“Thank you.” I walk through the plane and take my usual seat.
Just fucking go, already.
My phone lets off a ding and I glance at it. Kate.
I open up the message and frown.
It’s a song, “Never Enough” by Loren Allred.
Fuck.
I drag my hand down my face and eventually, curiosity gets the better of me and I put my headphones on and hit play.
It’s a slow song, of love and loss.
I put my head back against the headrest and exhale heavily; I want this over with.
Just fucking go already.
“Mr. Miles.” The waiter smiles. “We’ve been expecting you, sir. Miss Boucher is waiting.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“The private dining room is this way.” I follow him through to the glass atrium; there are fairy lights strewn across the top of the glass and the table is candlelit. I see her sitting alone at a table for two by the fire.
She looks up, and our eyes meet.
“Hello.” She smiles softly.
My heart flips in my chest.
She’s absolutely breathtaking . . .
“Hello.” I frown—she makes me nervous—and my stomach flutters. “Sorry I’m late.”
She smiles up at me with her big eyes. “Better late than never.”
KATE
I sit at the window seat and stare out over the road as the rain comes down.
Even the weather is miserable. Like a dark heavy blanket of sadness.
I glance at my watch, Elliot will be in France now.
I get a vision of the two of them sitting in a romantic location, staring into each other’s eyes.
I’m in a literal hell.
“Is everything alright with your meal, ma’am?” the waiter interrupts me.
“Oh.” I look down to see my untouched cold dinner. “Yes, I’m sorry . . . I’m . . .” I pick up my fork. “A little distracted.”
“Perhaps some wine?” The waiter smiles hopefully.
“Yes.” I nod. “That would be lovely.”
He raises his eyebrow as he waits for something.
“What is it?” I ask.
“What wine would you like?”
“Oh.” I shake my head, embarrassed. “Surprise me.”
“Very well.” He disappears into the kitchen and I take a forkful of pasta into my mouth.
Ugh, my stomach rolls and I clench my teeth to stop the gag reflex.
I make myself swallow; food is the very last thing I can handle tonight.
I don’t even want to go home to my roommates, because then I have to pretend that everything is okay . . . or tell another lie, or worse still, tell them the sordid truth.
Neither of the tasks I feel capable of while I’m this weak.
I’ll just wait until everyone goes to bed, it’s easier that way.
It’s 9 p.m. and . . . in a few hours, I will know.
Elliot will either call me . . . or he won’t.
I know he will . . . he loves me, I know he does and I believe in us. He will call me.
He has to.