Evening was falling. Tom could see it through the expansive windows of the airport. He’d been wandering the terminal for hours, checking with airline kiosks, desperate for a standby ticket to New York, or even somewhere in the general vicinity of New York. He was getting less picky as the day went on.
His feet ached; a migraine pulsed behind his eyes. There was a feeling in his chest that he’d decided was a slow-burn heart attack. And he was no closer to a flight, had nothing to show for any of these symptoms.
Although, if there really was a lifetime of this same day ahead of him, one day wasted didn’t matter.
Wasted, that is, apart from his breakfast with Hollywood royalty.
He kept turning the words of the old actor over in his mind, thinking of ways he could build the life he wanted, be the person he wanted to be.
Sitting down in a quiet corner near a dim gate where the lights overhead buzzed gently, he promised himself something: Tomorrow he wouldn’t be a coward. Because while he’d been walking between gates A through N, occasionally taking the shuttle for a change of scenery, he figured out everything he’d do differently the day of his rehearsal dinner.
Not that it mattered. If Brody and Emmeline’s relationship had been taken down by a series of persistent nudges, Tom and Megan’s had been exploded by dynamite. Bit by bit, Tom was learning to accept his new reality. But to get there, he had to get over what he’d lost.
Grief was a mercurial beast. Just when you thought numbness had settled in, a fresh wave of pain coursed through your body like fire.
He’d never hold Megs again, never spoon against her warm body while her cold toes iced his legs. Never kiss her again or slow dance with her in their SoHo apartment. He no longer had anyone to help him ditch New Year’s Eve parties.
No one to watch him cook.
So many inside jokes and silly songs were suddenly and irrevocably irrelevant.
It was miraculous how twelve years of shared memories and future plans could evaporate. How their wedding could simply cease to exist.
Although his parents had insisted on a traditional ceremony, Tom and Megs had secretly promised to write their own vows. They’d share the vows only with each other and only when they’d gotten through the weekend.
Megs, he’d planned to say once they were on their honeymoon. You and I connected over a shared taste in music, in humor. Those things seemed so important when we were eighteen. But that wasn’t what carried us through the next twelve years. It was the little things—the way you’d wolf-whistle when I cooked for you, the way I’d kiss your forehead when you had a bad day. We did these things because we wanted to make each other smile.
But it was the big things that carried us through too—the way you made me feel accepted and loved and chosen just the way I was. The way I’ve tried to make you feel adored and loved and chosen just the way you are.
I chose you the day we met, twelve years ago, in an undergrad science class designed for people with very little interest in science. I chose you again when you told me you thought the way I cried at happy endings was sexy and I told you I thought the snort that escapes whenever you laugh too hard was sexy. I kept choosing you as I discovered just how clever you were, how you could see through people instantly and how, when you looked at me, you saw someone worthy of your time. Your care. Your heart.
As he was reciting the vows in his head, he could practically see her swatting him, accusing him of being cheesy, and then wiping away tears. The vows were perfect for Megs, just as she was perfect for him.
Or as they’d once believed they were perfect for each other. He’d believed.
Now he wondered if he’d been holding her back all this time. When they moved through adulthood, becoming more settled, more entwined, he’d thought it was because they were choosing each other. But he hadn’t always given her a choice. His life had been mapped out, rigidly planned, and so she’d been the one to do all the compromising. He’d said no to London years ago and she’d stuck by his side. It was all a mess. He didn’t want Missouri or New York if it meant not having her.
Light rain pattered against the windows. With no one else around, he stretched out his legs at gate B32. Across the way, at gate B33, passengers were boarding a flight to Helena. The thought of Montana made Tom’s chest constrict so severely, he had to sit up. When he straightened, he caught sight of a familiar silhouette standing in line, preparing to board.
How had she gotten here? Was she a miracle he’d somehow conjured? When and why was she getting on that plane?
He willed her to turn around, hoping for answers.
In an instant, she did.
Tom’s eyes connected with Megan’s. She lifted her hand, clutching a boarding pass, and tapped the side of her nose twice. Their secret code that could mean a million things.
I see you.
It’s really over.
I’m leaving.
With a heaviness he thought might never lift, Tom tapped the side of his nose in reply.
I love you.
I’m sorry.
Goodbye.