Page 4 of The Jealous Girl

It was all too much. Too loud. Too close.

I was right there in the middle of everything, and yet, somehow, I didn’t belong. The laughter, the chatter, the pulse of excitement that ran through the bar was another reminder that I was different.

I pressed my hand to my forehead, trying to block out the noise, the busyness, but it continued to close in, wrapping itself around me until I could barely breathe.

They were oblivious. Too caught up in their own excitement to think about anyone else around them. Their joy grated. It felt selfish. Intrusive.

I fought back the overwhelming rush of frustration that burned deep within me. It wasn’t fair to resent them. They were strangers to me, so why should I want them to be as lost and lonely as I was? We were in an airport waiting for flights to exotic locations, the starts of holidays, adventures, time away from work and troubles and everything else.

Except for me.

For me, it wasn’t an escape. It was a ritual.

I slumped back in the chair. Maybe it was time to let go of the past, to face the future, to embrace it. I wasn’t sure why I was torturing myself for a second time.

I’d told myself last year was a one-off. A way to acknowledge the first anniversary. The one and only time I’d do it. That it was part of the healing process. Something I needed to do to get closure. And, yet, here I was again.

I pushed away my cold cup of tea and let out a sigh. The truth was I didn’t resent the people around me. I envied them – the couples, the families, the groups laughing together. I was the only one sitting alone. I felt that isolation slice into me.

It was a foolish idea. And yet I was here. What could I do? I’d already come through security. How did you even get out of an airport unless you flew? I was trapped. Trapped by my own decisions. My own desperation. My past.

The only thing I could do was what I’d done for the last two years: get through it. I shuffled up in the chair, straightened my back, lifted my chin. I was good at that. I’d proved that getting through things was something I excelled at. I always had. This was no different.

A clatter behind me made me flinch. A gush of apologies and scraping chairs as people moved to let someone through.

‘I’m sorry. Sorry.’

The guy was apologising profusely. Mortified and embarrassed. And yet I couldn’t help but stare. The part of my brain that would normally have leapt into action, offering help and reassurance that it was okay, was offline. All I could do was watch.

I knew what I was doing here. But him? This was the last place I had ever expected to see him again.

He looked older, as though the two years we’d spent apart had aged him. But then they had aged me too. Despite the small creases around his eyes, he was still achingly familiar.

I glanced over his shoulder, searching for the rest of his group – his family, his partner, his wife. But there was no one.

‘Kirsty?’

The sound of my name pulled me back.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for my flight,’ I said flatly. The statement felt stupid. Of course I was waiting for my flight. That wasn’t what he’d meant. It was obvious but, at the same time, nothing about the situation felt obvious.

We’d lived fifteen minutes away from each other for two years, yet I hadn’t seen him since the day we parted. He hadn’t come after me. He hadn’t called. He’d just moved on.

‘It’s, er, been a while,’ I said overly brightly as I tried to move the conversation on.

‘Two years,’ he said without hesitation.

I blinked, caught off guard by the speed of his response.

‘How have you been?’ he asked. It should have sounded like small talk, the kind of question you ask an old friend you haven’t seen in ages.

But we weren’t old friends. We’d been so much more than that, and his question carried weight. How had I been without him, without the life we’d planned together?

I plastered a bright smile on my lips. ‘Really good, thanks.’

Ryan shifted. It was a tiny movement, but it felt significant.