Page 266 of Claiming Puerto Vallarta

I lift my hand. He lifts his.

That’s all. No movie ending. No last-minute sprint. No one stopping me from doing the right thing.

The doors slide open behind another group, and for one second the heat reaches me again. When they close, Clint’s vanished behind a shuttle bus pulling to the curb.

I wait for it to move, but it doesn’t.

So I turn around. Check-in’s straight ahead. Security after that.

A gate. A plane.

Louisville.

I wipe under one eye with the heel of my hand, grip the suitcase, and start moving.

Louisville is gray.

Not actually, maybe. The sky has some blue in it. The airport doors open to a cool late-afternoon, and there are people everywhere, cars crawling past baggage claim, drivers waving, smokers huddling around ashtrays and puffing for dear life.

Everything looks flattened after Puerto Vallarta. The concrete, the curb, the sensible Midwestern sweaters.

And me.

I stand outside with my suitcase beside me and my phone in my hand, pretending to check for messages while I watch for Don’s black SUV.

When his car finally pulls up, he takes one look at me through the passenger window, reaches somewhere off-screen, and when I open the door, a Kleenex box is sitting on the seat.

“Subtle,” I say.

“Really? I was going for smug.” Don leans across and moves it to my lap after I get in.

I laugh, and that’s the mistake. It cracks open, turns wrong, and suddenly I’m crying over a box of Kleenex while Don merges away from the curb with little grace and less patience.

He says nothing for a while. Bless him for that.

He only reaches over once, pats my knee, then turns it into a slap.

“There,” he says. “Comfort.”