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But it's a card. A cream-colored card. She wants me to take it from her, and my heart leaps as I think that I know what it is.
Chapter 12
Raleigh
Traffic was wretched getting to De Gaulle airport. It didn't help that I'd spent way too much time watching Jordan sleep instead of getting ready to go. But I didn't want to leave her and trying to tear myself away from the warm sensation of her skin left me feeling somewhat bereft.
Not only was the desire to be close to her overwhelmingly intense, the knowledge that I should want her this badly weighed heavily on my mind as well.
But in any case, she was the one who said she was leaving. She wants to go to the States, and I do believe that's the right move. But it's also the right move for me to get there first and create a soft space for her to land. Well, isn't it?
I'm being foolish, I tell myself. I'm acting like a fool. I'm letting myself get in way too deep. I'm acting like an overprotective boyfriend.
Boyfriend. The word puts a foul taste in my mouth. Who has boyfriends? Boyfriends are for children.
As the limo idles in semi-gridlocked traffic, I get my plans in order. Happily, Richard Branson coincidentally brought a Gulfstream that's gassed and ready to go at Charles de Gaulle. It only took me two phone calls to get a hold of him this time, and that's a relief. The Gulfstream will cut hours off the flight.
But when we pull up to the Departures area, a taxicab stops in front of us, and she gets out. At first it's like I'm watching her from far away. I see her through the window emerging from the taxi, muttering to herself and scowling. The window is smeared with bleary drizzle that’s just started falling, but I can see her furrowed brow, the downturn of the corne
rs of her mouth.
And I realize I've done this to her. She's mad at me. I left. I run through the probable scenario through my mind. I imagine her waking up, finding the note that I had fretted over for long minutes like a highschool boy. What could I say to her, that she would accept, I wondered? But she'd been so determined, I convinced myself she wasn't really going to care. She was leaving anyway.
And yet, what was I really thinking? Of course she would care. We had just been intimate. We had just slept in each other's arms all night, and then I left her there without even waking her up to say goodbye.
Of course she's angry with me, and seeing it in real life is much worse than I imagined. But I don't leave the limo. I watch her for a few moments, letting it sink in. She's on her own, she's going back to the States, and she's angry.
Sliding my cell phone from my pocket, I swipe the face to activate it. In a few seconds I get the concierge from the hotel back on the line.
“Oui?”
“Yes,” I murmur, keeping my voice low as though she can somehow hear me. “I’d like to book two first class flights to the United States. Can you make that arrangement for me?”
“Bien sûr, Monsieur King,” the concierge answers, in a clipped, professional tone.
Looks like I'll be flying commercial after all. Slipping sunglasses over my nose though the sky is gray and not too bright, I head into the airport and follow her at a safe distance. She stalks toward the ticketing counter with her hand digging around in her bag. While I hang back, she negotiates with the agent who tips her head in some kind of apology.
She's trying to get a flight for today, I assume. That's going to be difficult feat to manage.
But presumably, she does. In a few moments, the agent is handing her folded envelope with a courteous smile. Jordan takes it and heads off toward Customs after just a few moments of swinging her gaze uncertainly left and right. Somehow, she doesn't see me.
Well, this is creepy, I scold myself. Am I really just going to follow her through the airport? Just watch her? Do that not just seem a little ironic?
But I tell myself this is what she wants, and it is not my place to override that. If she needed my help, she probably would have asked me for it instead of declaring her intentions to leave last night.
But if she accelerated her plans by a whole day, it must mean she is more upset than she is letting on. Perhaps she wanted me to ask her to stay?
Brushing the thought away, I nod at the airport valet who approaches me.
“M. King, I presume?”
He checks my credentials, then hands me two first class tickets, no questions asked. This is one of the great perks of being a frequent traveler and I feel a small twinge of remorse. Jordan is not getting the red carpet treatment that she deserves, while I am. She's having to hoof it through the airport, get searched in customs, and get sneered at by few more French people on her way out of the country. I'm going to hop on the back of this airport golf cart and get chauffeured right to the gate.
But this is my life. What am I going to do, apologize for it?
I take the seat next to the window and watch the line of passengers slowly making their way through first class, back to coach. They’re in the other aisle, while I'm way over here in the last seat next to the window.
“Champagne, monsieur?” the flight attendant asks me sweetly, bending over at the waist and flashing me a clear, unobstructed view down her neckline, between those tiny, European breasts, all the way to the concavity of her belly. My eyes bounce off of that area, somehow repelled automatically.
