“Chloe.”
“Yes.”
“Look at me.”
She forced her eyelids open and tried to ignore the lurch of her heart as their eyes met. Everything she felt right now only emphasized how much work she still needed to do on herself and how important it was for her to go. Twelve months of effortlessly flitting from place to place had lulled her into a false sense of security about her emotional independence. In truth, none of the other places, and none of the other people, had tested her resolve the way this man did. And she’d failed the test, spectacularly.
“Wait for me. We’ll talk—on the way to the airport if necessary,” he added when she started to interrupt. “After I’ve said everything I have to say, if you’re still determined to leave, I’ll make sure you catch your flight.”
“Michael—”
He kissed her once, hard, as if the move could cut off any argument, and then stepped away. “Wait for me. I mean it.”
And then he was gone.
…
Steering a five thousand horsepower helicopter through a half-dozen flawless Pinnacle maneuvers normally boosted Michael’s mood like nothing else on Earth. The training exercises had gone like clockwork. They should have left him happily exhausted and ready to sleep for the next twelve hours. But not today.
He drove off base so keyed up he could barely sit still. His fingers tapped an impatient cadence on the steering wheel and his right foot itched to press the gas pedal all the way to the floor.
All day while he’d been trying to focus on the tasks at hand—small matters like keeping a few tons of metal and rotating blades in the air—visions of Chloe kept invading his mind. He pictur
ed her packing her belongings into her huge duffel bags, methodically removing every last trace of herself from the space. When that wasn’t torturous enough, his overactive imagination took things a step further. He envisioned her wheeling her big, pink bags out his door, down the steps one awkward bounce at a time, and into the trunk of a waiting cab. In his mind’s eye, he watched her climb into the back seat of the cab, shut the door, and roll right out of his life. Except it didn’t feel like a figment of his imagination. It felt like a premonition.
The drive to San Clemente unfurled in slow motion, glacially slow despite, or because of, his escalating certainty that if he didn’t get home now, he’d be too late. Finally he swerved into his spot at Casa Clemente, cringing as he stomped on the brakes to avoid slamming his front end into the wall. Seconds later he scrambled out of the Jeep and ran up the stairs.
He was still running when he hit the door, and cursed when he found it locked. Not Chloe’s MO. If she was home, she left the door unlocked.
A fatalistic calm seeped into him. He unlocked the door and swung it open. “Chloe?”
Silence greeted him. His eyes swept the kitchen and dining area. No sign of her. The living area looked as clear and pristine as the day he’d moved in, and completely uninhabitable without the colorful assortment of jewelry, pillows, candles, and cosmetics he’d come to expect.
He continued down the hall. The bathroom counter gleamed. The guest room looked like an Ikea ad rather than a Barbie baggage claim.
In the master bedroom, a folded, white, piece of paper sat on his nightstand, with a small, shiny object on top. The ring. He pocketed it with barely a glance, because he couldn’t pull his attention from the note. He flipped it open.
Michael,
I didn’t wait. I’m sorry. My flight leaves at six, not seven. I fibbed because…well…for all my bouncing around, I’m lousy at good-byes.
Shit. She was gone. Subconsciously, he’d known she would be, but seeing the words in writing drove it home. The realization struck him like a knuckle blow to the gut. He sagged back against the wall. Then his legs said what the fuck, and he slid down to the floor. He ran a hand over his gritty eyes, blinked, and refocused on the letter.
Thank you seems so insufficient, but thank you, for…everything. I wish we’d met under different circumstances, when I wasn’t hauling around quite so much baggage (literally!), and in constant need of rescue. You’re unbelievably good at it, but I’m really sorry rescuing me meant you had to lie.
If you ever find yourself in need of rescue, I hope you’ll reach out. Lynne at Helping Hands always knows how to get a hold of me.
Take care of yourself.
Love,
Chloe
P.S.- You were the best fiancé I ever had.
Fuck. He crumpled the letter and let it drop. It rolled under the bed, bounced off something, and rolled back out to rest by the toe of his boot. Curiosity got the better of him. He lowered his head to the floor and peered under the bed. One of her high heels lay on its side. He pulled it out. One of her lucky shoes.
A simple oversight or a sign from fate? Turned out he really didn’t care. If the lucky shoe worked on traffic, he could make it to John Wayne in thirty minutes. He could catch her.