CHAPTER 47
I REALLY THINK HE COULD LOVE ME.
BILLIE
The flight from Halifax to Toronto is two hours and thirty-two minutes. And I spend every single moment not thinking about what I’m going to say.
This is not a plan. Plans require forethought, structure, a general sense of what you’re doing and why. This is a woman who woke up on a Saturday morning after a week of not sleeping, stared at her ceiling for forty-five minutes, said “fuck it” out loud to no one, booked an overpriced flight on her phone while still in bed, and was at the airport within ninety minutes wearing yesterday’s jeans and a flannel that might be his.
It’s definitely his. It smells like him. I chose it on purpose, and I’m not going to think about that.
I call Neve, realizing I haven’t told anyone what I’m doing or where I’m going.
“Hey, Bills,” she answers jovially.
“Hi. So, I’m flying to Toronto.” I pause, wincing, waiting for her shriek of delight or shock.
“Uh-huh.”
“Um, I’m going to tell Darcy I want him to stay. Here. Well, not here, because I’m at the airport, but in Balsam Bay. I love him, Neve. I love him so fucking much it makes my heart hurt when I think about it too much, but like not in a scary way, in a good way, if that’s even possible, you know?”
“I do know,” she answers my rhetorical question, but I’m on a roll, so I don’t stop talking.
“Remember how I told you Leo is like a French baguette? Hard on the outside but soft inside?” I don’t give her an opportunity to respond this time. “Well, Peter is a freshly baked chocolate chip cookie. He’s golden and warm, soft, approachable, and welcoming. He’s sweet all the way through. He’s comforting and impossible not to love. It would be annoying, how perfectly wonderful he is, if it wasn’t for the fact I’m pretty sure he’s in love with me, too. And if he isn’t, he could be. If he stays in Balsam Bay, I really think he could love me.”
“I really think so, too, Billie.” My best friend sniffles. “I’m so happy for you,” she garbles through a sob.
“Damn, Billie. That was… wow.” Leo’s voice comes through the speaker, and my cheeks heat. I’m not surprised or upset I was on speaker; I just forgot he’d probably be there, too.
“Um, thanks, Leo.”
“And I knew you’d be going after him. Leo told me you asked for Darcy’s address, and I legit did a happy dance.”
“She did,” he confirms.
“And then I called Amanda,” Neve continues. “I told her not to expect you on site for a few days. If she needs help with anything, me or Georgia or Leo can step in and give her a hand.”
“Absolutely,” Leo reiterates.
“You two are the best, and I love you.”
“We love you, too, Billie.”
“We love you so much, Bills,” they say in unison. And then just Neve: “Now, go get your man!”
The woman in 14B is reading a romance novel with a woman splayed across the sand and a shirtless man on the cover. I resist the urge to tell her real love doesn’t look like that.
And thank fuck, because lying directly on the sand like that? Hard pass.
Real love looks like someone sliding your medication across the counter without being asked. Real love looks like eating cereal standing up because someone burned the toast and neither of you cares. Real love looks like a man telling you he’s coming back and you being too broken to make sure he knew you wanted him there.
I should have told him.
The pilot announces our descent into Pearson International Airport. I press my forehead against the window and watch the city materialize below me—gray and sprawling and endless, the opposite of everything I know. Somewhere in that grid of concrete and glass is a man who sent me a text sayingI miss youdays ago. I didn’t respond because I was scared, and I’m still scared, and I’m on this plane anyway, which is either the bravest or the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
The airport is a sensory assault my brain processes as simultaneously fascinating and unbearable. Too many signs, too many people, too many announcements overlapping. I follow the moving crowd to the taxi stand on autopilot while my eyes snag on everything. A kid eating a massive donut, a woman reuniting with someone at arrivals, a dog in a carrier who looks personally offended by air travel.
In the cab, the driver asks where I’m headed, and I read him the address from my phone. He nods like it means something. It means nothing to me. I don’t know this city. I don’t know which neighborhoods are which, or how the streets connect, or what Peter’s building looks like. I only know that he’s in it, and I need to be where he is, and everything else is just geography.
