"Yes."
He moved his family's entire charter by ninety minutes. The Prescott family charter. The one with his parents, his aunt, and whatever staff travels with people who have staff.
So he could sit in an airport with me.
So he could have more than a rushed goodbye at the curb.
My throat does something complicated.
"You—" I start, and don't finish because security requires shoes off and bags on belts and the mechanical processing of bodies through scanners, and I take off my shoes and put my bag on the belt and walk through the metal detector with tears pricking my eyes like tiny, inconvenient needles.
He moved his family's flight so he wouldn't have to say goodbye at 3:30.
So he could have more than ten minutes with me.
Through security by 3:35. Both of us. Shoesback on, bags collected, standing in the post-checkpoint no-man's-land where departing passengers scatter to their gates.
"We have over an hour," he says. "Let's find somewhere to sit."
Seventy minutes to be exact. Four thousand two hundred seconds of him.
I'll take every one.
The seating area isn't glamorous. Chairs bolted to the floor, a view of the tarmac through salt-hazed windows, a vending machine humming in the corner like it has opinions.
We sit. His arm goes around my shoulders. My head finds the hollow between his shoulder and his neck where I fit perfectly, which is biologically improbable given our height difference but physically undeniable.
"West."
"Jane."
"You moved your family's flight by ninety minutes."
"We've established this."
This man is going to ruin my life in the best possible way.
"Your parents are okay with this?"
"Aunt Milly suggested it, actually."
"She said—and I quote—'The girl needs a proper send-off, West. Stop being efficient.'"
I laugh despite the tears threatening to stage a full-scale mutiny. My chest tightens around the sound.
We have time now. Real time. Not the panicked, adrenaline-soaked minutes of the casita or the scenery-blurred drive. Just us, in plastic chairs, watching baggage carts crawl across the tarmac.
"I wanted more time." Simple. Devastating. "With you. I wanted every minute I could get."
"What if you change your mind?" I ask.
"I won't."
"You don't know that."
"I do, actually."
"What if you get home and realize I'm a working-classchaos tornado who doesn't own a single piece of clothing that costs more than forty dollars?"
