Good at Being Alive(55)
“I do watch a lot of TV,” I reply.
“You’re a lot more than that,” he says. “I think it’s time to stop pretending otherwise.”
I guess he’s right. I am more, even if I don’t show it. It’s the part of me that’s digging her way out. And I don’t know who I’ll be when she arrives.
* * *
? ? ?
Three hours later, we’re back at the airport and heading in different directions: Lars, Paula, and Katrina will fly to LA for their other show, Caden and I to New York, and Theo to London.
It’s a relief to be back in my own clothes again—leggings, sweatshirt tied around my waist, sneakers. I can spill whatever I want on the flight home and no one will be the wiser. That’s pretty much the only part of this that’s a relief, however.
Theo and I walk toward our gates together. His flight is already boarding and our time together is running out. I’m oddly desperate to make the clock just…stop. I don’t want this to end—hanging out, our talks, making fun of his erection to his face. But none of it is permanent, and he’s not here by choice.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get a divorce?” I ask again. I have to force the good cheer in my voice.
His smile is weak. “Sleep.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Me too.”
But I’m beginning to think I’ll probably cry first. A part of me is going to miss this when it’s done.
“You’re ready to be home again, I imagine?” he asks.
I should lie. I’d normally lie. Maybe it’s fatigue or maybe it’s the intensity of the time we’ve spent together lately but I just don’t want to lie right now. “I can’t remember a time when I ever looked forward to going home.”
“Even before the accident?” he asks.
“For most of my life, it’s felt safest to be somewhere else.”
His smile is wistful and only graces a small fraction of his mouth. “Then I guess I should have married you long, long ago.”
“That would be problematic on a number of levels, since I’m only twenty-four now.”
He leans forward and lets his lips brush my forehead. “Safe travels, fake wife.”
“Safe travels, fake husband.”
He walks toward his gate, and I head toward mine.
But just before I’m out of view, I turn back to look at him.
He’s in line. Watching me walk away.
Bex
There’s a significant increase in “incidents” on flights where people in coach have to walk through the first-class cabin to get to their seats. I’ve never totally understood this phenomenon until the moment I see Caden, the little punk, sitting there in his private pod with his fucking feet propped up.
I sort of want to start an incident of my own, because I’m irritated by the amount of privilege that accompanies being Scott King’s worthless son.
“It’s a roomy seat,” he says. “You can join me if you don’t mind snuggling.”
“I’m good,” I reply as I walk past.
I reach my seat. Theo’s not here to help with my bag and no one else offers. The boorish man in the seat beside mine has already stolen the armrest and kicked off his shoes—leaving them in my space. I use my foot to knock them back where they belong, don my headphones, and immediately begin wishing I were back in Capri.
I already miss LJ’s jokes, friendly Giovanna there to teach me how to humiliate Theo in Italian while she blows out my hair, Katrina with her crush on Lars, and Paula with her good-natured eye-rolling.
But of course what I miss far more than any of those things is, weirdly, my husband. I miss meeting him in hotel lobbies—him, unaware he’s drawing every female’s gaze, always scowling as he stares at his phone—and I miss the way that his eyes would lighten a little when he finally looked up. I miss how his hand would touch the small of my back to guide me through the streets and how he would always refill my water and my wine before he refilled his own. The way he wouldn’t let anyone else put sunscreen on my shoulders or climb Monte Solaro with me.
What I miss is the experience of having someone take care of me, even if it’s fake, and seem to embrace all the parts of myself I’ve kept hidden.
No, not someone. Theo. Lovely, stern, kind, funny Theo.
And I sort of suspect he’s on his plane, somewhere close, missing me too.
* * *
? ? ?
When we land ten hours later, I still haven’t slept, and Caden is right by my side again when I get to baggage claim, which does not improve my mood.
“So how long is Theo staying in London?” he asks as the bags start to drop.
I shuffle a few inches away, my gaze on the bags as I answer. “He’ll be in the New Jersey office in a week.”
“That’s a long time apart,” he snickers. “Won’t he miss his wife?”
“He’s got to get caught up on work,” I say, my eyes narrowing as I finally look his way. “And I believe that’s not something we should be discussing in public. NDA and all.”
He shrugs. “No one knows who you are yet.”
He lunges forward to grab a big Louis Vuitton suitcase—because of course this asshole has a suitcase worth as much as my first car—and pulls it over to where I stand.