For a while I thought maybe I didn’t deserve to find one, either.
But I have. And I’ll be damned if I let it go without a fight.
I grab my phone, glancing at the time. Shit. I hope it’s not too late. Transatlantic flights usually take off earlier in the day, meaning I don’t have much time to do what I need to do and intercept Laura before she takes off tomorrow morning.
I immediately start searching for names, numbers, anything that will help me make the wild idea that just popped into my head happen. It’s got to work.
I’ve got to get my girl back.
***
Laura
The Next Morning
The taxi screeches to a halt in front of the terminal. I swallow the bile in my throat. I mean, yeah, I’m hung over as hell, which isn’t helping matters. But it’s still a miracle I made it here in one piece; every time you step into a taxi in this city, you’re taking your life into your hands. I won’t miss almost dying everyday, that’s for sure.
The Madrileñas and I did our last night in Spain right; less than three hours ago, I was on the dance floor at Ático practicing my sprinkler move while Rachel shimmied up against me. I giggle at the memory. I love those girls. I’m going to miss them; Maddie and Vivian are staying in Madrid for another semester, so we won’t all be back at Meryton until next fall. I kinda don’t know what I’m going to do with myself next semester. With Em still in London, and no boyfriend to speak of, I’m going to be on my own for the first time in literally forever.
I blink back tears as I help the driver dig my luggage out of the trunk. I felt better about the whole Rhys situation while I was dancing the night away, but this morning my sadness and ire have returned full force. I miss him. I hate myself for missing him even more. My heart feels tender and sore, and I know it’s going to feel this way for a long time.
Offering the driver a watery smile, I hand him a tip and start rolling my bags toward the wall of glass doors on the other side of the sidewalk. This airport is huge and anonymous, so different from the homey airport I’d fly in and out of with Rhys. Man I was spoiled.
I tuck my chin into my jacket. It’s chilly this morning, clear and cold, and my breath swirls around me in an uneven cloud.
I slow my stride as I approach the doors, waiting for them to open. I stop short at the sound of squealing tires, followed by distant shouts.
I glance over my shoulder. A giant bus pulls up to the curb, its shocks hissing as the driver lowers it to allow passengers to get on and off. I look around, but all I see are a couple taxis and a limo.
My foolish heart skips a beat. There’s no way Rhys came to say goodbye. I wonder how long it would take before I stop looking for him.
I still watch with bated breath as the limo driver opens the door. It can’t be. It can’t—
My heart sinks at the sight of an older couple, maybe my parents’ age, climbing out of the limo. Definitely not Rhys.
Swallowing, I shake my head. I’m being stupid. Rhys isn’t coming. He’s done with me, told me in so many words he never wants to lay eyes on my fugly face again.
I need to get going or I’m going to miss my flight.
I head through the doors and make my way to the ticket counter. It’s still early, so the airport isn’t crazy yet, but I still have to wait in line before I can see an agent. Standing there, my pulse finally starting to slow, my exhaustion hits me like a ton of bricks. As much as I’m dreading going back to Philly—I mean, I’m not even excited about Christmas—I am looking forward to getting on the plane and enjoying a nice, nine-hour-long nap. I wonder if they’ll serve breakfast on the flight…
When it’s finally my turn, I hand the agent my passport. Even though I greet him in Spanish, my gringo accent must be worse than ever, because he immediately starts speaking to me in English. It’s a relief, sure, but also kind of a bummer. I won’t be speaking much Spanish back in Philadelphia. I probably won’t be coming back to Spain for a long, long time.
The agent hands me my ticket and checks my bag. It’s a little over the weight limit, so I have to empty some of the stuff into my carry on before he’ll take it.
The security line takes forever. Long, bright rectangles of yellow morning light pierce my eyes and warm my legs. I inhale the sharp smell of freshly brewed espresso. It makes my head hurt. I sway on my feet, certain I’m going to die if I don’t get some sleep soon. My bag is heavy. My feet are heavy. Everything feels heavy. It’s like the universe is weighing me down, willing my body to remain right where it is.
I miss him. I don’t want to leave.
I start to cry as I approach the security lady. This cry is different from all the others I’ve had in the past few days. Those were loud, Oscar-worthy cries where I hyperventilated myself into a numb stupor. This cry is quiet, mainly just big, fat tears that come one after the other. I wipe them away with the edge of my passport. It’s the resignation cry—the cry that comes when you realize it’s really over, that whatever you hoped for isn’t going to happen.
The semester is done. I’m at the airport. My flight leaves in less than an hour. Rhys is not here. He’s not coming.
We are really over.
The security lady looks at me as I hand her my passport and sighs, like she’s seen a thousand crying girls like me and is seriously annoyed by the whole thing. I don’t blame her.
“Laura!”
I blink at the sound of my name. My vision is blurry, so I can’t really see anything. But I recognize that voice—
“Laura! Oh, oh thank God, I thought I’d missed you.”
I blink again at the sound of hurried footsteps. Someone is running, getting closer. Through my haze of tears I see a figure approaching, a weird little blob on the top of his head. Man bun.
It’s a man bun.
My heart seizes. I’m blinking wildly now, dragging my fingertips across my eyes in an attempt to clear them. For a split second I do.
My eyes land on another pair of eyes. Blue eyes. I recognize them.
It’s Rhys.
Chapter 34
Rhys
The moped emits a high-pitched whine as I gun it. I brace myself for a surge of speed, but instead I get a slow, steady progression to about fifty kilometers an hour. I let out a howl of frustration.
At this rate, I’m never going to get to the airport on time.
Ahead of me, Olivier impatiently revs the engine of his Bentley. He sticks his arm out the window, motioning for me to speed up. I motion back, something that I hope communicates “I can’t speed up, so just do your bloody job and clear the road for me so I can make it to the airport in time to intercept Laura before she boards her flight and I can grovel and beg and cry if need be so she’ll take me back”.
Olivier must get the message, because he slows down; on the passenger side, Fred waves cars past our sad little parade. It’s early, but with the approaching holiday, the road to the airport is an absolute zoo. More than once I fear for my life; the wind is freezing; this moped thing is not for the faint of heart.
A couple people pull up beside me and honk their horns, laughing at the guy riding a pink moped as they pass. I think of Laura—I’m always thinking of Laura—so I flick them the bird. As our version of the bird is the two-fingered “V”, it feels a little funny at first. Then, as people stop laughing, it starts feeling pretty great.
Laura would be proud. I love that girl.
My heart is pounding, an insistent, panicked beat. I’m going to make it to the airport with hardly any time to spare. Despite offering them thousands of euros and my firstborn child, the moped rental place refused to open any earlier than eight A.M. this morning. By the time I filled out all the paperwork and got gassed up, I had less than fifteen minutes to reach Laura.
I’ve got to make it. I can’t let her get on that plane without letting her know how I feel.
Without trying to apologize for being a complete and utter jackass.
When we finally pull up to the terminal, I’m d
izzy with impatience. I had to keep my leg straight during the drive on account of my bum knee, but I only half succeeded and now my entire body is lit up with pain. I thought I’d just toss the moped in Olivier’s trunk and drive it to the airport, but we tried and it didn’t fit. Plus Olivier wasn’t all that keen on a pink moped dinging up his brand new Bentley.
I park the moped at the curb, ignoring the no parking signs that are posted all over the place. Olivier and Fred whip out of the car. I duck out of my helmet and hang it on the handlebar.
“On pain of death,” I say, tossing the moped keys to Olivier, “do not move from this spot.”
The keys land in his palm with a merry little jingle. “Of course, little Cabbage. I will not fail you in zis.”
“Fred, you’re coming with me.”
I don’t wait for him to follow, and I don’t grab my crutches, either. They’ll just slow me down. I hobble as fast as I can into the airport, terrified that I’m too late, that she’s already gone. I frantically search the ticket counters, even though she wouldn’t be here, not unless she was going to miss her flight.
I grab the front of Fred’s jacket and point to the terminals at the other end of the building. “You go over there and see if you find her—her gate number wasn’t available last I checked. Call me straightaway if you do. My mobile is on, all right?”
“All right,” Fred says, nodding solemnly. “We’ll find her, Cabbage, I know we will.”
He takes off and so do I. I head for the security line that disappears into a wide hallway a little ways ahead.
A few people stare as I pass by—I know that stare, they’re recognizing me—but I don’t care. I’ve got to find Laura.
My heart falls as I scan the people waiting in the security lines. I don’t see her anywhere. I look for her long hair, probably tied up in a messy knot at the crown of her head. I look for her proud shoulders, the familiar slope of her neck. I’d recognize her anywhere.
“Please,” I murmur to myself as I look, and look, and keep looking. “Please be here. Please please please.”
Yes, I can buy a ticket and go through security myself if Laura is already at her gate. But by the time I do all that, she’ll already have boarded. I can text her now, I can try calling when she lands, but I know she’ll ignore me. It’s what I deserve.
This is my only shot. My only chance to make things right before she’s gone forever.
Then I see her.
I catch a glimpse of her face, an inch of an enormous black puffer jacket.
It’s her.
Jesus Christ, it’s Laura. She’s at the very front of the line, handing her passport over to the security people.
I start running. My knee is on fucking fire, but I keep running.
“Laura!” I shout.
She turns to face me. She’s crying.
***
Laura
Ohmigod. Oh my freaking God.
Rhys’s eyes look tired, scared, blue as ever. And hopeful. He looks at me with hope, like he’s about to ask me something.
I don’t know if that look makes me feel relieved or angry or sad. I do know I’m suddenly overwhelmed.
I start to shake. What do I do what do I do what do I say to the guy who ripped my heart out but still looks at me like that?
“Rhys,” I manage. My voice is high and tight. “What’s going on? What are you doing here?”
“I messed up,” he says.
I swallow. “No kidding,” I say.
His cheeks burn pink. “I messed up bad, Laura. I regret everything I’ve done in the past few days. I hurt you, I intentionally hurt you, I was totally selfish and totally stupid, and I wish I could take that back. But I can’t, and I’m sorry. I’m so fu—” he glances at the people around us. “I’m just really, really sorry. I don’t expect you to forgive me. It’s only what I deserve after the way I treated you. I know you’d never throw me under the bus on purpose, but I was too angry and too scared to get past that. What happened was awful, but it’s nothing we—me—I—it’s nothing I can’t work to fix. You’re my best friend, and I love you. I am in love with you.”
Beside me, the security lady lets out another sigh, this one less annoyed, a bit more swoony. The woman behind me fans herself. I glance at the people still waiting in line, worried they’ll be pissed that I’m holding them up. But everyone is watching us with naked interest. I guess everyone loves a bit of drama, especially when it includes Rhys Maddox the football star and his cute little man bun.
God, it’s cute. But that doesn’t change anything. That doesn’t change the fact that he betrayed me. The things he did and said were incredibly hurtful. How can I ever trust him after everything that happened?
I blink. “Thank you. I appreciate that. I, um. Appreciate what you’re trying to do here, Rhys. But I’ve got to go—I don’t have time—”
“Don’t.” He steps toward me. The urgency of the movement brings goose bumps to my skin. I can’t tell if they’re the good kind or the bad kind yet. “Don’t just leave like this. I’ve got a moped waiting out front—a pink one, no less!—and a thousand apologies I’d like to make to you.”
I draw back. “You drove a pink moped here?”
“I did. That tour of the city you always wanted to do—I’d like to take you. Show you around town.”
“That’s sweet,” I say. And it is. It’s very sweet. But it’s too little too late.
Rhys must know what I’m thinking, because his eyes darken with hurt.
“Please,” he says.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’m holding up the line.”
“Laura.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Be with me, love.”
I scoff. “Your lines—they’re worse than ever.”
“They’re absolute rubbish. Stay.”
“I can’t.”
He reaches for my face, tucking his shoulders, but I step back, heart bursting. If I don’t get out of here ASAP, I’m going to lose it. I need to make my flight.
I take my passport from the security agent.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Goodbye, Rhys.”
Before I can second guess myself, I turn and start winding through the maze of the security line.
“Laura,” Rhys calls after me. “Please…please don’t do this. Don’t walk away from me.”
But I keep walking. People are staring now, and I’m crying, but I keep moving. I can’t look back. There’s nothing left for me there.
***
Rhys
“Fred!” I huff into my mobile as I rush through the airport. “Fred, meet me at the ticket counter. I have to buy a ticket.”
“A ticket? To where?”
“Anywhere. Doesn’t matter. I just need to get through security. I found Laura, but she’s already heading to her gate. Hurry!”
“I’m on it. I’ll get on line and hold a spot for you, Cabbage. Take it easy on that knee.”
By now I’m practically hopping around on one leg, but I don’t care. I keep hopping. I probably look like a lunatic, and it’s only a matter of time before I scare someone enough to call the cops. Hopefully that won’t happen before I get to Laura again.
I almost collapse in relief when I see Fred at the front of the line at the ticket counter. He grimaces when I sidle up beside him.
“It’s going to be expensive,” he says. “With the holidays, almost everything is sold out.”
I look at the ticketing agent. “How expensive?”
“Very,” she says. “For one ticket, probably close to a thousand euros, depending on where you’d like to go.”
“Anything available on flight 1811 to Philly?”
Her fingers fly over the keyboard. “I’m sorry, but that flight is completely sold out.”
I dig my card out of my wallet and hand it to her. “Fine. I’ll take two tickets to any flight departing from terminal 1.”
“Two tickets?” Fred shoots me a look.
“Yeah. You’re coming with me. If only so you can carry my corpse back to Olivier’s car after Laura publicly rejects me again and I die a thousand fiery deaths. Come on, let’s go.”
The security line has somehow tripled in size since Laura made her way through it ten minutes ago. I shove what cash I have into the hands of the people waiting in line, murmuring my apologies, and then I get on my knees—literally get on my bloody knees like the desperate Romeo I am—and beg the woman checking passports to let us through. I know I’ve got her five seconds in, but she still makes me beg for a solid two minutes while she fights a smile.
I tell her, and everyone else in line, the whole sordid story. Holding my clasped hands up to her face, I finish with a tearful, “you saw how beautiful she was. How proud. I don’t deserve her, but you’ve got to let me through so I can try to make things right. Please. In the name of love, let me through!”
She lets me through. The entire area—people waiting in line, security guards, a pilot and some flight attendants waiting on the priority lane—erupts in applause. I bow my head, thanking them, and then Fred and I make a run for it.
Luckily, people let us skip them in the x-ray line, too. Even then, it feels like it takes forever. We emerge into the giant terminal, Fred glancing in one direction, then the other.
“You know what gate she’s at, right?”
I glance at the screens on the far wall. “I do. This way. Hurry!”
By now I’m sweating, breathing hard to keep up with Fred’s long stride. I’m terrified that we’re too late. I’m terrified that if we’re not too late, Laura will just walk away from me again.
What the fuck am I going to do then?
I try not to think about it as I push through the pain and the people on my way to the gate.
“What are you going to say to her?” Fred asks, trotting beside me. “How are you going to convince her not to reject you so you don’t die all those deaths?”
I shake my head. “Honestly? Haven’t got a clue. I’ll think of something. I hope.”
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 29
