Late Valentine Ch. 03

Do I hate goodbyes? I've never said it, nor even thought it, so clearly before now. My sister's updates on Lorna's latest antics buzz at the edge of my thoughts like an irritant, along with disordered memories of her depositing me at the steps of my boarding school, together with my trunk of clothes and books, and not much in the way of good memories from the holidays.

I sink lower into my seat, fiddling with the paper drinks mat; it's rigid, compressed edges and soft middle.

'Can I get you another drink?'

I blink. The steward is pretty. Blonde and blue-eyed with a sweet mouth.

'Um, I thought we were flying into turbulence?'

She smiles. 'Not so much we have to stop serving. What can I get you?'

I send her on her way with a request for orange juice and turn back to stare at nothing, my mind full of Elizabeth, flicking through images of her brown eyes as she'd divulged more about her pregnancy and miscarriage over cooling French toast, clutching her frayed University of Chicago sweatshirt around herself until I'd thought it might snap. I'd scooped her up and taken her back to bed without thinking much more beyond wanting to surround her with warmth and comfort, letting the morning hours slide by in favour of listening to her.

Memories tumble over each other without order, juxtaposing the tightening of her fingers over my hand as we'd listened to the tour guide telling tales about the disreputable founder of the Loop, with the earthy sounds of her laugh as we'd sat at Seth and Antonio's dining table. Her nervousness on our first afternoon. My surprise on hearing her play the piano, and so well. The soft kiss of her thighs against my sides.

That. And again, that.

I move around in my seat, oddly grateful for the back pain that's sharp enough to crush my inbuilt physical response to memories of her body holding me so wonderfully. Not to mention her brain. Because, thank god, the weekend has proven one thing -- that London was not an illusion but was something far more scary. Reality. And a reality that's about to move over to London within a few short months.

'Your orange juice, Mr Montague,' the steward leans over just enough to place the glass on a fresh mat in front of me.

'Thank you.'

'Your trip to Chicago was for business or pleasure?'

'Visiting a friend.' I pause before clarifying, 'All pleasure,' and she tips her head, professional smile perfectly in place, before moving away in a muted swish of nylons.

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