The flight left on Christmas Eve.
The airport carried the particular atmosphere that only airports had during the holidays, a mixture of urgency and tenderness, people carrying wrapped gifts instead of briefcases, children asleep across suitcases, grandparents waiting near arrival boards with flowers in their hands.
Lena had always found airports strangely hopeful.
Everyone was on their way to someone.
Damien walked beside her through the terminal with one hand wrapped around the handle of her suitcase.
"You know," she said, "I can carry that."
"I know."
"You've carried it since the taxi."
"I know."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
She smiled.
"You've become impossible."
"I've always been impossible."
"Fair."
They reached security.
The place where journeys briefly separated b
