It was Travis and Britney’s place where Ryan also happened to sleep.
Britney was over five, six nights a week.
She’d rearranged the living room furniture without asking.
She once threw away a box of Dad’s old fishing lures from the garage because she thought they were junk.
I found them in the trash can and had to fish them out at 11 at night like some kind of raccoon with emotional attachment issues.
When I brought it up to Travis, he shrugged and said she was just trying to help clean up.
I started spending more time at work, not because I loved work that much, but because the house didn’t feel like mine anymore.
I’d come home and find Britney’s shoes by the door, Travis’s dishes in the sink, their shows playing on the TV my dad bought two Christmases before he died.
I felt like a tenant in my own father’s house.
And the worst part was that nobody seemed to notice or care.
My buddy Connor, who I’d known since high school, kept telling me I needed to set boundaries.
“Dude, you’re basically their landlord and their maid,” he said one night over beers. “You know that, right? You’re paying for the privilege of being invisible in your own home.”
He wasn’t wrong, but setting boundaries requires the other person to acknowledge that boundaries exist.
And Travis had the emotional awareness of a golden retriever at a barbecue.
Everything was fine in his world.
He had a free place to live, a girlfriend who thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread, and a brother who kept the lights on and the lawn mowed.
Why would he want anything to change?
The work trip that changed everything came up in late September.
My company needed me onsite at a client’s office in Denver for two weeks.
Network overhaul, the whole nine yards.
It was a big deal for my career, and I was actually excited about it.
Two weeks away from the house, away from Travis’s dirty dishes and Britney’s unsolicited interior design opinions.
Two weeks of hotel rooms and room service, and not being anyone’s unpaid handyman.
Before I left, I asked Travis to do exactly three things while I was gone.
Three.
Water the plants on the back porch because those were Dad’s tomato plants, and I’d kept them going for 2 years.
Take the trash cans to the curb on Thursday mornings.
And pick me up from the airport when I got back on October 12th, flight landing at 4:15 in the afternoon.
He said, “Sure, no problem.”
He had it covered.
He even wrote it down on a sticky note on the fridge, which I thought was a surprisingly responsible move for a guy who once forgot his own dentist appointment while sitting in the dentist’s parking lot.
The Denver trip went great.
Nailed the project. Impressed the client.
Got a handshake from the regional VP who said he’d keep me in mind for future contracts.
I was feeling good. Really good.
The kind of good where you start thinking maybe your life is actually heading somewhere solid.
I texted Travis the morning of my flight home.
“Landing at 4:15. See you at arrivals.”
He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and the word “Bet.”
I landed at 4:22.
Grabbed my bag from baggage claim by 4:50.
Walked outside to the pickup area at 5:00.
Looked around and didn’t see Travis’s truck.
No big deal. Traffic, maybe.
I texted him.
“I’m outside at arrivals door 6.”
No response.
I called. Straight to voicemail.
I sat down on a bench, put my bag between my feet, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
5:00 turned into 5:30.
5:30 turned into 6:00.
I called Travis four more times.
Each one went straight to voicemail.
I texted him three times.
Nothing.
I tried Britney’s number, which I only had because she texted me once asking if we had a blender.
Voicemail.
I even called my mom, who picked up on the second ring and said she hadn’t talked to Travis all day.
“But I’m sure he’s on his way. Honey, you know how traffic gets.”
Traffic, right?