"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I'm going to cry in an airport. This is happening. I'm that person now.
He cups my face with both hands. Tilts it up. Kisses me.
Not frantic. Not desperate. Certain. A kiss that saysthis isn't overandI'll see you soonandI'm already counting the days until I can do this again.
His thumbs brush my cheekbones. My hands grip his wrists and I feel his pulse under my fingers. The bracelet presses warm against my skin.
I'm crying. Actual tears. On my actual face. In an actual airport.
"You made me cry," I accuse, when we break apart.
"You made me feel things." His voice is rough around the edges. "We're even."
His hands shake. Almost imperceptibly. But I feel it againstmy cheekbones—the finest tremor, there and gone, the only evidence that this man who controls everything is holding on by his fingernails.
"I hate feelings."
"Me too."
"Final boarding call for BermudAir Flight 501 to Boston."
"Call me when you land," he says.
"I will."
"Keep your phone on."
"I always do."
"Thank your family for breakfast. And for—everything."
"They meant it. The 'see you again soon' part." His jaw works. "My mother will text you. Fair warning."
"West—"
"Go. Before they close the door."
I walk toward the gate agent. Hand over my boarding pass. My hand is shaking, and the gate agent gives me the smile of a woman who has seen a thousand airport goodbyes and still finds them worth witnessing.
I don't look back immediately.
Then I do.
He's still standing there. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders squared. Watching me with an expression that isn't smiling but holds more warmth than a smile ever could.
I wave.
He waves back.
I turn and walk down the jetway, and the door closes behind me with the soft mechanical thud of things continuing.
Window seat. Small mercy.
I stow my bag, buckle my belt, and press my forehead against the plexiglass. The tarmac stretches out in golden light. I can't see Gate 3 from this angle, but I know he's still there. Standing at the window. Watching for my plane like a man who won't leave until the last possible second.
