The clock above the departures board ticks forward. 4:30. Fifteen minutes.
"Your mother gave me her number," I say, because lighter is safer and if I go any deeper I'll flood.
"She likes you."
"She barely knows me."
"She knows enough. She knows you make me laugh. You passed with flying colors.”
I passed. Eleanor Prescott's interview.
"Aunt Milly asked me if my intentions were honorable," he adds.
I snort. "What did you say?"
"Extremely dishonorable. But committed."
I'm laughing and crying simultaneously.
"Stop looking at me like that," I say.
"Like what?"
"Like you're memorizing me."
His expression shifts. Something softer. Something that makes my ribs feel too small for what's inside them.
"Iammemorizing you."
That's the exact moment I stop pretending this is casual. Stop pretending eight days isn't enough. Stop pretending the big, terrifying, what-even-is-this feelings aren't exactly what they are.
I'm in love with him.
Not falling. Not tumbling. Not any of the verbs that imply accident or descent.
Just... in it. Landed. A fact I can't unlearn, sitting in my chest like it's always been there, waiting for me to stop pretending I couldn't feel it.
"BermudAir Flight 501 to Boston Logan International Airport now boarding at Gate 3."
"That's me," I say.
"I know."
"I should—"
"I know."
Gate 3. Other passengers filing through. Sunset pouring through the windows in thick, honey-colored streaks. A family ahead of us negotiating who carries the car seat.
We're standing at the edge of the boarding area, and I'm running out of ways to delay this.
"Don't," I say.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be perfect right now. I can't do the big romantic goodbye if you're being perfect. Be annoying. Say something about my luggage."
"Your luggage is a war crime."
