She nods, fingers trembling slightly on the handle of her bag. “You sure this isn’t just something sweet you’re saying to make me feel better?”
“No.” I brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “This is me telling the truth. Like I always do with you.”
Her breath shudders. “I wish we had more time.”
“Don’t worry.” The reassurance slips out steadier than the ache in my chest. “This isn’t the end. It’s just a layover.”
Cami laughs, then chokes on a sound that might be a sob. She presses her face to my chest and lets me hold her, arms looped around my waist like she’s afraid I’ll disappear the second she lets go.
When she finally tilts her face up, her eyes shine.
I lean in and brush my lips over hers. “Don’t be a stranger, my beautiful Bubble Girl.”
We kiss softly, then deep and desperate—a kiss that steals the air right out of my lungs. Her tears taste like salt and summer,and I kiss her until the world falls away, until there’s nothing left but us and the echo of what we both feel.
Breath shaky, she pulls back, eyes shimmering. “Don’t forget to feed the delinquents.”
“Never.”
She steps away, lifts her hand in a small wave, and walks toward the terminal, toward security lines, gate numbers, and a real-life version that isn’t us.
The doors close behind her, and the quiet that follows makes my chest cave in.
For beats unmeasured, I stand here, staring through the glass, watching her disappear past security until the crowd swallows her whole.
She’ll text me.
All the air feels heavier without her in it. Every breath tastes like goodbye. My hands ache to reach for her one more time. To pull her back and say don’t go. But that was never our deal. I tell myself this is what love is—letting her go. Only, it doesn’t feel noble. It feels like my heart is breaking in slow motion.
And I can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt.
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’mreallyleaving Crystal Cove.
By the time the gate comes into view,First Class Now Boardingblinks 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.
