately. “Before lunch,” Jana said, arms crossed, voice neutral. “Then we’re back on schedule.” “Deal,” Sally replied, already halfway gone. Patricia was absorbed in schoolwork at the dining table, earbuds in, brow furrowed in concentration. Bridget’s voice floated faintly from the side office, measured and professional as she spoke with Olivia on a video call. The house was busy in that quiet, efficient way Sally had grown used to. She slipped outside. The sun was warm but forgiving, the canal water barely moving. Sally crossed the yard toward the garage, pausing at the side door. She leaned in, peering through the small window. Her Ford Fiesta sat exactly where she’d left it. Clean. Patient. Loyal. Sally pressed her lips together and frowned. A full week without driving. And this weekend, Hartford—planes, not pedals. She rested her forehead lightly against the glass for half a second, then straightened. Not today. She took the steps up to the studio two at a time. The space greeted her with quiet warmth. White walls angled with the roofline, sunlight slipping in through the narrow windows. The faint scent of canvas and paint—clean, hopeful. Sally crossed the room and pushed the slanted windows open, letting a soft breeze stir the air. The blank canvas waited on the easel. She stopped in front of it. She knew what she wanted to paint. Not every detail yet—but the feeling was there. The shape of it. The weight. She tugged off her light sweater, smoothed her t-shirt over her waist, and picked up a pencil. The first lines were tentative, barely kissing the canvas. A horizon. A suggestion of depth. Proportion before emotion. She stepped back, head tilted. “No,” she murmured, and erased two lines, redrew them, lighter this time. Another step back. A small frown. Adjust again. Time moved strangely—too fast and not fast enough. She repeated the process: mark, step back, erase, redraw. Each correction brought the image closer, even though nothing was really there yet. She could already see the colors in her mind—some easy, some that would require patience and careful mixing. Her bladder made its presence known, insistently. Sally glanced toward the bathroom door, calculating. Just one more adjustment. Then footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Who is it?” Sally called, already knowing. “It’s me,” came Patricia’s voice. “Do you mind?” Patricia’s head appeared in the doorway, cautious, respectful. Sally shook her head and exhaled softly. Time was up. Patricia stepped inside, eyes drawn immediately to the easel. “New painting?” Sally set the pencil and eraser back into their holder. “Not yet,” she said lightly. “Just… ideas for a future one.” “Your mom says lunch is ready.” “I figured,” Sally replied. She took one last look at the canvas. “I just wanted something to think on. Something waiting for me when I get back.” Patricia nodded, understanding without pressing. Some things didn’t need commentary. “Come on,” she said gently. “It’ll still be here.” Sally smiled faintly, gave the canvas one last approving glance, and followed her out—already carrying the painting in her head. -- Theresa chuckled on the other end of the line, the sound warm and entirely unbothered. “Suit yourself,” she said. Sally frowned at her phone. “Meaning…?” “Meaning,” Theresa continued smoothly, “you have the charter app. I taught you how to use it. Input your wishes and we’ll go from there.” Sally pressed her lips together, already half-suspecting this outcome. “Okay, but if I need information—” “I already sent both airport codes to your phone,” Theresa cut in, efficient as ever. “Select full service. I do not want the two of you loose in a private jet like escaped debutantes.” Sally snorted softly and looked down at the screen. OPF–BDL. She tapped it in, hesitated for half a second, then selected full service. Not for herself, she told herself. For Patricia. If she was going to play host, she might as well do it properly. Behind her, Patricia leaned over the back of the sofa. “You’re sleeping over at my place,” she said easily. “Dad’s picking us up at the airport. And Charlie will probably want to come too.” Sally nodded, eyes still on the phone. There was always that brief, quiet pause whenever Charlie’s name came up. Not discomfort. Just awareness. Patricia noticed it—she always did—but she didn’t tease. Saturday evening is youth group, Patricia added. “They’ll be glad to see you.” “That reminds me…” Sally murmured, lifting her head. “Jana? Can you come here a second?” Jana looked up from her laptop, sighed theatrically, and closed it. She crossed the room and perched on the armrest of the sofa, posture casual but attentive. “Yeah, boss?” Sally tilted her head. “Do you fancy a trip to Hartford? For the weekend.” Jana’s eyebrows rose. “Should I?” “Well,” Sally said carefully, “your mom lives there. And there’s youth group tomorrow evening. I could use one of your solos.” Jana blinked. “I heard you were going. Theresa didn’t say I was supposed to.” “You’re not,” Sally said quickly, smiling. “Not as a bodyguard. As a friend.” “Oh.” Jana leaned back slightly, absorbing that. She still wasn’t fully used to that distinction—friend, not assistant. Patricia watched her with a grin. “You are loved, you know,” she said lightly. Jana rolled her eyes, but there was no real protest in it. “Yeah, yeah. Message received.” She stood. “And if I’m coming, forget the charter app. I’ll handle it.” Sally’s face brightened. “So you’re coming?” “Yeah,” Jana said, nodding. “I owe my mom a visit. And I kind of miss singing solos at youth group—only to have them sung again on Sunday.” She smirked. “I’ll even do Sally’s favorite.” Patricia’s eyes lit up. “Which is?” “Honest Offering,” Sally said quietly, eyes warm. Jana nodded. “And I’ll ask Charlie to stand in on guitar.” Sally’s smile lingered, soft and unmistakably pleased. -- “Sorry if I leave you on your own,” Sally said, though the apology didn’t quite land—her smile betrayed her. Bridget pressed down on the zipper of the suitcase and gave it a decisive tug. “Honey,” she said gently, “you’re leaving in the morning. Adrian will be home by the afternoon. I think I can survive a few hours of solitude.” Sally stepped closer anyway, as if proximity itself might undo the separation. “You won’t be alone,” she said softly. She reached out and rested her hand, carefully, on her mother’s stomach. The gesture was unhurried, reverent, as though she were greeting someone rather than touching something. “How’s Oskar doing?” she asked, eyes lifting to Bridget’s face. Bridget covered Sally’s hand with her own, warmth over warmth. “Growing,” she said. “Swimming. Gently, for now.” Sally smiled at that, then hesitated. The smile faltered just enough to reveal what was underneath. “Do you think I’ll be a good sister?” she asked. Bridget blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Sally—of course I do,” she said, a note of amused disbelief in her voice. “Why would you even ask that?” Sally’s shoulders rose in a small shrug. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve always been an only child. So this…” She gestured vaguely between them, then finally met her mother’s eyes. “This is new.” Bridget studied her daughter for a long moment, then smiled—not the proud, public smile, but the private one, soft around the edges. “Being a good sister isn’t about practice,” she said. “It’s about heart. And you have more of that than you realize.” Sally let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding and leaned in, resting her forehead briefly against her mother’s shoulder. “Okay,” she said quietly. Bridget kissed the top of her head. “You’re spending two nights away,” Bridget said, kneeling by the open suitcase with the seriousness of someone packing for an expedition, “but I put a couple more diapers in just in case.” Sally groaned theatrically and flopped backward onto the edge of the bed. “Just in case of what? A surprise blizzard? A sudden regression into toddlerhood?” “In case of life,” Bridget replied calmly, unfazed as she smoothed the folded items into a neat corner. “Life is unpredictable. Also, planes have delays, heaters break, and teenagers fall asleep watching movies.” “I do not fall asleep,” Sally protested. “I strategically rest my eyes.” Bridget shot her a look. “With a blanket. And drool.” Sally laughed despite herself. “Traitor.” “And,” Bridget continued, ticking off points on her fingers, “it will be cold up there. Snowing. Real snow, not the decorative kind we get down here. So bundle up. Proper coat. Scarf. Gloves. Good shoes.” “Mom,” Sally said, sitting up again, mock-offended, “I lived in Hartford most of my life. I survived winters where the sun disappeared for weeks. I know how to take care of myself.” Bridget raised an eyebrow. “You once tried to shovel the driveway in ballet flats.” “That was a fashion choice,” Sally said firmly. “And I learned from it.” “You got frostnip.” “Character-building,” Sally countered. Bridget laughed, finally closing the suitcase and patting it like a job well done. “Humor me. Let me mother you a little longer.” Sally’s expression softened. She slid off the bed and wrapped her arms around Bridget’s waist. “Okay,” she murmured. “But only because you’re very convincing.” “And because I’m right,” Bridget added lightly, hugging her back. Sally smiled. “Now,” Bridget said, clapping her hands softly like the ringmaster of a very gentle circus, “pajamas on. And diaper.” Sally made a face so exaggerated it deserved an award. “Wow. No buildup. Straight to the humiliation.” “Oh please,” Bridget replied, already pulling a fresh set from the drawer. “Patricia and Jana are calling this movie night in your room a sleepover party and breakfast bonanza all rolled into one. That automatically lowers the dignity threshold.” Sally snorted despite herself. “They would.” “They already have snacks,” Bridget added, unable to hide her smile. “And opinions. Lots of opinions.” “Of course they do,” Sally sighed, swinging her legs off the bed. “This is how legends are born. ‘The Night Sally Was Forcefully Pajama’d.’” Bridget leaned in and kissed the top of her head. “Tomorrow it’s early breakfast and off to the airport. I want you rested, comfortable, and not pretending you’re tougher than you are.” Sally paused, then nodded, softer now. “Okay,” she said. “Deal.” -- Morning arrived softly, without ceremony. Sally’s alarm chimed with its polite insistence, and she rolled onto her side, half-awake, reaching to silence it. Instead, her elbow met resistance. “Oof—” “Mmph—what—?” Sally blinked, focus swimming, and then memory snapped into place. Sleepover. Hartford. Movie night that turned into whispers that turned into nothing at all. “Oh—sorry,” Sally murmured, rubbing her eyes as she pushed the covers aside. “I forgot we decided to share the bed like we were ten.” Patricia groaned, then startled awake fully, hair everywhere, blinking toward the ceiling. “You say that like it wasn’t your idea.” “It was a democratic decision,” Sally replied solemnly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. Patricia turned her head and smirked, eyes landing immediately on the unmistakable waistband peeking above Sally’s pajama pants. “Says the girl in… enhanced mode.” Sally didn’t even look down. She just tugged her pajama top into place with practiced ease. “Advanced comfort and security,” she said, voice still thick with sleep. “Highly recommended. Five stars.” Patricia laughed, sitting up and stretching. “You are unreal.” Sally stood, rolled her shoulders, and glanced back over her shoulder with a sleepy grin. “Bathroom’s free. I already went.” Patricia stared at her for a beat, then burst out laughing. “Are you always this positive in the morning?” “No,” Sally said honestly, padding toward the door. “Only when I’ve slept, I’m not coughing, and I’m about to get on a plane.” She paused at the threshold, turned back, and added lightly, “And when my best friend is trapped in my room before breakfast.” Patricia shook her head, smiling to herself as she slid out of bed. “This weekend is already ridiculous.” Sally’s grin lingered as she headed down the hall, the house just beginning to stir, the day ahead waiting. -- Jana pulled into the drive with quiet precision, the black long-wheelbase Range Rover gliding to a stop like it owned the place—which, technically, it did. Sally paused at the edge of the walkway, suitcase in one hand, backpack slung over her shoulder, taking the sight in. My Range Rover, she thought. Still felt odd. She hadn’t driven it yet—not once. Too big, maybe. Or maybe it just hadn’t been the right moment. It was only one step up from her mother’s Mercedes GLE, and she’d long since grown comfortable with that, but this… this felt like a statement vehicle. What caught her eye, though, were the plates. Florida plates. She smiled faintly. The cold white-and-blue Connecticut plates were gone, replaced by bright orange warmth. It suited the car better. Less stiff. More sun. She set her suitcase and backpack down near the tailgate and reached for the handle. “Absolutely not.” Jana was already out of the driver’s seat, moving with purpose. She placed herself squarely between Sally and the luggage, arms folded. “I’m on the clock until we reach Hartford,” Jana declared. Sally frowned. “You get off the clock the moment you step on the plane,” she countered smoothly. “After that, you’re a civilian.” Jana studied her for a long moment, eyes sharp, weighing intention more than words. Behind them, Patricia watched the exchange with open amusement, lips pressed together to keep from laughing. “Deal,” Jana finally said, grabbing the suitcase. “But—” she pointed toward the rear door “—you sit in the back. With Patricia.” Sally blinked. “What?” “Might as well do things properly sometimes,” Jana muttered, already loading the luggage. “I drive. You relax. Consider it a rare experience.” Patricia grinned, opening the rear door. “You heard the woman.” Sally sighed theatrically, but climbed in, sliding across the seat. “This is what powerlessness feels like, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Jana replied, shutting the tailgate with finality. “Buckle up.” Patricia leaned closer, whispering, “She’s enjoying this way too much.” Sally glanced out the window as Jana pulled away, the house receding behind them. -- It was, Sally had to admit, a pleasure to ride in the back of the long-wheelbase Range Rover. She sank into the middle-row captain’s chair beside Patricia with a soft sigh of surrender, stretching her legs just enough to appreciate the space. Leather, quiet, suspension smoothing the road into something almost abstract. This was not being driven. This was being conveyed. Jana cruised ahead, one hand loosely at the wheel, the other lifting her coffee mug with calm confidence, eyes forward and unbothered by the early-morning light spilling across Solano Prado. “It is actually a joy to drive,” Jana said casually, as if commenting on the weather. “You can be smug back there all you want, but this thing is a jet in its own right.” Before either girl could reply, Jana pressed the accelerator. The response was immediate—smooth, relentless torque pushing them back into their seats, the engine note rising with quiet authority. “Wow,” Patricia and Sally said at the exact same time. They looked at each other, then burst out laughing. “You’ll spill your coffee,” Sally giggled, bracing herself on the armrest. Jana made a crooked, unapologetic face. “Relax. It’s half-empty.” “That’s not comforting,” Patricia said, gripping her seatbelt theatrically. The Range Rover settled back into an effortless glide, rolling past manicured hedges, sleepy intersections, and the last traces of residential quiet. Miami was just waking up—delivery trucks, joggers, the occasional impatient coupe darting through lanes. The SUV absorbed it all with regal indifference. Sally watched the scenery slip by through the tinted glass, feeling oddly light. No rushing. No pressure. Just movement. “You look suspiciously relaxed,” Patricia observed. “I am,” Sally replied. “This feels… official. Like the beginning of something.” “Everything in your life feels like the beginning of something,” Patricia teased. They merged onto the expressway, the city flattening out ahead of them, palm trees giving way to concrete, hangars, and signage that spoke fluently in aviation. Jana flicked on her blinker, smooth and deliberate, and guided them toward Opa-Locka. As they approached the FBO, the world shifted again—less traffic, more purpose. Security gates opened with quiet efficiency. A covered entrance came into view, immaculate and hushed, like a private hotel for aircraft. Jana rolled under the canopy and brought the Range Rover to a stop with practiced ease. Sally leaned forward, peering past the windshield. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.” Jana cut the engine and turned, one eyebrow raised. “Don’t. That’s how you stay human.” Patricia smiled, reaching for her bag. “Ready, jet-setter?” Sally inhaled once, grinning. “Let’s go to Hartford.” -- The Bombardier 7500 waited for them like a quiet promise. Silver and white, long and composed on the ramp, it looked less like a machine and more like a decision already made. The hatch stood open, steps lowered, handrail gleaming—an invitation dressed as certainty. Sally slowed without meaning to. She always did. No matter how often she boarded private aircraft, there was still a moment where the scale of it pressed gently against her chest. “Well,” Patricia murmured beside her, adjusting the strap of her bag, “this is… subtle.” Jana snorted. “Absolutely understated. Practically a bus.” At the foot of the steps stood a flight attendant in a tailored uniform, posture relaxed but precise, smile warm without being rehearsed. “Welcome aboard, Miss Weiss, Miss Spalding, Miss Selter,” she said, gesturing upward. “My name is Darrel White. I’ll be with you for the flight.” “Thank you,” Sally said, automatically polite, even as her eyes flicked past the steps to where the ground crew were already loading their bags into the rear hold with quiet efficiency. Inside, the cabin opened wide—light wood, cream leather, a softness to the air that made everything feel slower. Bigger than necessary. Calmer than expected. As they took a few steps in, the captain leaned out of the cockpit, sleeves rolled, expression easy. “Welcome, ladies,” he said. “Make yourselves at home. Darrel will take good care of you. We’ll be ready to go shortly.” He gave them a quick salute—half military, half amused—and disappeared back into the flight deck. Sally smiled to herself. She could practically hear Theresa’s voice in her head, dry and affectionate: Only the best for you, pampered princess. They settled into their seats, Patricia stretching her legs with a satisfied sigh, Jana already unbuttoning her jacket like this was just another commute. Then Sally noticed it. A green Pringles can. Perfectly placed. Balanced in the cupholder beside her seat like an offering. She blinked once. Then twice. She turned slowly and caught Jana’s eye. Jana lifted her chin just a fraction and gave the smallest wink. “Theresa made sure.” Sally laughed under her breath, warmth spreading through her chest. “Of course she did.” She popped the lid, the soft snap echoing lightly in the cabin, and leaned back as the door closed and the world outside began to fall away. -- The jet lifted off at ten o’clock on the dot, engines spooling smoothly, the runway dropping away as if Hartford itself were being gently set aside for later. Sally felt the familiar press into the leather captain’s chair, that steady, reassuring shove that always made her breathe a little deeper. Patricia let out a soft, involuntary laugh, one hand gripping the armrest. Once the climb smoothed out and the cabin settled into its quiet, Darrel reappeared with a tray balanced effortlessly on one hand. “I hope Vichy Catalan is acceptable, Miss Weiss,” she said, setting a crystal glass on the table and pouring the sparkling water with a practiced tilt. A thin wedge of lemon followed. “We’ve been briefed.” Sally smiled, touched despite herself. “That looks heavenly. Thank you.” “My pleasure,” Darrel replied. “I’ll bring snacks shortly.” She helped rotate the seats so Sally and Patricia faced Jana, aligning the table between them like a small, floating island. Jana raised an eyebrow as the configuration clicked into place. “What is this?” she asked. “An impromptu conference?” “It’s either this or the club seats,” Sally said lightly. “And the table in front of me makes me feel like I should be approving budgets.” Patricia laughed. “No spreadsheets today.” “So,” Sally continued, settling back, hands folded. “Plans.” Patricia tilted her head, thinking. “Youth group at six. Before that, probably a quiet afternoon at my place. My dad will want to cook something unnecessarily elaborate.” “Sunday dinner,” she added casually, “everybody’s invited.” “Everybody?” Sally echoed, eyebrow arching. Patricia shrugged. “Whoever comes.” Jana smiled faintly. “I’m heading home. Hanging out with my mom. Maybe some shopping—she likes having me around to carry heavy things and pretend I enjoy it.” “You love it,” Patricia teased. “I tolerate it affectionately,” Jana corrected. “I’ll see you both at church.” The cabin hummed with the soft, distant sound of air and altitude as they relaxed into the flight. Conversation drifted easily—bits of school, church gossip, harmless teasing. Sally found herself smiling more than she realized, the flu finally loosening its grip. A little later, Darrel returned, this time with lunch. Light, elegant, deliberate. There was a citrus-marinated grilled chicken breast, sliced thin and arranged over a bed of baby arugula and shaved fennel, finished with toasted pine nuts and a whisper of parmesan. Warm sourdough rolls followed, wrapped in linen, along with a small dish of whipped butter infused with sea salt and rosemary. For dessert, lemon panna cotta topped with a delicate blueberry compote—cool, smooth, and just sweet enough. “At forty thousand feet,” Patricia murmured, eyes wide, “I am eating better than I do on the ground.” Sally took a careful bite and sighed. “This should be illegal.” Jana lifted her glass. “To Hartford,” she said. “And to pretending this is normal.” They clinked glasses softly, the jet carrying them north through a pale blue sky, the hours folding neatly ahead of them. -- Eventually, the seats were returned to their upright positions, trays stowed, the soft choreography of descent settling over the cabin. The engines changed tone—lower, more deliberate—and the jet began its wide, looping approach. As often happened, the flight path curved them south first, circling Hartford from a distance. Which meant flying low over Springfield. Sally knew the geography too well. The patchwork of fields appeared beneath the cloud cover, muted and gray, stitched together by roads she recognized even from this height. For a moment, her chest tightened—not sharply, not dramatically, just enough to register. Six months ago, this airspace had been chaos. Heavy rain. Twisted metal. Emergency lights. Sirens. A hard stop to everything she thought life was. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she smiled and lifted her voice, light on purpose. “Hartford, here we come!” Patricia turned toward her, catching the tone, matching it instantly. “Snowy, moody Hartford.” “Very cinematic,” Jana added dryly from behind them. Outside, the landscape confirmed it. Hartford looked nothing like Miami—no glittering water, no lazy sunlight. Low clouds dragged across frozen fields, flurries streaking past the window like static. Everything looked colder. Quieter. Real. The landing itself was barely felt—just the subtle sensation of deceleration, the tires humming against the runway, the world reasserting itself. The jet slowed, turned off, and rolled toward the FBO, coming to rest close to the building. A black SUV was already waiting, idling patiently. Sally blinked and reached for her bag. “Right. Winter.” They all moved at once, muscle memory kicking in. Cashmere sweater over Sally’s head. Brown leather jacket—soft but serious—zipped up to her collarbone. Scarf wrapped twice, tucked with care. Patricia bundled similarly, Jana efficient and unbothered, as always. Darrel reappeared at the door, smiling. “Temperature’s in the twenties,” she warned. “Wind chill is… enthusiastic. Take your time, ladies.” “Enthusiastic,” Patricia echoed. “That’s one word for it.” The captain leaned out of the cockpit, grinning. “Welcome to Hartford,” he said. “Definitely not Miami.” “No arguments here,” Sally replied with a small laugh. Darrel opened the cabin door, and cold air rushed in immediately—sharp, clean, unapologetic. Jana led the way, boots firm on the steps. Sally followed, then Patricia. The wind cut straight through the space between plane and ground, biting at cheeks, tugging scarves loose. “Why do I miss this?” Sally muttered, half to herself, half amused. “You don’t,” Jana said. “You just romanticize.” They hurried the last few steps and slipped into the waiting SUV, the door closing behind them with a blessed thud. Warm air filled the cabin. Silence followed. Sally exhaled slowly, watching the jet through the window as they pulled away. Hartford had her back—for a weekend. -- The greeting at the FBO was formal, but warm in that practiced New England way—efficient affection, carefully contained. Michael stepped forward first, tall and composed, coat perfectly buttoned despite the cold. He embraced Sally with a familiarity that felt grounding rather than intrusive. “Good to see you on your feet again,” he said, voice low and sincere. “I missed you in Miami. But I’m glad Patricia had you.” Sally smiled, a little touched. “Thank you for letting her stay,” she replied. “She was… exactly what I needed.” Michael nodded, clearly satisfied with that answer, then stepped aside. And there was Charlie. He was half-turned toward the windows, clearly torn between the jets outside and the girl standing five feet away from him. He looked different—broader shoulders, longer limbs, the unmistakable awkward grace of someone mid-growth spurt. Sally tilted her head, studying him. “You’re taller,” she said, almost accusingly. Charlie blinked, then shrugged, smiling in that sheepish, familiar way. “Getting older,” he said simply. Then, after a beat, “Hug?” He offered one arm—his signature move. Safe. Optional. Sally accepted it, stepping in for the half-hug that was just enough to feel real without being overwhelming. She smiled, aware—very aware—that Jana and Patricia were suddenly fascinated by the far wall, the floor, anything but the moment unfolding. They fell into step together as they crossed the lobby toward the waiting car, close but not crowding each other. Comfortable distance. Familiar rhythm. “So,” Charlie said, glancing sideways, “you feeling better?” Sally nodded. “Yeah. Weird flu. Knocked me flat for a few days.” She paused, then added lightly, “It wasn’t even cold. Jana and I were at the pool Saturday afternoon.” Charlie stopped walking for half a second, then caught up. “At the pool,” he repeated, baffled. “In January.” “Florida,” Sally said, lifting one shoulder. Charlie shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping him. “Wow. Maybe I should come visit sometime.” She looked at him then, properly. Met his eyes. “Yeah,” she said softly. “You should.” The words hung there—not heavy, not dramatic. Just a spark. -- It hit her not all at once, but in a quiet, undeniable way. That strange jolt she’d felt when she’d first looked at Charlie—when he’d turned from the windows, when he’d smiled—suddenly made sense. He was taller than her. Not dramatically. Not enough to be obvious at a glance. But enough. Enough that when they stood side by side, her line of sight angled just slightly upward. Enough that his shoulder no longer lined up where it used to. Enough to feel… new. Patricia, ever perceptive and entirely too pleased with herself, slid smoothly into the front passenger seat without comment. Jana claimed the window seat in the back row as if it had always been decided that way. Which left Charlie in the middle seat. And Sally beside him. Michael opened the rear door with a polite flourish. “Hop in,” he said. “We’re taking Jana home first.” Sally climbed in carefully and settled next to Charlie, acutely aware of the space—or rather, the lack of it. The SUV was roomy, but the middle seat made closeness unavoidable. As she reached for her seatbelt, Charlie shifted his hips instinctively, giving her room without making a show of it. “Got it?” he asked quietly. “Yeah,” Sally murmured, snapping the buckle in place. Michael glanced back as he pulled away from the curb. “Sandra’s set out some snacks at home,” he said conversationally. “Jana, you sure you don’t want to stop by?” Jana shook her head, already halfway out of work mode and into herself. “I wish. But my time’s tight.” She tilted her head toward Sally and winked. “My employer limited my window.” Charlie snorted and nudged Sally lightly with his elbow. “Employer.” “Shut up,” Sally huffed, mock-indignant. “She can stay as long as she wants. I’ll resume my homework the moment she’s back.” Patricia laughed from the front. Michael smiled to himself. “I knew there were conditions,” Jana said dryly. “No such luck, boss. Next week’s already packed. And no gourmet two-hour lunches on your flight back, either.” Sally groaned. “Cruel and unusual punishment.” Charlie leaned back, grinning, clearly enjoying the easy banter. “I don’t know,” he said. “Sounds like a very strict workplace.” The SUV rolled on through familiar streets, snow lining the curbs, Hartford settling around them. Sally glanced out the window, then back at Charlie—at the way his knee brushed hers when the car turned, at how normal it suddenly felt. Same place. Same people. But something had shifted. And she felt it. -- After the brief detour to drop Jana off, the car felt different. Quieter. Sally watched through the rear window as Jana lifted a hand in farewell, her silhouette shrinking against the muted geometry of the trailer park. Jana’s presence always carried a certain gravity—anchoring, organizing, guarding. And when she was gone, the space she left behind was noticeable. Charlie slid a little closer without meaning to, reclaiming the middle seat’s freedom now that the window side was empty. Not close like before—just close enough to talk without raising their voices. Michael drove on, humming softly to himself, giving them the rare gift of not listening. “So,” Charlie said, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “You survived ninth grade. Any wisdom before I mess it up completely?” Sally smiled. This, she could do. This was familiar territory. “It’s not about surviving. It’s about figuring out what they’re actually testing.” Charlie frowned. “They’re testing if we’re insane.” She laughed quietly. “Sometimes. But mostly? They value how you think, not what you think.” He nodded, then sighed. “Debate class is killing me. They assign opinions and you have to defend them. Like—last week I had to argue in favor of euthanasia. I’m not for it. At all. It felt… wrong.” Sally’s smile softened. She leaned back against the seat, choosing her words carefully. “Yeah. I hated that part too, at first.” “So how did you deal with it?” Charlie asked, genuinely curious. “I stopped seeing it as endorsement,” she said. “It’s training. They want you to understand the other side well enough that you could argue it honestly—even if you disagree.” Charlie tilted his head. “That feels like mental gymnastics.” “It is,” Sally admitted. “But it teaches you something important. If you really understand your opponent—well, not opponent, exactly—you’re better at everything. Debate. Negotiation. Even knowing when to walk away.” Charlie was quiet for a moment, staring at the blur of winter trees outside the window. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess that makes sense… when you put it that way.” Sally glanced at him, surprised by the thoughtful expression on his face. He looked older like this. Not just taller—different. More serious. “You’ll be fine,” she added gently. “Just don’t confuse thinking with believing. They’re not the same thing.” Charlie smiled at that. “I’ll quote you next time. Sound smart.” “Do that,” she said, amused. “Just don’t tell them it came from me.” He chuckled, and the car rolled on, Hartford streets unfolding ahead of them—familiar, cold, and quietly full of things waiting to be rediscovered. -- Patricia had gone quiet somewhere between the FBO and home. Not the withdrawn kind of quiet—more the observant kind. She checked her phone now and then, thumb flicking absently, but her attention kept drifting back to the back seat. She didn’t turn her head outright. That would’ve been obvious. Instead, she relied on reflections in the window, the angle of the rearview mirror when it caught just enough of Charlie’s profile, Sally’s hands folded neatly in her lap. Interesting, she thought. Very interesting. Michael pulled smoothly into the driveway, the garage door lifting with its familiar mechanical hum. The house looked exactly as Sally remembered it—brick façade, warm lights glowing inside, the quiet confidence of a place that hadn’t changed because it didn’t need to. The SUV rolled into the garage and stopped. Patricia leaned forward immediately, scanning the space. “Wait,” she said, squinting. “Where’s the Mercedes?” Her mother’s practical SUV sat obediently to one side, but the bright red convertible—usually impossible to miss—was nowhere in sight. “Sold,” Michael said calmly, cutting the engine. Charlie snorted before he could stop himself. Patricia’s head snapped around. “Sold?” Her eyes widened, hope igniting instantly. “Really?” Michael unbuckled his seatbelt. “Really.” Patricia practically vibrated. “So… I can get my own car now?” Michael paused just long enough to enjoy the moment. “Within reason—yes.” “Yes!” Patricia whispered fiercely, rubbing her hands together like a mastermind who’d just seen her plan succeed. “Finally. Stealth mode.” Sally smiled, watching her friend light up. Charlie slumped dramatically against the seat. “Fantastic,” he groaned. “Meanwhile, I am condemned to a life of SUVs. Sensible. Beige. Aerodynamically uninteresting.” Patricia laughed as she opened her door. “Oh, relax. You’ll still get rides.” “In a crossover,” Charlie muttered. “With cupholders.” Michael shook his head, amused, as they all climbed out into the garage, the air cool and familiar. Sally lingered for half a second longer than the others, taking it in—the smell of concrete and winter coats, the echo of voices she’d grown up around. Hartford hadn’t changed. But somehow, she had. -- Sally had barely stepped into the hallway when warm arms wrapped around her. “Sally, honey! You look as fit as a fiddle!” Patricia’s mother exclaimed, pulling her into a hug that felt practiced, generous, and utterly sincere. Sally laughed softly, returning it. “That’s mostly Patricia’s doing,” she said. “Good nursing. Strict supervision.” “Well, whatever you’re doing, keep doing it,” Mrs. Selter said, cupping Sally’s cheek for a second before stepping back. Then Sally felt it—that subtle shift in the room. A pause. A presence. She turned. Her breath caught. “Maddie…?” The name came out barely above a whisper. “Surprise,” Maddie said, smiling with a mix of pride and nerves. She stood just inside the living room, weight carefully balanced, crutches tucked under her arms. She looked thinner. Paler. But her eyes—those were unmistakably Maddie’s. Sally crossed the room in two quick steps and stopped herself just in time, remembering. She hugged Maddie gently, one arm around her shoulders, the other steadying her elbow. “Easy,” Sally murmured. “You don’t look… entirely stable.” Maddie laughed quietly as Sally guided her to the sofa. “That obvious, huh?” Sally took the crutches from her and leaned them carefully against the wall. “Very.” “My arm’s had, like, a dozen surgeries,” Maddie said, rolling her shoulder gingerly. “Crutches are an endurance sport now. Pool therapy’s helping my legs, though. Still—” she shrugged “—broken doll energy.” “I texted you,” Sally said, sitting beside her, brow creasing. “You didn’t answer.” “I know,” Maddie admitted. “If I had, I’d have ruined the surprise. I’m terrible at secrets. This one almost killed me.” Sally looked up. Patricia stood near the doorway, arms crossed, wearing a smug, satisfied smile. Charlie hovered nearby with that unmistakable expression that said I knew this would make you happy. He stepped forward, took the crutches from where Sally had leaned them, and tucked them neatly out of the way. “My parents dropped me off,” Maddie went on. “They’re picking me up tonight. I spend weekends at home now. Weekdays at the therapy clinic.” She paused, then added dryly, “Though ‘clinic’ feels generous. It’s more like a homeschooling prison with better lighting.” Sally snorted. “That tracks.” “Tonight?” Sally repeated, then hesitated. “We’re going to youth group later. Are you…?” Maddie nodded, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Patricia wore me down. Gently, but persistently. I figured I’d come—if you’ll have me.” Sally smiled and leaned in, resting her shoulder lightly against Maddie’s. “I will. I was awkward my first time too. Terrified, actually. But it changed my life.” Maddie studied her face. The room had gone quiet around them. “I’ll take your word for it,” Maddie said softly. “I just… you know how it feels. Being broken. Stuck. Like you’re waiting in limbo while your body tries to catch up to the rest of you.” She gave a small, crooked smile. “And it never really does. Not all the way.” Sally’s jaw tightened. She looked down for a moment, then back up. “I do know,” she said. “And I also know you’re not useless. Even like this. Especially like this. You’re healing—and while you are, things are still happening. Good things. You’re changing.” She held Maddie’s gaze. “And I get to see you grow. That matters.” Maddie blinked once, then laughed quietly, the sound a little unsteady but real. “Well,” she said, “if this is the welcome speech, I might survive church after all.” From the doorway, Patricia cleared her throat. “Okay, before this turns into a group cry, who wants hot chocolate? Because I absolutely planned that part too.” Charlie grinned. “Of course you did.” Sally leaned back on the sofa, heart full, the house suddenly warmer than it had been moments before. Hartford surprises, she thought, were the best kind. -- Charlie had changed gears. Sally noticed it almost immediately—and that, somehow, made it worse. They were gathered loosely in the living room, jackets half-off, youth group still an hour away. Maddie sat comfortably on the sofa, legs propped, one crutch within reach, the other abandoned like a truce flag. Patricia had disappeared to help her mom in the kitchen. Adults were distant. The moment was theirs. And Charlie—Charlie was talking. Not the careful, measured replies Sally was used to. Not the shy half-smiles and glances away. He was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, hands moving as he spoke. Animated. Warm. “So the pool therapy—do they let you choose the music?” he asked Maddie. “Because if I had to do rehab to elevator jazz, I’d fake a limp just to escape.” Maddie laughed, genuinely. “They do, actually. One of the therapists lets me pick. I rotate between indie playlists and vintage rock. Keeps me sane.” “That’s… kind of awesome,” Charlie said, grinning. “Way better than my PT last year. I got silence and fluorescent lights.” Sally sat in the armchair opposite them, perfectly still. She smiled. She nodded at the right moments. She told herself this was fine. But inside, something tightened. Charlie never talked like this around her. Not this freely. Not this relaxed. With Sally, he was careful—always careful. Like every word was a calculation. Like he was afraid of tipping something fragile. With Maddie, there was no hesitation. “You’re getting stronger, though,” Charlie continued, softer now. “I can tell. Even just sitting here—you look more… present. Like you’re coming back online.” Maddie tilted her head, surprised. “You really think so?” “Yeah,” he said without blinking. “I mean it.” Sally’s fingers curled slightly into the armrest. She watched Maddie’s face light up—not dramatically, just enough. A look Sally recognized. The look of being seen. An image intruded uninvited: Charlie visiting Maddie’s therapy clinic. Sitting beside her during pool sessions. Laughing. Encouraging. Becoming familiar with her healing in a way Sally never had the chance to be. The thought landed hard. What if this—this ease—was real? What if Charlie was uncomfortable round her? Sally swallowed. She had always assumed something unspoken existed between them. A tension. A possibility. Something slow, patient, waiting for the right moment. But watching him now, she felt the uncomfortable truth press in: Maybe that story had only ever lived in her head. Charlie laughed again at something Maddie said, and Sally realized—with a clarity that stung—that she had nothing on him. No claim. No promise. No right to feel displaced. He wasn’t hers to lose. That didn’t stop the ache. She shifted in her chair, the movement drawing Charlie’s attention for the first time in several minutes. “Oh—Sally,” he said, as if suddenly remembering her presence. “You okay? You got quiet.” There it was. The familiar concern. Polite. Safe. She smiled—soft, practiced, flawless. “Yeah,” she said lightly. “Just tired. Flu leftovers.” Maddie glanced at her, sensing something but not naming it. “You sure?” Sally nodded. “Promise.” Charlie accepted that easily. Too easily. He turned back to Maddie. And Sally leaned back, letting the moment pass over her like a cold wave. She told herself this was good. That she wanted Charlie to be happy. That she didn’t get to script other people’s feelings. All of that was true. And still, as she watched him laugh with Maddie—unburdened, open, unguarded—Sally felt something quiet and unfamiliar settle in her chest. Not jealousy. Loss.   Of something that had never quite existed, except to her. -- And somehow—it got worse. The shift to the kitchen should have broken the moment. Movement usually did. Noise. Purpose. But instead, it sharpened everything. “Snack before we go,” Patricia’s mother called out, already pulling plates from a cabinet. “You’ll regret it otherwise.” Chairs scraped. The room rearranged itself. Charlie was up first. “Careful,” he said to Maddie, already at her side. Not hovering—just there. He slid a chair back smoothly, angled it so she could pivot without strain. One hand hovered near her elbow, not touching unless needed. “I’ve got it,” Maddie said, smiling. “I know,” Charlie replied easily. “Just in case.” He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had done this before. Not clumsy. Not uncertain. Practice lived in his gestures. Sally stood a few steps away, motionless. Her face had gone still—too still. Like a lake after the wind dies, right before the temperature drops. Charlie reached for a glass, filled it halfway, tested the weight. “Ice or no ice?” “No ice,” Maddie said. “It makes my arm ache if it’s too cold.” “Got it.” He didn’t ask why. He didn’t hesitate. He just adjusted. Sally felt the moment land in her chest like a slow, deliberate blow. Of course he’d had practice. Therapy clinics. Hospital corridors. Waiting rooms where time stretched thin and help meant everything. Charlie hadn’t learned this kindness today. He had learned it over months—maybe longer—learning how to be useful without being overwhelming. He passed Maddie the glass, then reached for the snacks, arranging them closer to her side of the counter without making a show of it. “There,” he said. “No reaching.” “Thanks,” Maddie replied softly. Sally turned away under the pretense of examining the fridge door. Stone. That was the only word for her expression now. No flicker. No crack. Patricia saw it. She was leaning against the counter, arms loosely crossed, watching the scene unfold with the stillness of someone who knew better than to intervene. Her eyes moved once—from Charlie, to Maddie, to Sally—and then she looked away. She said nothing. That silence was loud. Charlie laughed at something Maddie said—nothing flirtatious, nothing loaded. Just warmth. Familiarity. Belonging. To Sally, it felt catastrophic. This wasn’t a crush. This wasn’t competition. This was something else entirely. This was him fitting into Maddie’s life with ease. This was care without effort. This was the kind of kindness that didn’t need explaining. Sally gripped the edge of the counter, nails pressing into the cool surface. Her mind betrayed her, offering images she didn’t want: Charlie visiting the clinic again. Bringing coffee. Sitting close. Learning Maddie’s rhythms the way he never had the chance to learn hers. It felt—absurdly, irrationally—like watching a wedding proposal. Not the dramatic kind. The real kind. The quiet decision kind. Patricia finally glanced at Sally again, just once. Their eyes met. Patricia didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. She simply held Sally’s gaze for a brief, understanding second—and then looked away, honoring the pain by not naming it. Charlie turned then, catching Sally’s stillness too late. “You want something?” he asked, gently. “I can grab it.” Sally lifted her eyes to him. For half a second, the words crowded her throat. Everything she didn’t have. Everything she’d never claimed. Everything she’d assumed. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said evenly. “I’m good.” And she meant it in the only way she could now: She would survive this.

As a late-night desk clerk, my idea would be a weight-sensing trailer alarm. Load the trailer, confirm the weight of the contents of the trailer, and set parameters for how much additional weight it takes to trigger the alarm. If that additional weight triggers the alarm, you get a notification on your phone as well as a loud alarm.

Hi all....anyone in Monmouth or ocean? or really anywhere in the state?