Chapter 22 The Departure
The Departure
Julian
Saturday, early October
Boston Logan Airport is chaos on a Saturday morning, but we're early enough to beat the worst of it.
I park in short-term parking and help Eliza lift her bags out of the trunk, three of them, each packed with scientific precision. The blue duffel with the sampling equipment. The black rolling suitcase with her clothes. The smaller backpack with her laptop and research notes.
I reach for the blue duffel. "Which one do you want me to carry?"
She adjusts her backpack straps. "The blue one, please. There's a reason field research is a team sport."
"I know. I just..." I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
"You just want to be helpful." She smiles. "I appreciate it. Watch the handle; the strap catches."
We walk inside together and check her two larger bags. Then we head toward security, her backpack the only luggage left between us.
This is as far as I can go.
Eliza slips off her backpack and turns to face me. She's wearing jeans and a comfortable sweater, her hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. She looks ready for adventure. She looks ready to leave.
I am not ready for her to leave.
I settle her backpack against her shoulder. "Three months."
"Three months."
"That's ninety days. Approximately."
"Ninety-two, actually. But who's counting."
"I am. Obviously."
She laughs, and the sound of it makes my chest ache. I'm going to miss that laugh. I'm going to miss everything about her.
She checks the time on her phone. "I'll call from the accommodation at six in BC, nine here in Boston. I'll be tired and probably cranky, but I'll call."
"I'll be waiting."
"Don't wait by the phone like a sad puppy. Do something. Read a book. Have dinner."
"I'll have dinner and then wait by the phone like a sad puppy."
"Compromise. I'll take it."
She steps closer, and I pull her into my arms, holding her tight. She smells like her shampoo and the cold morning air and something uniquely Eliza, something I've never been able to name but would recognize anywhere.
I kiss her hair. "I love you."
"I love you too." She pulls back just enough to look at me. "Don't forget to eat real food. And call your mother. And don't work every weekend just because I'm not there to drag you away from your desk."
"Yes ma'am."
"I'm serious. I'm going to ask about your weekends when we talk. If you tell me you spent them reviewing grant proposals, I'm going to be very disappointed."
"I'll find hobbies. I'll take up knitting."
"You'd be terrible at knitting."
"Probably. But I'd try."
She kisses me, soft and sweet, and then again, deeper, with all the things we haven't said pressed into the contact. When we break apart, her eyes are bright.
"I should go."
"I know."
"I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too. Every day. Every hour. Probably every minute, but that might be excessive."
She smiles against my cheek. "Acceptable levels of obsession."
"I'm nothing if not consistent."
She adjusts her backpack one final time. Before joining the security line, she turns back and waves.
I wave back.
Then she's gone, swallowed by the crowd and the security line and the vast machinery of modern travel. I stand there for a long moment, watching the space where she was, feeling the absence of her already.
I want to run after her for one more kiss. Instead, I stay out of the security line and let her go.
I walk back to the car.
At home I find a voicemail from Vivian Hendricks, following up on what she promised after the gala: she has removed Margot from the guest lists for every foundation function Vivian hosts, permanently, and Catherine Whitmore has spent the past week reaching out to everyone she told, correcting the record.
It doesn't undo the damage, Vivian says, but it's something.
I save the message and set the phone down.
Small justice. Margot is already out of our lives; these are just the last ripples closing behind her. But Eliza deserves to know the doors Margot counted on have quietly shut.
That evening, 9 PM
My phone rings exactly when she said it would.
"Hey." Her voice is tired but happy. "I made it."
"How was the flight?"
"Long. The guy next to me snored the entire time. I may have considered murder."
"Justifiable."
"That's what I thought." I hear rustling, like she's settling into a chair. "The accommodation is basic but fine. Small room, shared kitchen with the other researchers. There's a woman named Nessa who's going to be my field assistant. She seems nice. Very enthusiastic about algae."
"That's a good quality in a field assistant."
"Essential, really." A pause. "How was your day?"
"Quiet. I watched you disappear into the airport, drove home, and found a voicemail from Vivian.
" I settle back against the couch, phone warm against my ear.
"She's pulled Margot from all the foundation events she hosts.
And Catherine Whitmore has been calling people she told the wrong story, setting things straight. "
Eliza is silent for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is softer. "That's good. I didn't expect Catherine to bother."
"Vivian put the fear of God in her, I think." I let out a breath. "It doesn't undo anything. But I wanted you to know."
"Thank you for telling me." A pause, and I hear her shift against what must be an unfamiliar pillow. "I'm glad it's over."
I let myself picture her settling in, safe at the other end of the call. "Me too. The rest of my day was dinner and staring at my phone waiting for you to call."
Her laugh comes through the speaker, familiar even from this far away. "I told you not to do that."
I smile at the sound of her. "I tried. I was unsuccessful."
She laughs, and the sound of it, even through the phone, even from three thousand miles away, makes everything better.
Her voice softens with a yawn. "I should sleep. Long day tomorrow. Orientation and equipment checks."
"Get some rest. Call me when you can."
"I will. Same time tomorrow?"
"I'll be here."
"Goodnight, Julian."
"Goodnight, Eliza."
She hangs up, and I sit in the quiet apartment, phone still in my hand. The rooms feel emptier than ever, but it's different now. It's not the emptiness of abandonment. It's the emptiness of waiting for something good.
She'll be back. In three months, she'll be back, and we'll figure out what comes next.
I can wait.