Chapter 4
THEN
Mid July
I shuffled down the aisle, frustrated by the slow progress of the line of people ahead of me. I scanned the row numbers above the seats, pretending to focus on anything but him.
He was behind me. I could sense it. Hear it. The soft thud of his footsteps, the swoosh of his bag brushing each seat as he moved. Every sound tormented me, reminding me of his closeness.
Last time we’d made this journey, we’d been cocooned together, his arm wrapped around me as we’d peered out of the window watching the landscape unfold below. We’d pointed out tiny landmarks as though we were mapping the world we were building.
This time, every part of me vibrated with the hope that we wouldn’t be seated together.
‘This is me.’ His voice cut through my thoughts.
I turned and he jerked his head towards the row beside him, and swung his bag into the empty seat.
‘Have a good flight,’ he said.
Relief washed through me. ‘Yeah. You too.’
I turned away, resuming my slow shuffle forward. But, beneath the relief, something else stirred. Something disturbingly familiar.
Disappointment.
Finally, I reached my aisle seat and lowered myself into it as passengers moved past me.
‘Sorry,’ a guy said as he paused in front of me. ‘We’re seated beside you.’
‘No worries,’ I said as I slid back out of my seat. He shuffled past, and the woman behind him murmured her thanks as she followed.
As I stood waiting for them to get settled, my gaze skimmed the rows ahead, searching for him before I even realised what I was doing. He started to turn his head, and instinctively I ducked to my right, letting the crowd of passengers shield me from view.
My heart thudded.
Why had I done that? The reaction had been instinctive, but it felt childish. I was twenty-three, too old to be hiding from anyone, least of all him. Besides, he already knew I was here.
But the thought of letting him catch me watching him…
I gave myself a little shake as I straightened up. I wasn’t supposed to care any more. His movements, his presence, weren’t my concern. And yet my gaze automatically drifted back down the cabin. Ryan’s seat was empty.
My stomach lurched. Had he disembarked? Had my presence impacted him, as much as his had impacted me? Frowning, I leaned slightly to the side until I spotted him a few rows ahead, helping an older woman lift her case into the overhead locker.
A small, familiar sense of calm washed over me. My frown deepened. That reaction didn’t make sense. I didn’t want him here, so why was I watching him so intently and why was I relieved that he hadn’t left?
And why was I doing this? Hiding from him, not wanting him to see me, yet unable to look away.
Curiosity, I told myself as I slid back into my seat. It was just curiosity. It had been a long time since we’d parted. Long enough to dull the pain, but not to erase the memories.
I closed my eyes. Tried to block out the press of bodies, the chatter, the noise of bags being stowed in the overhead lockers.
When I opened my eyes again, my gaze drifted forward and to the left, towards where he sat. I couldn’t see him through the sea of passengers still filing on.
It didn’t matter. I knew he was there.
He hadn’t been part of my life for two years. And yet, somehow, he’d always been there.
The moment the seatbelt sign pinged off, the cabin erupted. Passengers leapt to their feet, grabbing bags from the overhead lockers, ushering partners and children into the aisle. The same people who’d sat contentedly for three hours suddenly couldn’t bear another second in their seats.
Ryan and I used to laugh at them. At their impatience. We’d been so wrapped up in each other that we’d never cared how long it took to get off the plane.
But now I understood it.
I wanted air. Space. Freedom. I wanted to be away from these people. Away from him.
Bright sunlight filtered in as the door opened. Finally, the line began to move.
When my turn came, I focused on the steps – one, two, three – until my feet hit the tarmac. I took a breath, steadying myself, and only then did I look up.
He was standing there, waiting.
‘Can I give you a hand?’ he asked, reaching for my bag.
I jumped, snapping my shoulder back and gripping the strap tightly. ‘I’ve got it. I’m good.’
The words came out too sharp, too strong. I knew it even before his expression changed as surprise flickered into hurt.
He’d taken so much from me already. I couldn’t bear the thought of him taking anything else, even something as small as a bag.
He stepped away, joining the line of passengers heading towards the terminal. I had no choice but to follow. He should have been ahead by now, already queuing for customs. But he’d waited.
Why?
It didn’t make sense. We had nothing left to say. Then again, maybe there was plenty that had never been said.
But silence had stretched between us for two years, and I wasn’t inclined to break it now. My hand tightened on the strap, the faux leather warm beneath my fingers. My other hand felt empty, restless.
He used to joke that our hands were magnetic. Every time we walked side by side, they’d find each other and click. It became our thing. Whenever one of us fell behind, the other would hold out a hand, waiting for the click.
I hadn’t thought about that for so long. And yet now my hand ached for his – a physical, impossible longing that made no sense after everything.
For once, my suitcase came out among the first. I stepped towards the carousel and reached for the handle just as he did. Our hands brushed.
‘I’ve got it,’ I said quickly.
‘Sure,’ he muttered, without stepping back.
I tugged the case off the belt. He steadied it anyway.
I muttered a quiet, begrudging, ‘Thanks.’ The word felt wrong. Forced and insincere. I didn’t want to owe him gratitude. I didn’t want to owe him anything.
He gave a small nod. ‘It’s been good to see you.’
Has it? I almost said. Instead, I forced a smile. ‘Yeah, you too. Have a good holiday.’
He hesitated, as if he’d been about to say something more, but the moment passed.
I positioned my suitcase between us. A deliberate barrier. Whenever we’d parted before, there’d always been a hug. I couldn’t be sure if I was putting the case there to stop him from offering one, or to stop myself from wanting it. I didn’t trust my own arms any more than I trusted my heart.
I walked through the exit, past the people holding up signs for private transfers and pre-booked guests, signs that spoke of being wanted, expected, welcomed. None of them were mine.
Outside, the queue for taxis snaked towards the road. I joined it, doing quick mental maths of how many people stood in front of me, how many taxis were pulling in. I was going to have to wait a while.
I leaned against the rail, trying to steady my thoughts. The heat pressed down, heavy and dry.
‘Hi again.’
I lurched forward, almost losing my balance, and swung around.
‘Are you following me?’ I forced my voice to sound light and joking.
‘What? No, of course not.’ He pointed towards the taxi sign, a crooked half-smile tugging at his mouth. ‘Same as you. Just need a ride.’
Right. Of course. We’d relied on taxis and buses to get around when we’d come here before. The habit had survived, even if we hadn’t.
We shuffled forward as the queue slowly shrank.
‘Where are you staying?’ he asked, filling the silence between us.
I hesitated, but his eyes widened before I could answer.
‘Don’t tell me you’re staying there too?’
The name of the hotel hung between us, unspoken and unavoidable.
When the next taxi pulled up, the driver glanced between us. ‘You together?’
‘No,’ I said quickly.
‘We’re both staying at the Radisson Blu Resort and Spa Golden Sands, though,’ Ryan added unhelpfully.
‘So you may as well travel together, then.’
I froze.
The taxi driver shrugged. ‘You know it will be cheaper if you share…’
I opened my mouth to protest but stopped. Was I really going to make a fuss over a taxi ride? It was only twenty minutes. I could handle twenty minutes. I swallowed.
Couldn’t I?
‘Fine,’ I said quietly.
We climbed into the taxi in silence, heading back to the place that had once been ours.
The taxi pulled out into the flow of traffic. I kept my hands clasped tightly in my lap, my gaze fixed out of the window beside me, determined not to look at the man sitting next to me.
Last time, our hands had rested on the middle seat between us, our fingers entwined. The future had stretched out ahead of us then. Full of promise and excitement.
I swallowed. It was hard to believe it had only been a little over two years ago. It felt like another lifetime now. And the man that I’d thought I’d known without question was barely more than a stranger.
My fingers twitched. For a second, the urge to reach for him was so strong.
I shook my head. It didn’t mean anything. Just muscle memory. A reflex from a time when reaching for him had been as instinctive as breathing.
That time was gone.
I pressed my hands tighter together, forcing the feeling away, as I focused back on the view outside.
I blinked, realising the traffic had thinned. I hadn’t noticed how far we’d come. I’d been too busy looking backwards. The four-lane highway had faded away behind us, and now low stone walls stretched along the roadside, pale and worn, boarding uneven fields of dry grass and brown shrubs.
I caught a glimpse of a thin strip of blue sea on the horizon, and I edged forwards in my seat, peering through the windscreen as the road curved to the right and then, there it was. The hotel.
Sand-coloured and sprawling, partially built into the hillside as though it belonged there. It looked exactly as I remembered it. Unchanged.
My chest tightened.
Even though everything else had.
The taxi slowed as we approached the place that had once meant everything. The only solace was that it was big. Big enough that we could both exist there without colliding.
I couldn’t just turn around and get on the next flight home. Ryan had already run me out of my life once before.
Not this time.
If anyone was leaving early, it would be him.