"Hope that was a compliment," Oliver says, looking a bit sheepish.
"They've been married fifty-two years," Hadley reminds him.
He gives her a sideways glance as she reaches for her suitcase. "Thought you didn't think much of marriage."
"I don't," she says, heading toward the exit.
When he catches up to her on the walkway, neither of them says a word, but Hadley feels it anyway, bearing down on them like a freight train: the moment when they'll have to say good-bye. And for the first time in hours, she feels suddenly shy. Beside her, Oliver is craning his neck to read the signs for customs, already thinking about the next thing, already moving on. Because that's what you do on planes. You share an armrest with someone for a few hours. You exchange stories about your life, an amusing anecdote or two, maybe even a joke. You comment on the weather and remark about the terrible food. You listen to him snore. And then you say good-bye.
So why does she feel so completely unprepared for this next part?
She should be worrying about finding a taxi and making it to the church on time, seeing her dad again and meeting Charlotte. But what she's thinking about instead is Oliver, and this realization—this reluctance to let go—throws everything into sudden doubt. What if she's gotten it all wrong, these last hours? What if it isn't as she thought?
Already, everything is different. Already, Oliver feels a million miles away.
When they reach the end of the corridor they're greeted by the tail end of a long queue, where their fellow passengers stand with bags strewn at their feet, restless and grumbling. As she drops her backpack, Hadley does a mental tally of all that she packed inside, trying to remember whether she threw in a pen that could be used to capture a phone number or an e-mail address, some scrap of information about him, an insurance policy against forgetting. But she feels frozen inside of herself, trapped by her inability to say anything that won't come out sounding vaguely desperate.
Oliver yawns and stretches, his hands high and his back arched, then drops his elbow casually onto her shoulder, pretending to use her for support. But the weight of his arm feels like it just might be the thing to unbalance her, and she swallows hard before looking up at him, uncharacteristically flustered.
"Are you taking a cab?" she asks, and he shakes his head and reclaims his arm.
"Tube," he says. "It's not far from the station."
Hadley wonders whether he's talking about the church or his house, whether he's heading home to shower and change or going straight to the wedding. She hates the fact that she won't know. It feels like the last day of school, the final night at summer camp, like everything is coming to an abrupt and dizzying end.
To her surprise, he lowers his face so it's level with hers, then narrows his eyes and touches a finger lightly to her cheek.
"Eyelash," he says, rubbing his thumb to get rid of it.
"What about my wish?"
"I made it for you," he says with a smile so crooked it makes her heart dip.
Is it possible she's only known him for ten hours?
"I wished for a speedy trip through customs," he tells her. "Otherwise, you don't have a shot in hell at making this thing."
Hadley glances at the clock on the concrete wall above them and realizes he's right; it's already 10:08, less than two hours before the wedding is scheduled to begin. And here she is, stuck in customs, her hair tangled and her dress wadded up in her bag. She tries to picture herself walking down the aisle, but something about the image refuses to match up with her current state.
