Page 10 of The Jealous Girl

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.