37. Chapter 37
thirty-seven
S unday evening came around far too quickly. The golden light of late afternoon filtered through the car windows, stretching long shadows across the dashboard. The mood was muted now, quieter, with less urgency.
The drive to the airport passed mostly in silence—not strained, but reflective. Monroe watched the scenery blur past, fingers loosely intertwined with Chloé’s over the gearstick. Each mile felt like an unravelling of something that had only just begun to feel stitched together.
“I hate this part already,” Monroe said eventually, her voice barely above the hum of the road.
Chloé glanced at her. “Me too.”
They didn’t need to say more. The question, ‘ When will we see each other again?’ hung in the space between them.
Unspoken but very present.
As the terminal signs came into view, Monroe squeezed Chloé’s hand. “We’ll figure it out.”
Chloé nodded, jaw tight with emotion. “One day at a time.”
A small, sad smile pulled at Monroe’s lips. “That line’s going to haunt us, isn’t it?”
Chloé gave a soft laugh, pulling the car into the drop-off lane. “Only if it stops being true.”
“I don’t want to go,” Monroe said quietly, eyes fixed on the terminal ahead.
Chloé exhaled, her hands resting on the steering wheel before turning slightly to face Monroe. “I know,” she said, “I don’t want you to, either.”
There was a pause. Long enough for the moment to settle. The hum of the engine, the soft tick of the cooling dashboard, and the quiet between them said as much as words could.
Monroe turned, her gaze searching. “This isn’t just a weekend thing, Chloé. I need to know we’re not pretending it’s easy.”
“It’s not,” Chloé said. “I’ll come to you next.”
A nod, barely there. Monroe gave a small, wry smile. “We’ll figure it out.”
Chloé reached over and took her hand, squeezing it once, firm and steady. “One day at a time.”
Monroe leant in and kissed her, unhurried, familiar now. When she pulled back, she rested her forehead against Chloé’s. “Soon,” she said.
“Yes,” Chloé replied, “soon.”
Monroe opened the door and stepped out, the evening air crisp against her skin. She reached into the back seat and pulled her small suitcase out, the wheels bumping gently as she turned towards the terminal.
She paused at the entrance and looked back.
Chloé was still there, her silhouette framed by the car’s interior lights. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other loosely in her lap. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes stayed fixed on Monroe.
Monroe raised a hand. Chloé returned the gesture, slow and steady. Neither of them moved for a moment, like they were holding something between them neither wanted to let go of just yet.
Then the glass doors slid open behind Monroe, and she turned, walking into the brightness of the terminal.
Her week was full. She’d made sure of that. Meetings were stacked back-to-back, spreadsheets waiting. And there was Poppy, always a text away, and the kids, who never failed to wear her out and lift her up in equal measure. She would just keep herself busy and make sure her life was occupied.
And soon enough, Chloé would be visiting.
It could work. It would work.
One day at a time.