Page 119 of Unspoken Words
“See? You agree.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, and we began walking toward the terminal.
“No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do. You’re just too stubborn and scared to admit that Moron is not our type.”
“Ourtype?” I spat out my laugh like a cat would a hairball.
“Yep. The type that fits in withus.The type that doesn’t change who we are to suit them andtheirneeds. The type that makes us happy without even trying.”
“And who is that type, Chris?” We stopped at the terminal doors, stepping aside for hurried commuters and their wayward suitcases. “Actually, don’t answer that.”
“I don’t need to answer because you already know. The fact that you’re you again after being back here only a few weeks is proof enough.”
Sighing, I fixed the collar on his polo shirt and gave him a hug. “Good luck on Saturday. Smash those Adelaide Crows.”
“It will be murder,” he murmured into my hair.
I laughed. He was an idiot, albeit a smart one.
“Elliephant, you and Connor are a toasted marshmallow. You’re best when held over a flame even if it means you’ll get burnt.”
I stepped back and stared at him, shocked. “Did you just come up with your own analogy?”
“No. I just speak the truth. Always.”
“You do not.”
“I do, which is why you should turn around and leave before Moron’s plane lands.”
“Chris,” I warned, my voice akin to a growling dog.
“Fine. Fine.” He raised his arms and started walking backwards toward his check-in counter. “Just promise me you’ll keep an eye on Mum and Dad this weekend.”
“Why?”
“Because they might be prone to chewing off their own heads too.”
I coughed, “Arsehole.”
He coughed, “Moron.”
And we both went our separate ways.
*
Stretching on my tip-toes,I spotted Byron’s blond, side-swept hair bob up and down as he weaved through fellow passengers exiting the plane at the arrival gate. His deep-brown eyes locked onto to mine, so I waved and bounced on the spot, smiling. Byron smiled, too, but then his smile faltered just slightly as he scanned my face and body with more precision than the security checkpoint magnetometer.
“Hi, stranger.” I leapt toward him and wrapped my arms around his neck, hugging him tight.
“I’m a stranger already?”
He let go of his carry-on suitcase handle and lifted me from the ground. I breathed him in, seeking a sense of home, a sense of belonging, a sense of something. But it wasn’t there, or maybe I just wasn’t trying hard enough.
“I’ve missed you so much,” I said, gripping tighter, hoping I’d somehow squeeze it out of him.
Truth be told, I hadn’t really missed him at all. I mean, of course I’d missed him, just not as much as one should miss their boyfriend after being apart for over a month. Perhaps it was because I’d been so preoccupied with the album and not because of the alternative: that I really didn’t love him.
That very notion festered in the pit of my stomach, gurgling with unease.
