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Fine. I can do that.
“What time did you say your train leaves?” I ask tightly.
“9:15.”
I glance at the clock. It’s 8:20 p.m. “Cutting it close.”
She taps her fingers on her knee. “I know. But if the traffic is good, I’ll be fine.”
“Because traffic is always so reliable in downtown Chicago.” I sound like a dick, but I’m fucking frustrated, and I want her to know it.
She exhales. “If I miss it, there’s another train at 11:30.”
Great. She would rather hang around Union Station until midnight than come home with me. Message received.
My offhanded comment turns out to be prophetic, and we hit thicker-than-normal traffic heading into Chicago that slows us to a crawl. This part of the interstate is always congested, but on December 23, it’s basically bumper to bumper.
“Shit,” Birdy says a nervous eye on the clock.
“If you miss this one, do you want me to at least stay with you while you wait?” I hate myself a little for asking, but I’d also hate myself for not asking.
She just shakes her head tiredly. “Stop. I’m not a passenger on your airplane or a piece of luggage that you have to deliver. You’ve dragged me around with you long enough.”
“Fine.” I push down my frustration. “If that’s what you want.”
“That’s what I want.”
She’s being practical. I know that. We want different things, and prolonging this will just make things harder.
But my stomach’s still in knots as we drive in silence. Once we reach our exit, I take it and maneuver through the congested city streets as quickly as I can. God forbid I’m the reason she’s late for the train that’ll take her out of my life forever.
We pull up in front of Union Station, that massive stone building in the heart of Chicago, and I bring the car to a stop in the drop-off area. It’s busy, of course, but at this time of night it’s not nearly the zoo I expected. I open my door and walk to the trunk, pulling Birdy’s luggage out over her protests that she could do it herself.
“I fucking know you can do it,” I snap. “Just let me help this one last time.”
She bites her lip but stops arguing, and once she’s slung the bags over her shoulder and gripped her suitcase, she hesitates. I don’t know what’s going through her mind, and I wish she’d hug me or kiss me or, hell, punch me. These have been some of the most stressful, surreal, and meaningful days of my life, and I don’t know what to do now they’ve come to an end.
“Thanks.” She gives me another one of those sad smiles. “You were really great.” Then she turns and walks off between the big stone columns.
And just like that, she’s gone.
Numbly I slide into the driver’s seat, but I don’t put the car into gear. Instead, I rest my wrists on the steering wheel and let myself drift. I need to return it to the rental place. I need to let my family know I’m on my way home. I need to forget this whole interlude happened.
But I can’t seem to make myself pull away from the spot where I saw her ponytail swish out of sight as she was swallowed by the entrance to the building. I’m almost tempted to abandon the car and run in after her, force my phone number into her hands. But for God’s sake, the woman’s already turned me down three times.
She doesn’t know my family. She doesn’t know how delighted my mother would be to have another person to fuss over for Christmas. How much shit my sisters would give me about bringing home a girl, but how over the moon they’d be at the same time. I can’t be surprised that Birdy, with her solitary upbringing, would be skeptical of that welcome. And maybe that’s what makes us fundamentally incompatible.
Swallowing the bitter tinge of disappointment, I signal and prepare to pull away from the curb. But a red parka catches my eye as I glance in the rearview mirror.
It’s Birdy, back on the street with her luggage, frowning down at her phone.
I roll down my passenger-side window. “What the hell, Birdy?”
Her head snaps up, her face slack with surprise. For a second, it looks like she’s going to bolt, but she shifts her bag higher up on her shoulder and walks over, bending to speak through the window. “What are you still doing here?”
I don’t have a good answer, so I shoot back, “What areyoustill doing here?”
She blows out a tired breath. “I missed the 9:15, and it turns out there is no 11:30. That’s only on Fridays.”
