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The porch light flickered when Buck pulled up, his beat up Jeep rattling like it had one last road trip in it. His stomach twisted with excitement and nerves as he killed the engine, staring at the house that wasn’t supposed to matter for much longer. Today was the day. The day they would leave this town behind.
LA was waiting. Firefighter Academy was waiting for Buck. A future he’d dreamed about, a future he’d begged Alex to believe in.
And Alex had believed at least, Buck thought he had. They’d spent weeks planning, whispering about California like it was paradise. Buck had pictured them barreling down the highway with Alex’s guitar in the backseat, Dory the dog in the back seat, windows down, music so loud it shook the dust off the rearview mirror.
Buck smiled at the thought, clutching the strap of his duffel. He jogged up the steps, boots scuffing against the wood, and knocked on the door.
No answer.
He knocked again. “Alex? C’mon, babe, it’s time!”
The silence stretched. Buck frowned. Alex was supposed to be ready to go at first dawn, he was probably passed out he had a bad habit of staying up too late, picking at chords and nursing beers until dawn.
Buck sat on the porch swing, waiting. He watched the horizon bleed pink, the sun clawing its way up. He waited until the sky turned blue, until the street started up their morning chorus. He checked his watch. Two hours. Three.
His excitement soured.
Something itched in his gut. He stood, walked around to the back door. That’s when he saw them: crushed cans littering the dirt, glass bottles knocked over in the grass. Buck froze, a pit opening in his stomach.
“Alex?” he called again, voice hoarse.
Inside, the living room was a wreck. Clothes on the floor. Ashtray overflowing. Buck’s throat tightened when he saw the duffel Alex was supposed to have packed still gaping open, empty.
No guitar. No suitcase. No Alex.
Buck staggered back a step, gripping the doorframe like it might keep him steady.
They’d had a plan.
West to the sand.
It was all they talked about lately.
So what the hell happened?
Buck dragged a hand through his hair, pacing the small living room. His chest ached with every thought. Did your truck break down? Did you burn through money? Did your ex find out? Were you in a fight? Did the nerves come get you?
Or worse did he just… decide not to come?
Buck pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, swallowing hard. He could almost hear Alex’s laugh in his head, that teasing drawl whenever Buck got too wound up. Relax, Buckley. We’ll get there. We’ve got time.
But time was gone.
Buck’s dreams his and Alex’s were packed in the Jeep out front, ready to be lived. But Alex wasn’t coming.
So Buck made his way to LA, Buck didn’t turn the radio on. He just gripped the wheel tight, eyes on the road, replaying every conversation he’d ever had with Alex.
What happened?
They were supposed to leave together.
But Alex hadn’t even said goodbye.
Weeks later, Buck was already in L.A., standing in the academy yard with sweat rolling down his back, when it hit him full force. He’d made it. He was here, he got out of the dead end town. But Alex, Alex was gone.
At night, when exhaustion left him too wired to sleep, Buck caught himself replaying the questions in his head.
Was the whiskey flowing?
Did the nerves come get you?
Did you get into a fight? What’s his alibi?
He pictured Alex in some dive bar back in Austin, slumped over a sticky counter, the shine in his eyes dulled.
And Buck hated himself for still caring.
Months passed. The distance stretched further, like a canyon that couldn’t be crossed. Buck buried himself in drills, in studying, in the dream he’d promised himself long before Alex. But the hollow ache never left.
One night, curiosity or weakness got the better of him. He typed Alex’s name into social media.
The photo stung like salt in a wound. Alex, slouched on a patio chair outside a run down bar, guitar case propped beside him. A bottle in his hand. Same haunted look in his eyes.
Drunk, washed up in Austin.
Buck shut the laptop, chest heaving. He couldn’t do this. Not anymore.
Years later, standing in the loft he’d made into a home, Buck thought of him again. Not often just in quiet moments, when the past crept in uninvited.
He thought of the porch that morning. The silence. The cans. The emptiness.
He thought of everything Alex had promised him. Everything they were supposed to be.
And then he thought of everything he’d built without him.
Friends. Family. A team who loved him.
A future he’d carved out with his own two hands.
Alex would never know what that felt like. He’d still be there, spinning his wheels, drinking away the years.
In forty years, he will still be there Drunk, washed up in Austin
But Buck?
Buck had kept going.
He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Eddie’s contact before hitting call.
When Eddie answered, warm and steady, Buck smiled through the ache that still lingered, the scar Alex had left behind.
“Hey,” Buck said softly. “You busy? Thought we could grab a beer.”
Because Alex was the past.
And Buck was finally ready for the future.