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This was taking too long.

I tried to call him. Straight to voicemail.

I looked for him in the crowds. His tall, distinctive, stoic face and upright stance in his straight, heavy wool coat with the collars up. I couldn’t find him.

I was too goddamn late.

My heart kicked up again.

He was already on the plane, and I couldn’t get to him.

Departures showed London Gatwick would be leaving from Gate 16. There were two security pathways. I ran. Wasn’t thinking all that clearly, just that I had to get to him and stop him, what else could I do?

C’mon, Ren . . . Where are you?

I swerved around little groups, almost fell over one of those cute animal-shaped kids’ suitcases, and apologized to the kid’s parents, stumbling into a run.

“Where are you?”

I had my Canadian team jacket on, he’d be able to spot me from distance. But maybe that was a bad thing. He hadn’t taken my calls. He probably didn’t want to see me, not if he was leaving like this.

Well, tough shit. He didn’t get to run away from this.

Not after everything we’d been through.

He did not get to turn his back on this, on us . . .

I thought he’d cared more than this . . .

Thought he’d . . .

He wasn’t at the first security line. I bolted to the next one, breathing hard and fast now, heart up in my throat. He had to be here. A long, packed line of people zig-zagged slowly between the ribbon barriers toward the security scanners. He had to be here. I scanned faces, groups, couples. Just one man alone, just Ren . . . C’mon! He had to . . .

There, three back from the security gate, about to be scanned.

“Ren!”

He couldn’t hear me over the clatter of bags being dumped into plastic trays and rolled into the scanners.

“Ren!” Nothing. “Shit . . .”

A couple looked over and frowned.

“Sorry. I really need to get to that guy at the front there.”

The woman said something in Japanese that I had no hope of understanding.

He was two people from being called to the scanner now.

If he went through that scanner, he was gone. He’d go back to London, and it would be over. All of it.

I had to stop him.

I vaulted the ribbon and pushed through the line. “Sorry, excuse me, sorry.” Pushing into a line was probably some kind of federal crime in Japan that I’d get thrown in jail for. Too bad, it was happening. I climbed over the next ribbon, skipping the line. “Sorry, I’m not flying, gotta get to that guy. I’m not butting in, I promise. Sorry.”

I hopped another ribbon strip. My foot got tangled in the damn thing, and I went down to my knees, bringing the barrier with me. You’d think I wasn’t a professional dancer with the way I managed to bring the whole row with me, onto the polished floor, and upset a whole collection of angry travelers.

Stern-looking staff were on their way over.