And there he was. A head taller than everyone else, and walking a little tentatively through the crowd, his arm braced slightly in front of him, as if he were wary even now that someone would bump into him. I saw him before he saw me, and my face broke into a spontaneous smile. I waved vigorously, and he saw me and gave a nod.
When I turned back to my mother she was watching me, a small smile playing around her lips. “He’s a good one, that one.”
“I know.”
She looked at me for the longest time, her face a mixture of pride and something a little more complicated. She patted my hand. “Right,” she said, climbing off her bar stool. “Time to have your adventures.”
• • •
I left my parents at the bar. It was better that way. It was hard to get emotional in front of a man who liked to quote sections of the managerial handbook for LOLs. Sam had a brief chat with my parents—my father breaking in with occasional nee-naw noises—and Richard asked after Sam’s injuries and laughed nervously when Dad mentioned that at least he’d done better than my last boyfriend. It took three goes for Dad to convince Richard that, no, he wasn’t joking about Dignitas, and a terribly sad business it had all been. That might have been the point at which Richard decided he was actually quite relieved I was leaving.
I extricated myself from Mum’s embrace and we walked across the concourse in silence, my arm linked in Sam’s, trying to ignore the fact that my heart was thumping really loudly and that I knew my parents were probably still watching me. I turned to Sam, faintly panicked. I’d thought we would have more time.
He looked at his watch and up at the departures board. “They’re playing your tune.” He handed over my little wheeled case. I took it and tried to raise a smile.
“Nice traveling threads.”
I looked down at my leopard-print shirt, and the Jackie O sunglasses I had tucked into my top pocket. “I was going for a 1970s jetset vibe.”
“It’s a good look. For a jetsetter.”
We stared at each other.
“So,” I said. “I’ll see you in four weeks. . . . It’s meant to be nice in New York in the autumn.”
“It’ll be nice whatever.” He shook his head. “Jesus. Nice. I hate the word nice.”
I looked down at our hands, which were entwined. I found myself staring at them, as if I had to memorize how his felt against mine, as if I had failed to study for some vital exam that had come too soon. I felt a strange panic welling inside me, and I think he felt it because he squeezed my fingers.
“Got everything?” He nodded toward my other hand. “Passport? Boarding pass? Address of where you’re going?”
“Nathan is meeting me at JFK.”
I didn’t want to let him go. I felt like a magnet gone awry, being pulled between two poles. I stood aside as other couples stepped through Departures together, toward their adventures, or extracted themselves tearfully from each other’s arms.
He was watching them too. He stepped away from me and gently kissed my fingers before releasing my hand. “Time to go,” he said.
I had a million things to say and none I knew how. I stepped forward and kissed him, like people kiss at airports, full of love and desperate longing, kisses that must imprint themselves on their recipient for the journey, for the weeks, the months ahead. With that kiss, I tried to tell him the enormity of what he meant to me. I tried to show him that he was the answer to a question I hadn’t even known I had been asking. I tried to thank him for wanting me to be me, more than he wanted to make me stay.
In truth I probably just told him I’d drunk two large coffees without brushing my teeth.
“You take care,” I said. “Don’t rush back to work. And don’t do any building stuff.”
“My brother is coming to take over the brickwork tomorrow.”
“And if you do go back, don’t get hurt. You are totally crap on the not-getting-shot thing.”
“Lou, I’m going to be fine.”
“I mean it. I’m going to e-mail Donna when I get to New York and tell her I will hold her personally responsible if anything else happens to you. Or maybe I’ll just tell your boss to put you on desk duty. Or send you to some really sleepy station in north Norfolk. Or maybe make you wear bulletproof vests. Have they thought of issuing bulletproof vests? I bet I could buy a good one in New York if they didn’t—”
“Louisa.” He pushed a lock of hair back from my eyes. And I felt my face crumple. I placed it against his and clenched my jaw and breathed in the scent of him, trying to embed some of that solidity into myself. And then, before I could change my mind, I let out a strangled 'bye that might have been a sob or a cough or a stupid half laugh, I’m not sure even I could tell. And I turned and walked briskly toward security, pulling my case behind me, before I could change my mind.
I flashed my new passport, the paper ESTA that was my key to my future, at a uniformed official whose face I could barely make out through my tears. And then as I was waved through, almost on impulse, I spun on my heel. There he was, standing against the barrier, still watching. We locked eyes, and he lifted a hand, his palm open, and I lifted mine slowly in return. I fixed that image of him in my imagination—the way he tilted forward, the light on his hair, the steady way he always looked at me—somewhere where I could draw it up on lonely days. Because there would be lonely days. And bad days. And days when I wondered what the hell I had just agreed to be part of. Because that was all part of the adventure too.
I love you, I mouthed, not sure if he could even see the words from here.
And then, holding my passport tight in my hand, I turned away.
He would be there, watching as my plane gathered speed and lifted into the great blue sky beyond. And with luck, he would be there, waiting, when I came home again.
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