Priory // h.s.

chapter forty-five

"'Okay, so you said your flight arrives in thirty minutes?"

"Yep," Harry's cheerful voice confirms on the phone. "Don't get lost on your way to the airport."

"Ha-ha," I say dryly, trying to drive one-handed as I press my cell to my ear. Hopefully there aren't any police lurking nearby; the last thing I need is to get pulled over. Especially considering I'm using Jillian's car, since I don't have one here, and I obviously can't borrow Harry's. "You should talk; you shouldn't even be on your stupid cellphone while on the plane."

"Irrelevant."

I roll my eyes. "Okay. I'll meet you by the gate."

"Sounds good," he says.

Once the call ends, I return both hands to the steering wheel, pulling onto the exit that leads to the airport complex. Stepping out of my car, I weave my way through the parking lot and duck into the busy terminal, searching for Harry's flight number among the various disembarking gates that line the walls.

Admittedly, this process could be a lot easier if Harry'd been humble enough to ride home on Gerald's jet. But being the stubborn arse he is, the curly-haired lad insisted on flying commercially; I guess he thought he already accepted enough favors from his estranged brother.

Which leaves me wandering a crowded airport terminal, getting lost about four times before finally locating the right waiting area.

Before stepping over to the exit ramp, I sneak a quick peek at my reflection in one of the decorative mirrors pinned on the wall of the airport. My chestnut hair hangs in tousled waves around my shoulders, framing my face in a way that makes my blue eyes look bigger. I'm only wearing a tank-top and a pair of jean shorts, but at least I don't look like I just rolled out of bed. 

Shaking my head, I wonder why it even matters to me what I look like. Harry's seen me in my God damn Winnie the Pooh pajamas, for Pete's sake.

Not giving myself the chance to overanalyze things anymore, I dart past the velvet ropes that fence off the waiting area, entering the Arrivals section. A preliminary scan of the room doesn't reveal much: a haggard looking mother clutching two wailing children, a man in a business suit barking orders into his smartphone, and an elderly couple arguing loudly with the gate attendant about whether or not they're expected to fetch their luggage themselves.

It's only the second time I glance around that I see him.

He's standing in a corner of the room, small suitcase in hand. Our eyes lock, and he gives me a lopsided, weary smile.

Within seconds, I run across the room and fling myself into his arms.

It's no cliche "Dear John" reunion; after all, it's only been two days since we last saw each other, and I know he's worn out from everything he's been through. He doesn't pick me up or spin me around or pull me in for a passionate kiss. Still, as he lays his hand on my back and buries his face in my hair, murmuring my name in soft tones and flooding my senses with an electric sense of heat, I can't imagine anything better.

We exit the airport quickly, walking along in amiable silence. Out in the evening sunlight, I can sneak a closer glimpse at him. Despite the tuckered-out slowness to his steps, there seems to be a weight off of his shoulders. His green eyes are light and sparkle when the sunset's rays catch them, and he tosses his curls carelessly with his fingers, surrendering them to be rumpled by the breeze.

"I'm so glad about your mom," I blurt, out of lack of anything else to say.

He chortles at my awkwardness. "I am too." Scuffing his strange-shaped boots on the ground, he says, "Thanks for coming to pick me up."