Chapter 17
Seventeen
“I’ll text you when I get there.”
Three days later. Late morning. I knew he planned to leave today, with one of the afternoon ferries heading toward Vancouver, the city.
I had no idea how long he’d be away for, whether he’d contact me during that time, or if I was being too much.
The scars stretching over my neck and belly hurt a bit more than usual, and my hand was trembling, just slightly.
The same reaction I feel when I—shyly—thought about going back to the airfield. That’s how I knew I missed him already.
My hands were quicker than my brain, apparently, as they started typing:
Me:
Will you stop by before you go?
I stared at the screen for longer than necessary. Then turned it face down and walked away, as if not looking would soften the need.
Paul?:
Be there in 20, girl. Don’t change.
I stayed in my sweats and a soft grey tee, the kind of shirt that clung in all the wrong, or maybe all the right, places. I brushed my hair, barely, wiped some mascara over my lashes, just once. The rest… I left as it was.
When I heard the knock, I truly didn’t know what to expect. I opened the door, and he was there: backpack slung over one shoulder, leather jacket in the crook of his arm, hair tousled, black T-shirt—his staple. Quiet. A little breathless, but no bounce in his step.
“Hi,” I said softly.
“Hi,” he echoed. Then, even quieter, “Couldn’t leave without seeing you.”
I followed up with my truth. “I’m happy you came. Couldn’t stay without seeing you.”
I stepped aside, and he walked in, set his stuff down gently.
Didn’t move further than the entryway for a moment, like he was taking it in: the familiar hallway, the slanted afternoon light through the window, me.
I crossed the room and stood in front of him.
Without a word, he simply sank onto the couch.
I climbed onto his lap, legs on either side of him, my arms around his neck, just breathing him in.
His hands settled on my waist, nothing more, nothing less.
We didn’t speak for a while. Then I looked at him, and what I saw worried me.
“You okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “Just… my head’s a mess.”
“Because of her?”
He gave me a deafening, puzzled look and didn’t answer straight away.
“Because of everything,” he said instead. “But this.” His hands tightened at my hips. “This is the only part that, somehow, makes surprising sense in all the noise.”
I rested my forehead against his.
“What are we doing? You? Me?” he asked suddenly. His voice wasn’t accusing, just lost, like a small boy lost in the jungle. I kissed his cheek, the corner of his mouth, and his jaw.
Then I whispered, bringing his hand up to my thumping heart, “This. We’re doing this. Just be, Paul.”
We stayed like that, silent, wrapped up in something gentle and heartbreaking, because both of us knew this moment would end, but neither wanted to say it out loud. He kissed me once, long and slow, like he wanted to remember the taste of now. Then he stood up. And I let him go.
At the door, he turned back. Reached out. Brushed a thumb down the side of my face.
“I’ll text you when I get there,” he said.
“You better,” I smiled, even though my throat felt too tight for words. He paused, one last glance, and left. The door clicked shut behind him, and the quiet that followed rang louder than any goodbye.