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August came and went. I went back to work, back to New Hampshire, and back to all that had become unfamiliar. I saw Ben only once. I did not ride my bicycle. Then, over the Labor Day Weekend, I flew back to the West Coast to see #6 again — almost one month to the day since I had departed and two and half months since Ben and I had fatefully begun our journey. The trip itself had already faded into an ephemeral wisp of a memory. I could hardly recall what it was that had brought me out there the first time. So much had changed in the interim it felt as if I was now a different person altogether; in fact, each trip to Issaquah brought about great shifts of consciousness and new levels of universal understanding. But Issaquah never changed. I did. #6 did. Issaquah was still newer than freshly spackled drywall — exactly as I had left it.

Over the Labor Day Weekend, #6 and I cleaned out her condominium and packed up her belongings into a rented trailer that had been hitched to her little SUV. She was moving to Connecticut for a new job and I was going to move with her. It wasn’t for the mountains or the trees or the forests of Connecticut, you can be assured of that; as far as I am aware, Connecticut has zero defining qualities and serves no purpose to the great outdoors or to me. I was moving for #6.

On Labor Day her car and trailer were loaded with all her worldly possessions and I said goodbye — she was the one driving off on a cross-country adventure this time, leaving me behind in fair Issaquah. But not for long; my flight left the next day and I would meet her in New Hampshire. She and I were beginning a journey of our own this time and though we were starting out on separate paths the end of our story would be the same: we would get a place together and live happily ever after.

That was — and still is — the plan.

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