Did I Mention I Love You(150)

By: Estelle Maskame


“Dean, you know I will.” I let out a breath and give a small smile, hoping that he’ll succumb to my widening eyes. “Just try not to think about me too much.”

“You say that like it’s easy,” he says. Another sigh. But when he glances back at me, I think he might be lightening up. “Come here.”

He reaches over to cup my face in his hands, gently drawing me over the center console until his lips find mine, and soon it’s as though our argument didn’t even happen. He kisses me slowly until eventually I have to pull away.

“Are you trying to make me miss my flight?” I arch an eyebrow at him as I push open the car door, swinging my legs out.

Dean smirks. “Maybe.”

I roll my eyes and step out, throwing my backpack over one shoulder and gently shutting the door behind me. I grab my suitcase from the trunk before heading around to his window, which he rolls down for me the second I near him.

“Yes, New York City gal?”

I reach into my pocket and pull out our five-dollar bill, the exact same one we’ve been tossing back and forth to each other ever since we met. The bill is now unbelievably torn and tattered, and I’m surprised it hasn’t disintegrated. “Five bucks for the ride.”

Dean presses his lips together as he takes the bill from me, but it does little to hide the fact that he’s smiling. “You owe me a lot more than five bucks for this.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Leaning down through his window, I plant a sharp kiss on the corner of his lips and then finally turn to make my way inside the terminal. Behind me, I hear the sound of his engine starting up once more.

I haven’t been to LAX in almost two years, so part of me wishes that Dean had come inside with me, but I decide that it’s better I didn’t drag all of this out longer than need be. He would have hated watching me disappear beyond check-in. Besides, I can manage on my own. I think.

As I predicted, the terminal is incredibly busy when I get inside, even at this time. I weave my way through the flow of people until I find a clear spot to stop for a moment. Swinging my backpack off my shoulder, I rummage around inside and pull out my phone. I draw up my text messages, grab hold of my suitcase, and, as I make my way toward check-in, I begin to type.

Looks like next summer is here. See you soon.

And then I send it to the person I’ve been waiting three hundred and fifty-nine days to see.

I send it to Tyler.

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