Page 82 of Sometimes You Stay

As flights went, her trip to London was the worst Cretia had ever experienced. It wasn’t that it was so terribly long. The ones to Australia had taken more than twice the time. It wasn’t even that she had a bad seatmate. Her frequent flier status had added up to pretty consistent first-class upgrades. On this flight, the window seat beside her had been taken by a petite woman in a button-down blouse and crepe skirt. She’d refused a drink from the flight attendant, pulled a sleeping mask from her carry-on, and promptly fallen asleep.

On any other plane, Cretia would have thanked God for the peace. But this particular plane had absolutely nothing that could hold her attention.

Of course, it had all of the usual gadgets—a screen on the back of the seat in front of her stocked with every B-list movie from the previous five years, endless channels of music, and even old-school magazines in the seat pocket.

When she’d first started traveling, those magazines had been her inspiration. They offered clues and suggestions for countries she’d never even heard of. She’d scribbled downtheir names and looked them up later. Articles in those magazines made her curious if the street tacos in Madrid could truly rival the best Michelin-star restaurants or if cliff diving was as wonderfully freeing as it looked.

They did and it was.

But there wasn’t a single thing on this flight from Toronto to Heathrow that could distract her from the pain in the pit of her stomach. It wasn’t hunger—though she hadn’t eaten in almost a day. It wasn’t physical either—though every joint in her body screamed for relief.

It was all in her head.

Or, more accurately, in her heart.

That left her to shift from side to side, trying to find a comfortable position for sleep. But even with her eyes closed, a pillow under her head, and a blanket tucked beneath her chin, all she could see was the pain in Finn’s eyes right before he’d kissed her cheek and she’d walked away.

Worst. Flight. Ever.

The sun was already fighting its way through the London clouds when they landed. Her phone said it was 6:32 on a Saturday morning. Her heart said it might as well be noon on a Thursday.

Somewhere in the critical-thinking part of her brain, she knew she should capture some content of the morning in the historic city. But as she dragged her carry-on off the plane and through customs, only one thing kept her feet moving—the hope of a cozy bed and dreamless sleep.

Outside the terminal, she hailed one of the city’s famous black cabs and crawled into the back.

“Where to, miss?”

“Leonardo Royal—” She stumbled on the words, hertongue as sluggish as the rest of her. “The hotel by St. Paul’s?” She’d almost skipped making a reservation during her layover in Toronto, but now she wanted to hug her past self. Present Cretia could barely sit upright, let alone find a room for the night.

“Of course. I know it well.” Her driver’s accent was thick but friendly, and he smiled at her as he pulled away from the curb and into traffic on the wrong side of the road. “Is this your first time in London?”

“No.” Just the first time she desperately wanted to be elsewhere. Her previous three trips had been packed with exploring the history and architecture and culture of vibrant London. This trip was an escape—the first flight she could get. Far enough away that she wouldn’t be tempted to go right back to the island. Right back to Finn.

Squeezing her eyes shut only released a few tears, and she knuckled them away, telling herself that she was just tired and that the reflection of the sun off the other cars bothered her eyes. Whatever lie she had to tell herself to get through the day. The next few days.

The bed in her room at the Leonardo Royal was everything she’d hoped it would be. Soft and cozy. Warm and soothing. Except for the location. About three thousand miles west would be better. Under the roof of the Red Door Inn.

Slamming a pillow over her face, she screamed into it. It wasn’t fair. She wasn’t supposed to meet someone soright. Someone so good and kind and perfect for her. Someone who made her wish her life could be different.

She’d been thoroughly satisfied—more than content—right up until Finn Chaffey had scooped her up on that boardwalk and carried her to safety.

The tears came in earnest then. Tears of anger and pain, denial and grief. She didn’t bother trying to stem their flow, just letting them come. Great big, silent tears that leaked out of the corners of her eyes and pooled on the white Egyptian cotton pillowcase.

Cretia awoke with a start. The room was pitch-black, but she immediately knew it wasn’therroom, the one at the Red Door anyway. She blinked against the darkness, her eyelids clearly lined with sandpaper. Pressing her hands to her eyes, she tried to make them tear up, but nothing came. Apparently, the crying jag before she’d fallen asleep had dried up all of her reserves.

Forcing herself to roll out of bed, she stumbled toward the bathroom, nearly losing a toe to the leg of the bed in the process. Pain shot across her foot, and she shoved her fist to her mouth to keep from terrifying the guests in the room next door. Flicking on the light, she shrank from its brilliance, then turned from the hideous reflection in the mirror. Eyes swollen and red, hair a disaster, face puffy, cheeks splotchy. Every bit was the worst version of herself.

At least her outsides matched her insides.

With a sigh, she turned on the exquisitely scrolled silver faucet, filled up the white marble sink, and splashed cold water on her face. When she looked up again, the mirror still showed the very worst version of herself, only wet.

She had two choices. Wallow or do her job.

The first was pointless. Especially since all of this was the result of a choice she’d already made. Leaving had been the right choice. Even if it hurt for a little while. Or a long while.

She had a feeling that she’d think of Finn years from now and remember what might have been. By then the sharp edges would be softer, the pain replaced only by fond memories.

For now, she needed a distraction.

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