Stay Away

journeying

The 26th is a national holiday in the Netherlands, so we are used to having a day of complete laziness. It is greatly needed considering the size of both our hangovers. We found out that trying to keep up with Ida and Jakob was the worst idea ever to have sprung into our minds, and struggled to make it back to our hotel room in one piece after someone cracked open a bottle of Elephant Gin. It's safe to say that we roll out of the sheets at dinner time to get something down, only to trudge back upstairs quickly (yet not fast enough for Ida to not laugh at how affected we seem to be).

The hangover to my hangover is, thankfully, better, and so we agree that today will remain the day this holiday ends. Part of me wishes we could stay here forever; stuck in our little bubble as though nothing else really matters. Alas, Leah has football, and I have to get back home with an adequate amount of time to take World #1 hostage. "Have you managed to book a flight yet?" I ask her as I return from my morning run, having left when she was hunched over her laptop. She has stayed in the same position.

"No," is her reply; curt and annoyed, though obviously not at me. She shuts the screen with a slam that sounds expensive. "I've searched everywhere. They're either full or trying to fly me out to fucking Dubai before we even go in the direction of the UK."

"Imagine flying commercial," I tease, sitting beside her on the bed. She spreads out so that there is sufficient room for me to rest my head on her chest.

"Women's football has a long way to go," she says. I smile. People are beautiful when they are passionate about something. Well, Leah is always beautiful, but this enhances it. "You're going back to Amsterdam, aren't you? So when do you need to leave tonight?" I glance at the time, reading it off my watch that is lying on the bedside table.

"I am going from Innsbruck to Amsterdam and then from there to Singapore and then Melbourne." I feel tired just saying it out loud. I do need to get my things from Papa's house, though.

"Jaimie, darling, you're single-handedly killing the planet." I swat her stomach. "Hey! It's true. I'm just saying the truth and if you can't handle that–"

"It is not my fault," I repeat as I have done many times before. She tugs me upwards slightly, so that I am now hovering over her. Straddling her is instinctive. "If I had my way, I'd be in one place all the time. Tennis is so lonely. Makes me hate it sometimes, you know."

She nods. She understands how complicated relationships with your sport can become. Of course, only we fully get what it takes to be professional tennis players, but Leah's a footballer and that holds some similarities. "It's good that you have Juan. He's literally your best friend." We have texted a fair bit while I have been here, though I try to stay off my phone in front of Leah lest she think I am preoccupied. The whole purpose of this trip was to help her come to terms with Scarlett's death, after all. "You've got Fleur and Lize. And you have me. Me, who loves you so very much."

"You, who is getting way too comfortable," I mutter, feeling her hand slide under my jumper and up my back.

"You're so sweaty," she complains, though her hand continues on its journey. "Ugh, Jaimie, you're soaked."

I laugh. "You are not slick, babe."

"Or am I?" she challenges, raising an eyebrow. I roll my eyes, but my lips ignore my slight annoyance with an increasingly common ease. She smiles into the kiss, happy that her plan has worked. I pull away to send a message to the private plane correspondent (he is called Arthur and he constantly reminds me that this is not Uber) to arrange a plane for Leah to take back to London this evening. That is enough time for them to prepare the jet and for us to say goodbye to each other in a lot more ways than one. I do not know when I will be able to see her in person again.