Page 586 of One More Kiss

Chapter11

Scarlett

What am I doing?I make it all the way to my train platform when I realize I’ve made a mistake. I turn and begin running back toward where he was. I search through the crowds. I climb up on a bench and peek over people’s heads. But he’s not there.

I sigh and sit down on the bench. I fucked up. Maybe there is a way we could be together? Maybe it would work? Maybe we could have a chance?

I feel a tear trickle down my cheek, and I wipe it away. Standing up, I grab my suitcase and slowly begin to make my way back to my platform. I stand there waiting for the train and letting myself grieve this perfect man that I let get away.

“Are you OK, dear?” an old woman asks.

I turn to her. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.

She pats my arm. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll work out,” she says as the train pulls up and we step inside.

I sit down and spend the entire way to my hotel trying to find Rexton online. I search social media. I search for mechanic shops near me. I try to remember the name of the town he said he was from, but instead, try searching the nearest city. Is this man a ghost? I can’t find him anywhere online.

By the time I get to my hotel room, I feel deflated. I put my phone away and decide to go walk around London. I can’t fixate on the past. I try to tell myself this all the time. It’s one of the hardest things to do. I force myself to take a step and then another until I’m standing in front of Buckingham Palace. I look at the guards and the passersby. I continue walking toward the Palace of Westminster and Westminster Cathedral. I meander side streets and finally settle at a pub where I have a meal. My hand twitches to grab my phone and continue my search for Rexton, but instead, I keep my focus on the other patrons. Tomorrow, I have all day to explore with my friends before catching a flight home the next day.

I allow myself access to my phone to chart out where I’ll visit. The activity dulls the ache in my chest which I hope will get a little less each passing day until someday, maybe weeks or even months from now, I can simply look back fondly at my short time with Rexton without feeling sadness and regret.

* * *

After a full dayof sightseeing with some old friends, my bags are packed and I’m on my way to the airport. I feel a little better, but no less bummed. My two college friends spent all day trying to cheer me up with food and alcohol. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve made a horrible mistake. I have contemplated hiring a personal investigator no less than four times over the last twenty-four hours. I even looked for his sister, but no accounts are under Ginger Crawley. I decide to wait until I get home and get back to work before I make any rash decisions.

The train rolls to a stop and I get out and haul my bags to the check-in counter. I tap my foot as I wait. I hate the end of trips. I wish I could magically click my heels together three times and be back home.

I get to the counter and plop my bag on the ground next to me as I hand the agent my passport.

“Oh…” she says. My eyes dart to hers. What does that mean?

“Uh, is everything OK?” I ask.

“Well…there’s a bit of an issue. We’ve overbooked the flight,” she explains.

I am three seconds away from a total intergalactic meltdown. What the hell is wrong with the transportation here?

“Hmmm…” she murmurs as her fingers fly across the keyboard making a clickity-clack sound with each stroke. “I…” She looks around and back at me. “I’m not supposed to do this,” she whispers in a hushed voice, “But I just upgraded you to first class. You look like you could use a stiff drink.”

My eyes widen as I look down at myself. Do I look that bad?

“Here you go. Enjoy,” she says as she hands me my boarding pass.

“Th-thank you,” I manage to stutter before stepping away.

The security line is no better than the check-in line, and by the time I get to my gate, the plane is already boarding. Ugh. I rush to join the line after quickly using the restroom. I look in the mirror and grimace. My eyes look like…well, it’s fairly obvious I’ve spent way too much time crying the past few days.

I turn on the tap and bring water to my face. After a minute, I give up and head back to board the plane. Perhaps if I can just sleep on the flight, I’ll feel better once I land. I glance at my ticket as I hand it to the agent at the gate. The first-class part of this does make me feel an infinitesimal better.

“Have a nice flight, Ms. Haverford,” she says as she hands me back the piece of paper.

I nod and walk down the corridor to the plane. I stare up at the numbers. Seat 9 B. I count them as I walk. I feel flustered as I’m one of the last people on board. I note a person sitting in the seat next to me but decide to focus on getting my bag in the overhead before saying hello to my seatmate for the next ten hours.

I grab the handle of my bag and begin to lift it. It’s heavy and I struggle to get it into the compartment. Great. Now I look like one of those people who brings a bag that’s clearly too large to fit.

“Allow me…” a voice says, and before I can process it, he adds, “Scarlett.”

It’s when he says my name that I freeze and glance up at the man who’s just stood up to assist me from the seat next to mine.

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