The Play

“Understood,” he says, and I can’t see his eyes underneath his Ray-bans, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume he has that same sentimental look as he did yesterday during lunch. The last thing I need is for someone to draw attention to the whole going away factor. I fucking hate goodbyes; in fact my whole life I’ve just ghosted in those situations.

It wouldn’t have been right to just leave without saying anything, but even so, we make it quick. I hug my cousins, tell them it was great to see them again, and make sure they know I mean it. I kiss the hands of Steph and Nicola, who still regard me in the same way that people look at a pit bull, untrusting and on edge, and get in the car before anyone has a chance to get sappy on me.

A few minutes later we’re pulling onto the highway that leads us back to San Francisco. The sun is shining but the mood in the car is heavy, a cloud hanging over us. We don’t talk. No music plays. Somehow the silence is comforting, something that we share.

I keep thinking about the barn. The look in her eyes as she came, the way her hands held me to her, so tight, like she couldn’t stand to let go. It undid me in a way I’m not sure I can reverse. I find myself reaching for the back of her neck, holding her there, as if that could keep her close.

She looks over at me, her eyes both sweet and sad. “I think Bram’s going to miss you,” she says. “He doesn’t have a lot of friends out here yet except for Linden.”

I nod, not wanting to talk about Bram. I want to talk about us.

“And you,” I say. “Will you miss me?”

Her brow softens, and I have the urge to kiss her forehead, to breathe her in, to bury my hands in her silky hair. I know what I want to hear from her. I know what I need to hear from her. I want her to stop the car, to stop time. I want her for just a few seconds more than I’m allowed.

“Of course I’ll miss you,” she says, and her voice is quiet, strained. It tells me the truth. That this is hard on her too. “I already miss you and you’re still here.”

I swallow thickly, knowing exactly what she means.

But what the fuck is there to say? We both knew this was coming. We knew very well. I just didn’t expect it to be so hard.

It’s fucking killing me.

I run my thumb along her neck, and I am filled with foolish thoughts, wants, desires. I don’t dare even repeat them to myself. I’m just having a hard time imagining myself next week, back in Edinburgh. Of course, rugby will sweep me away, consume me, as will the organization. But now that I’ve been consumed by her, I’m not sure it will be enough.

I open my mouth to tell her something that could make it better, but there really isn’t anything that can. So that silence falls on us again.

Until Kayla utters, “Fuck, traffic,” and I look to see the highway in front of us backed up with cars.

“We have plenty of time,” I tell her. All I have to do is get home, grab the two suitcases I packed, and leave. Emily is already in her crate, and I have a sedative to give her for the journey. Bram has an extra key to the flat and said he’d get a maid service to come by after I left.

But half an hour later, the traffic is still ensnarling us.

“Fuck,” Kayla says again, wringing her hands on the steering wheel. “Can you check again?”

I open her phone and refresh the traffic app. We’re not too far from the Bay Bridge, but the highway is showing up as a thick red line. “Still showing traffic all the way through to the city, but the delay is only supposed to be ten minutes.”

“That’s what they’ve been saying, and yet…” She shoots me an anxious glance. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’ll make the flight,” I assure her calmly. “Don’t worry. They say you have to be there three hours before an international departure, but really it’s ninety minutes. We’re good. I’m just running in, grabbing my stuff, and going.”

But time is playing a cruel trick on us. First I was cursing it—it seemed like the car ride couldn’t be long enough, that I wouldn’t get enough time with her. Now the ride threatened to never end.

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