My stomach flops as the wheels touch down with a soft bounce, and after a long taxi, we pull up to a jetway. People around me gather their carry-ons and purses and laptops; I have nothing but my purse. I stink of sex and sweat. My hair is in a messy bun, which I did in the airplane bathroom an hour before landing, having realized I looked exactly like I was running from someone, with my mussed and unbrushed hair. I stink of Dawson. I reek of his musk, his essence, his touch. I sense him all around me, in me. Which is nonsense, but I can’t shake the feeling. I shuffle along the aisle to the jetway along with the other travelers, and I hate myself with every step. Dawson loved me, and I ran from him. I left him in the gray hours of dawn, and I’m running back to the one place I swore I’d never return. I can just imagine his heartbroken expression when he wakes up, about now, maybe, reaching for me, hunting for me in that palatial monstrosity of a house, and not finding me. I didn’t even leave a note. I follow the crowd out into the airport, and the noise of chatter and bustle washes over me.
