I let her lead me away. Through the overdone lobby. Past the valet stand. Into the car where I can finally, finally breathe.
“That was—”
“Don’t,” I cut her off. “Just. Drive.”
She drives.
I stare out the window, watching New York blur past, and try not to think about Dean standing in that stupid country club with his stupid perfect face and his stupid “be careful.”
It wasn’t long.
Barely more than a week.
But in that time—chaos, goats, reluctant smiles that felt like victories.
In that time, I watched him slowly crack open, only to slam shut the second things got real. In that time, it felt like a lifetime, and now it’s just… over.
“Hey,” CeCe says softly. “For what it’s worth? I think he wanted to say more.”
“Yeah, well.” I swipe at my cheek. Ugh, allergies. “Wanting and doing are different things.”
“Maybe—”
“Can we just… not? Please? I need to not think about it until I’m at least three wines deep in Italy.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
More tears stream silently down my cheeks.
The airport looms ahead. My great escape. My big adventure. My definitely-not-running-away vacation.
“You sure you’re good?” CeCe asks as she pulls up to departures.
“I’m great. Living the dream. About to eat my bodyweight in carbs.”
“Poppy.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. Softer this time. “I just. I need to go.”
She hugs me over the center console. “Text me when you land.”
“Will do.”
“And Poppy? Maybe he just needs time to—”
“CeCe.Please. For the love…”
“Right. Shutting up.”
I grab my bags. Head for the automatic doors.
International departures.
Don’t look back.
Don’t think about him.
