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Chapter Thirty-Seven
Roman sat slouched in the terminal lounge, legs propped up on his carry-on luggage. All around him, travellers were dozing off, snoring softly, scrolling their phones, sipping hot beverages from Styrofoam cups, or simply staring ahead. He was at Heathrow, 3 a.m., biding time until his 6 a.m. flight. There was no chance he’d get any sleep.
His phone buzzed in his hand. The late-night call didn’t faze him. He was accustomed to getting calls at odd hours. It was the name on the screen that threw him for a loop. When he answered, his voice was rougher than intended. ‘Yes?’
‘Uh … rude!’ Tara snapped.
‘Sorry. It’s three in the morning.’
‘In what world? It’s 10 p.m. my time. You’re one hour ahead.’
He pulled himself upright. ‘I’m not in Tobago anymore.’
‘You mean you’ve come out of hiding?’
‘I mean my hiatus is over.’
‘Well, where in the world are you?’
‘Do you need to know that?’
‘If you think I’m going to show up at your door, get over yourself,’ she said. ‘I’ve moved on.’
‘I may need that in writing.’
‘Fine. You’re not perfect for me. Better?’
Her choice of words filled him with unease. ‘I hope you pulled that out of thin air.’
‘Not a chance,’ she said dryly. ‘I’m quoting your sweet little love note.’
‘What?’
His outcry earned him a few dirty looks.
‘You don’t have any right to be upset,’ Tara said. ‘The only note you ever left me in six years was a grocery list.’
He’d never had to clear out of her apartment because an ex had turned up out of the blue, either. As far as he was concerned, he and Tara were even. But Samantha was another story. The quickly drawn note left on her pillow had been pitiful. Every time he thought of it, his chest went tight. ‘How did you see it?’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Know what?’ Roman got up, grabbed the handle of his carry-on, and went to stand by a window. He needed the freedom to shout if it came to that.
‘She didn’t tell you?’ Tara said.
‘What’s there to tell?’
‘Wait … Roman … Is it possible you haven’t spoken to Samantha since the wedding? Please tell me that’s not true.’
‘And you have?’
‘You really don’t know? Pour yourself a drink, old friend. I have a story for you.’
All he had was a bottle of water, and it would have to do. ‘I’m listening.’
After Tara had finished relating the run-in with Samantha, she said, ‘Do with that information what you like.’
What was there to do? Samantha had handled herself extremely well under crappy circumstances. It only made him love her more, but she still hated him.
