Chapter 45 Runway Echoes
Runway Echoes
It was only a week away.
But to Jaxon, it felt like an eternity—an aching, slow-crawling kind of wait that no distraction could erase.
He filled the silence the best way he knew how: scrubbing the baseboards, mowing a lawn that didn’t need mowing, fixing things that weren’t broken.
Anything to keep his hands moving while his chest stayed hollow.
He talked to Claire every day. And every call, every text, only made it worse.
Because no matter how many times he heard her voice, it wasn’t the same as holding her. Wasn’t the same as the weight of her head against his chest, or the way her laugh curled around his ribs and made them ache. He wanted her there—not through a screen. Here. Now.
The night before she was set to arrive, Jaxon tried to sleep early.
But his body refused. His thoughts were a war zone of want and worry, anticipation and doubt.
He tossed. He turned. He stared at the ceiling like it might crack open and give him answers.
It was almost 3:15 a.m. before sleep finally stole him, only for his alarm to rip him out of it five hours later.
He launched out of bed like it was a fire drill. Showered. Shaved. Threw on her favorite shirt.
Wallet. Keys. Phone. Flowers.
He said it like a mantra, patting each pocket with shaking hands.
And then he was gone—out the door, behind the wheel, headed toward Wilmington like his whole life was waiting at Gate 14.
The airport was buzzing, but Jaxon moved through it like he was the only one there. Everything else blurred. The only thing that mattered was the digital screen that read: Flight 142 from Atlanta – On Time – 11:05 AM.
He watched the sky like a man searching for God.
But 11:05 came and went, and still—no sign of her.
He checked the screen again. No update. Checked his phone. Nothing.
“She’s still on the plane,” he muttered, gripping his coffee tighter. “She has to be.”
Minutes bled together. Thirty-five of them passed like they were trying to kill him.
Finally, a glimpse—a plane pulling in.
He nearly dropped his coffee as he pressed to the window.
Please. Please let that be hers.
An announcement came over the intercom. His heart leapt. “Now deboarding, Flight 142 from Atlanta.”
He stood at the edge of the gate, craning his neck, eyes scanning every face that came through the terminal.
And with each passing second, that hope began to rot inside him.
Passenger after passenger. Smile after smile. Not her.
He waited. Bent. Stood on his toes. Looked past every shoulder.
But she wasn’t there.
And just like that, the air felt thinner. His chest, tighter.
“She wouldn’t do this,” he whispered. “She wouldn’t just… not come.”
But as the crowd thinned to a trickle and the last few stragglers exited the tunnel, reality began to creep in. Something cold. Something heavy.
Until he heard it.
“Wait—there’s one more!” a flight attendant called out from behind the gate.
Jaxon’s body locked. One more. Just one more.
His heart was in his throat, barely beating. His fists clenched, breath caught halfway in.
Then…
A rolling carry-on appeared.
And behind it—a second flight attendant. Older. Smiling politely. Apologizing for the delay.
That was it.
There was no Claire.
His stomach bottomed out. His knees nearly buckled.
He turned to walk away, swallowing a scream.
And then—chime.
A single chime from his pocket.
He froze. Hope tried one more time to breathe.
Maybe she missed her flight. Maybe she’s rescheduling. Maybe—
He pulled out his phone, fingers trembling.
Claire: This started as a vacation. And like all vacations, they eventually come to an end. Let’s save ourselves from any more heartache. I’m sorry, Jaxon…
That was it.
No explanation. No goodbye.
Just a sentence. A single moment. A blade.
And it gutted him.
Right there in the middle of Terminal B—flowers still clutched in one hand, coffee forgotten in the other—Jaxon stood alone.
While the world moved around him…
His world stood still.