Chapter 34
Cami
The line for security snakes slower than my thoughts, but not by much. And each shuffle forward feels like another thread tugged loose from him, the kittens, and the summer I’m not ready to leave behind.
My larger suitcase is already gone, checked through to JFK, and somehow, that makes it worse. Like handing it over wasn’t part of the travel process but the final signature on a decision I never wanted to make, a devastating confirmation that I’m really leaving Crystal Cove.
By the time the gate comes into view, First Class Now Boarding blinks in unforgiving letters, bright and impersonal, with absolutely no fucks given that my heart is breaking.
Tears trail down my face, steady and constant, as I wheel my carry-on toward the gate.
I wipe them with the cuff of Knox’s hoodie.
The same one he wore yesterday. The one I never intended to return.
It still smells like him. Wood and cedar and that panty-melting cologne he wears when we’re out on dates–which makes it impossible to breathe.
Especially after the way he kissed me on the curb.
Like we were more than a sad little chapter at the end of our summer love story. Are we?
I keep my head down, hair curtaining my face like it might shield me from wondering stares—Oh dear, why is she crying?
Oh, no reason, really.
Just kissed the love of my life goodbye twenty-something minutes ago, and now I’m walking away like I’ll somehow survive it.
The flight attendant greets me with a bright, practiced smile, but I can’t summon even a sliver of one in return.
I nod, barely, then slip down the narrow aisle, past the hushed rustle of other passengers, and find my seat: 2A, window, like I’d requested months ago when this flight felt like a plan and not a punishment.
Sinking into the leather cushion, my limbs fold in like paper, tight and fragile and frayed. Cold leather meets skin, sharp and indifferent, or maybe that’s just what this kind of grief feels like. Numb, raw, and sharp around the edges.
My oversized purse drops heavy in my lap.
I dig blindly through it with trembling fingers, brushing past tissues, wrappers, receipts, until I find my smartphone—and finally, the bubble phone.
Knox’s version of a love letter in plastic, sweet and ridiculous and precious in a way I hadn’t let myself realize until now.
The phone flips open with a quiet snap, a sound that shouldn’t matter but cuts straight through my feigned composure.
My thumb hovers, aching to press play on the voicemail he left.
To hear his voice one more time before the plane takes off.
But the screen glows a dull, washed-out gray beneath my touch, and I stare at it like I can will it to connect.
There’s no signal. No bars. No hope.
Because, of course, there isn’t.
Bubble phones don’t run on Wi-Fi.
A choked breath stumbles out of me, not quite a sob but close enough to sting. I shove the bubble phone into the seat back pocket like it burns more than the firestorm brewing in my gut.
Breathe.
It’s fine, I tell myself, knowing it’s anything but. I’ll just listen to his voicemail as soon as I’m in the car with Dad. Then call, not text, when I get settled as planned. Tell him what I’ve been too afraid to say. Tell him what might still matter.
My fingers swipe across the smooth screen of my smartphone, and I send Dad a quick text.
Me: Boarded. Still landing at noon. See you soon.
Stupid smile emoji. Feels as plastic as those mean-ish girls who wore pink on Wednesdays.
As always, his reply comes quickly.
Dad: Can’t wait, sweetheart. I’ll be outside baggage claim. Have a safe flight.
The engine hum deepens, vibrating beneath my feet as the plane begins to taxi. I shove my smartphone inside my purse and kick it beneath the seat. Summer memories flicker through my head, like I’m watching the entire season shrink in a rearview mirror.
I press my forehead to the window, its cool surface quietly soothing as the world outside begins to blur. Crystal Cove stretches beneath the plane like a watercolor painting—rooftops blending into trees, the boardwalk fading into the horizon, the shoreline etched in gold.
Our beach becomes nothing more than a shimmer—a smear of sunlight and memory and magic I can’t take with me.
My heart burrows into my stomach.
I’m thirty thousand feet in the air, untethered from the only man who’s ever really seen me.
Somewhere between a deep sigh and another round of tears, I must’ve fallen asleep.
When I blink awake, the plane is already descending, light turbulence nudging me back to the surface. My neck aches from leaning toward the window, and my mouth tastes like cotton drenched in sorrow.
New York’s skyline cuts through the haze, rising like a reckoning, a future I’m not quite ready to believe in.
The Empire State Building gleams in the distance, caught between morning gold and shadow.
Is it possible to feel two things at once?
To be grateful and gutted. Hopeful and hollow.
Happy to be home and shattered because I left mine behind.
A soft chime echoes overhead.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York. The local time is 11:52 a.m.
I blink again, like I can slow the moment down if I try hard enough.
With a sigh, I haul my oversized purse over my shoulder. Slowly, I stand, bracing myself as the aisle floods with movement and overhead bins click open in a chaotic chorus.
I spot my carry-on—silver Rimowa with red handles, its brushed-aluminum edges dulled by too many miles—and tug it from the compartment with a small grunt.
The wheels bump against my calves as I follow the crowd toward the front of the plane, oversized shades shielding the mess I’ve become, Knox’s hoodie still wrapped around me like armor I didn’t earn and can’t, won’t, let go of.
The jet bridge is all metal and motion, noisy and narrow, as the scent of brewed coffee and recycled air welcomes me back to the world.
I don’t pause to read directional signs.
My feet know where to go even if my heart doesn’t.
Down the escalator, across polished tile floors, through the rhythm of rolling luggage and airport announcements, I head straight for baggage claim. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, and somewhere, a child is crying, loud and untamed, in all the ways I wish I could.
Arms crossed, I watch the carousel spin, blinking through the blur until I see my larger suitcase, the matching Rimowa I checked back in Connecticut, pretending I wasn’t breaking in two.
It thuds onto the belt, heavy and bruised, and I grab the handle before I can second-guess all of my life choices.
Glass doors hiss open, spilling me into the New York air, thicker, louder, and more impatient than I remember.
And there he is.
Dad. Standing by the curb, black town car idling behind him as if it’s any other Saturday in the city. He’s wearing aviators and a giant grin, holding a bag of Dunkin’ Donuts like I’m still his little girl, home from college for the weekend.
I try to smile back. Honest, I do.
But my chest stings as the tears threaten again. Because this is it. The beginning of my new, so-called real life.
And I’ve never felt further from it.