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I can’t do anything without thinking about her. As people pass by to get to the one of three small airport gates, I watch their feet. Some people’s footsteps are heavy and loud. Others are light and clumsy and rushed. Stride length varies from person to person, hard heels hitting the ground with urgency as they weave in and out of the crowds. Others take their sweet time, dragging.
Eve’s more graceful than anyone here. She doesn’t walk. She glides. She doesn’t stretch her arms above her head, she presents. There’s a rare delicacy to everything she does. It’s almost unfair how every one of her movements, every word that falls from her lips, is laced with superhuman elegance.
I adore the clumsy things about her too. I like the way she tries to tuck her hair behind her ear, even though not a single strand is out of place. Her giggle is like champagne, simultaneously light, bubbly, and intoxicating. I like the focus in her dark eyes when she dances. It’s like she’s in a world of her own, on a stage that belongs to her entirely. If only I could watch her dance forever.
My throat constricts as a pang of something ugly twists at my heart.
I don’t want to go back to New York. I thought I did, but I don’t. I want to stay here so I can be with Eve. I don’t give a fuck about what Mother thinks. She’s been unhappy with me for all these years. I sincerely doubt that’s ever going to change.
I can’t stand the thought of waking up tomorrow knowing Eve is miles away. I want to see her sleeping face first thing in the morning. I want to hear her tease me about my supposed snoring. I want to run my fingers through her hair, I want to marvel at why she always smells like coffee and vanilla, I want to kiss her soft lips and hold her tight.
Oh.
Oh, this is a problem.
I’ve fallen in love with her, and I’ve realized it too late.
“This is the first boarding call for flight two-twenty-seven for LaGuardia,” the woman at the service desk calls out. The area’s small enough that there’s no need to use the PA system. There’s maybe six or seven people sitting near me, all of whom get up to make their way over. “Can you please make your way to the gate with your boarding passes ready? Thank you.”
I remain seated, staring at a spot on the floor just in front of my right shoe.
I can get on the plane. I can take my seat, buckle in, close my eyes, and wake up in New York. I can pretend like nothing happened, and maybe things will go back to normal. I’ll return to work, help my patients, live like I have been for the past decade. Fill my spare time with women whose names I won’t remember and collect cars and motorcycles until there’s literally no space left in my garage.
Or I can stay.
I can stay in Haven where nothing interesting ever happens. I’ll probably have no trouble transferring to Haven General for work, though I’ll probably have to take a massive pay cut considering the size of the place. Maybe I’ll buy a house somewhere with a big yard I’ll never use and have to argue with neighbors about our shared fence. I can stay here and endure the gray weather and the lack of hustle and bustle that I’m so used to.
But at least I’d be here with her.
I can try contacting Eve again, maybe in person this time. If I get the chance to at least apologize to her face, maybe we can work something out. I don’t know where our futures are going to lead us. There are too many uncertainties, too many unanswerable questions. All I know is that I can’t leave without at least saying goodbye.
“This is the second boarding call for flight two-two-seven for LaGuardia,” the counter attendant shouts, glaring at me. “Please come toward the gate and have your boarding passes ready. The flight will be leaving shortly.”
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I stand slowly, clenching and unclenching my fists as I chew on the inside of my cheek. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. Had Eve been anyone else, I’d get on that plane no problem. I don’t understand why my feet are frozen to the ground. I can’t figure out why my knees are locked, and I have to fight against the tension headache radiating from my temples.
Before I get the chance to take a step forward, my cellphone starts buzzing. I don’t recognize the number, so I let it ring.
The counter attendant clears her throat in a not-so-subtle attempt to get my attention. “This is the final boarding call for two-two-seven for LaGuardia. Please come to the gate, sir.”
