Page 2 of Cuts Like an Angel: Part 2

He spun around, his body knowing what to do even if his mind had stalled. He took one stride and then slammed into the side of a woman with her kid, sending her bag flying and a whole load of coloured pencils clattering to the floor.

"Oh, shit. Shit. I'm so sorry," William shot out as he scrambled for the pencils, his face flushing, not with embarrassment, but with annoyance that the woman was there at all … in his way—delaying him.

His eyes flicked to the board as he gathered up pencils that rolled as far away as possible in every damn direction. Still said landed. Didn't say, 'Rosie fucked off and went home.'

If she even got on it at all that was. This was fate, wasn't it? The pencils? A way to stall him so he didn't look so much like an idiot when she wasn't on the plane. He wouldn't be standing there waiting for her with everyone staring. That poor man ... he got stood up.

William shoved the pencils at the woman and muttered another apology before running off and ignoring the wails of her child. What if Rosie was already there, and then he wasn't and she would think he had stood her up, then she'd get back on the plane and go home?

His trainers squealed against the polished tiled floor as he made his way through the sudden onslaught of people—all of them in his way and pushing him backwards. He wanted to scream at them and tell them to get out of his way. Was this another sign? Another don’t meet her? Let her go?

But she'd called him, every day. He had called her, too. Never once had she been off with him except when she was about to tell him she had to stay another week and then another. All the other calls had been fine. They'd been great, actually. He wondered if it was possible to fall in love with someone just by talking on the phone, because he had. Sometimes he'd fallen asleep with the sound of her sweet voice in his ear, and she had done the same, always waiting for him to wake before she went to bed herself. The eight-hour time delay wasn't so bad. She was there always when he woke, but then she had to sleep and he had the endless mornings of her absence. That was when he had seen Carly, or Maria, or both. He told Rosie about neither of them. He just didn’t want to ruin things with life. Fucking Maria with her poisonous thoughts and ideals, and then Carly ... did Rosie really need someone so messed up with life that they had to have someone to keep them sane these last few weeks? Carly was trying ... really trying. She wanted to meet Rosie. Yeah, that would be weird. Here, Rosie, meet the woman who stopped me from hacking pieces off my arms while you were away.

William dashed all the way to the barrier. From there, he could see right down the corridor where Rosie would arrive. Standing there meant that he could see once the crew came out, and she wasn't there, that she wasn't coming. He could see right when it happened.

People stood all around him. A woman waited with her child, another stood holding a plaque with a name on it.

He leaned on the barrier, drumming his fingers against it in time to some silent tune in his head. How long did it take to get her bags and come out? His eyes stung as he stared. He'd not slept all night. He'd been convinced that she would call and tell him she wasn't coming.

The first delay in her return had been because of her father. Apparently, he was waiting on some forms, and for that, they had to see a lawyer. It all seemed true and above board the way she said it, but maybe that was just him wanting to hear it? The second time she had said it would be another week. Apparently, her father had caught some virus. But what did that matter? Why did she have to stay? William hadn't pushed it because maybe it was just an excuse—a way to buy herself more time so she could find it in her heart to let him down. A Nightmare Week, Rosie had affectionately termed it, because it was a damn week more than either of them could handle. William held onto that thought. She wouldn’t have complained about it, if she wasn’t coming back.

He’d almost had a heart attack the day a letter had dropped through his letter box with the American postage stamp on it and Rosie's handwriting. It had taken him hours to work up the courage to open it, but when he had, it had been sweet words of hers—of her dreams and her wishes and night-time thoughts as he had slept. That's what she said in it. That she was sitting with her family and missing him so much. She didn't belong there. She said it herself. She didn't fit with them. God, he'd wanted to grab her up and tell her to come home.

William puffed out his cheeks and ground his teeth as he stared. There was nothing for her here in England. Most of it was just fantasies in his own head. What could he offer her that some jacked-up American man couldn't give her?

The first passenger walked out, carrying a small bag and another one over his shoulder. William tensed, his hands gripping the barrier as he stared. The passengers trickled out at first. Businessmen and women. Singles ... loved up couples. One woman came out wheeling a large bag. Her face lit up when she spotted someone in the crowd; she raced over, face beaming, heart squealing so loud he could hear it. A man pushed through the crowd to her, arms out, catching her.

William had imagined that. He'd thought about doing it. Bringing Rosie flowers, but maybe she didn't like them? Or chocolates? Or something. In the end, he had brought nothing. What was the point? She wasn’t coming, anyway.

Passenger after passenger came out. The parties getting bigger. Some of them pushing trollies laden with cases and holiday mementoes.

She wasn’t coming …

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