Ten Years

Chapter Eleven

Looking at her reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror, Leïla winced at the exhaustion that was written all over her face. She massaged the space between her brows with her fingertips, brushed her teeth and applied a cherry Labello on her dry lips.

She sat down on the closed toilet seat clutching her tote bag and stared at her Converse. Her mind raced like wildfire. Just the night before, she had cried and cursed her luck, her ex, and all men on earth. He was a twat, as her English seatmate had called him—her terribly English, tall, charming seatmate. Warmth spread through her chest. He had almost kissed her back then. A part of her wished he had done it, but the other part was relieved he had not. They had just met, and although everything felt perfect, nothing was. They were going their separate ways in less than an hour, never to meet again. She didn't even know his name, for goodness' sake.

A knot formed in her stomach. For the first time in a long time, Leïla had no plan on how to move forward. She didn't even want to move forward. She wouldn't mind staying suspended in this bubble of theirs for as long as it took to form a plan, something that would allow her to see him again, to hold his hand and maybe feel the touch of his lips. She imagined his kiss like bubbles in vintage champagne. Not that she knew how they tasted—she didn't drink alcohol—but she was sure it was soft and delicate and tingly.

The double chime and flash of the seat belt sign crushed her ridiculous reverie. She shook her head and stood up. Of course there was no chance for any of this to happen. She fluffed out her mangled curls and exited the bathroom.

Leïla arrived at her row as the captain announced their final descent and requested all passengers to return to their seats and fasten their seatbelts. Edward looked up and gave her a smile that extended from his lips to his eyes and stretched her heart. He stood up, and as she passed in front of him to her seat, his hand briefly touched her back, its warmth seeping into her being.

Savouring the sensation that spread through her, she let out a sigh only she could hear.. She sat down and fastened her seat belt. She couldn't look at him, not yet. Instead, her attention fixated on the fog outside pressing against the window. The buildings become bigger and bigger, and so did the knot in the pit of her stomach.

There was a growing sense of sadness and longing as the plane rushed to meet the ground—the sadness and longing for something that ended before it even begun. The could-haves and would-haves and what-ifs danced in her head as the city shapes danced on the ground. The unexpected view of the Golden Gate Bridge she ever only had seen on a screen did nothing to appease her.

Edward leaned into her. "We're almost there," he said, the deep timbre of his voice settling in her stomach.

She turned her head and found his gaze focused so intently on her. His eyes, the colour of grass after rain, mirrored the sadness and longing that squeezed her heart. Her fingers itched to touch his face, to slide over the reddish stubble on his square jaw. She wanted to feel the feather touch of his eyelashes on her cheeks, and the soft touch of his lips on her own. Her hand reached for his and held it tight, as if to anchor them there, together, and then her eyes drifted back to the window to witness the moment the wheels kissed the ground, the heavy-lead reality crushing her dreams.

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I'm not ready to leave, said Edward to himself as their fellow passengers flooded the aisle, stretching and peering up the overhead consoles to collect their luggage. He heard Leïla sigh. "Do we really need to leave?" she said echoing his thoughts.

"I'm afraid we have to." He let out a breath and stood up, squeezing himself into the overstuffed aisle. He pulled down Leïla's backpack and his carry-on. She thanked him and made a motion to carry her bag, but he hauled it onto his back.