“Glad we’re on the same page.”
I retrieve my coat and step aside to allow her to gather her bag. When she struggles briefly with the strap, I take it from her without comment and set it securely over her shoulder.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You are welcome.”
We move through the jet bridge without touching. The physical distance is intentional. Necessary.
The airport is bright and impersonal, all polished floors and overhead announcements. Snow is settling in Boston faster than reports had led us to believe. Should be an interesting spring.
We begin walking toward the exit together, carried by the current of travelers. The air grows colder near the sliding doors.
“You don’t seem like someone who does spontaneous very often,” she says.
“I do not.” Not anymore.
“And you’re not worried this will haunt you?”
I glance at her. “Will it haunt you?”
She considers that, then shrugs lightly. “No. I think I needed it.”
That answer lodges somewhere deeper than I expect.
Outside, Boston greets us with frozen March air and the scent of traffic. The curb is crowded with rideshares and impatient drivers.
“This is me,” she says, checking her phone.
“So it appears.”
We stand facing one another, the energy between us altered. Not diminished. Just refined into something quieter.
“You’re really okay with this being a one-time thing?” she asks.
“Yes.” The answer comes smoothly, but not carelessly. I am fifty-two years old. I have spent decades building a life that rests on stability. I do not complicate it without cause. “Two strangers shared a moment. A good one. And that is enough.”
It sounds clinical when spoken aloud, though I don’t intend it to.
She tilts her head slightly. “You’re very disciplined.”
“I’ve had practice.”
Her car pulls up to the curb, hazard lights blinking. For a moment, neither of us moves. She steps closer first. “I don’t regret it,” she says quietly.
“Nor do I.”
“You’re not going to pretend you do later?”
“No.”
I don’t lie to myself. That’s one of the few rules I have never broken. I reach for her then, my hand coming to rest lightly at her waist. I tilt her chin upward with my thumb and lean down to kiss her. This kiss is different from the ones on the plane. Less exploratory. More conclusive.
There is heat, yes—but also finality.
Her fingers curl briefly into the lapel of my coat. I feel the tension in her, the pull between wanting and letting go.
When I draw back, I keep my voice steady. “You will be fine,” I tell her. “Breakups are difficult, but I can tell. You’ll bounce back quickly.”