17.
THE NEXT DAY, THE SECOND of November, San Diego, California, in the airport parking lot early Thursday morning, a marine layer from the harbor enveloped them, scented with car exhaust and fumes from jet engines, which whined intermittently from the other side of the airport terminal. They’d been quiet during the drive from Los Pelicanos, except for bursts of casual conversation, which punctuated an atmosphere of wariness born of fear that a departing remark might bring on the collapse of their nascent romance. She held Jay’s arm on the walk into the terminal building, her carryon held with his other hand. Then a hug and a thank you before she moved through the security checkpoint. Her blue jeans blended into a mass of other jeaned travelers, and he saw one last flash of her red sweate
