Twenty-five minutes.
That's what the drive to Clayton J. Lloyd International Airport takes, and I'm counting every one of them like coins in a jar I can't afford to spend.
West drives the rental with one hand. The other covers mine where it rests on his knee. His thumb traces absent patterns on my knuckles—figure eights, infinity loops, a language I didn't know I was fluent in until this week.
Windows down. Anguilla passing by in golden-hour technicolor. Palm trees and painted fences and goats standing in the road like they own the mortgage.
"That's where you tried to tail Blake to the beach bar," West says, nodding toward a turnoff.
"I wassurveilling."
"You were wearing a floppy hat and sunglasses."
I'm laughing, but my chest aches. Every landmark is a timestamp now.That's the rental yacht where Scarlett called me fast food. That's where West caught me at the pool. That's where we—
He squeezes my hand. His assuring touch stops me from spiraling… and tears.
The airport sign appears—blue and white, bureaucratic, utterly indifferent to the fact that it’s sending me away from the first man who’s ever made me feel overflowing and gutted all at once.
"Your eye is twitching."
"That's amedical condition."
"It's a tell. You get it when you're catastrophizing."
"I don't catastrophize."
He looks at me.
"Fine. I'm catastrophizing at areasonable level."
He pulls into the parking area. Kills the engine. The quiet is sudden and complete except for the ticking of hot metal and the distant whine of a turboprop.
Twenty-five minutes used. Balance: zero.
The airport is small. Open air where Boston would have walls. Warm breeze cutting through the terminal like it hasn't heard of climate control.
West carries both carry-on bags again. I've stopped arguing because choosing battles is a sign of maturity, and also because watching his forearms work is a coping mechanism I'm not ready to surrender.
I nearly take myself out three steps through the door. My stupid suitcase—the one with only three functional wheels and a personal vendetta—clips my ankle and sends me lurching sideways into a tourism display rack.
Brochures cascade around me like confetti at a parade nobody invited me to.
Maybe it doesn’t want to leave either.
"Death by luggage," I mutter, shoving brochures back onto the rack. "This is how I go. Jane Cooper, killed by her own packing choices."
West doesn't laugh. He steadies me with one hand on my elbow and picks up the three brochures I missed, returning them to the rack with the methodical patience of a man who thrives on chaos.
We reach the split. Two signs. Two arrows. Two entirely different experiences of air travel.
Commercial Check-In: BermudAir → Left.
Charter Services → Right.
There it is. The class divide.
I veer left. Toward the check-in counter where twelve other passengers are already queued in a polite, shuffling line. West follows me.
