I really couldn’t wait until I had—said goodbye, that is. I know that sounds awful, but when it’s over and you’re hurting, you just want it to be over.

Again, I strongly recommend not breaking up while on holiday—and it was my second time in a matter of weeks. I knew there was a reason I hadn’t wanted to meet anyone in Greece.

*

“Do you have everything?” James asked. Everything about his demeanour said “acquaintance” rather than “former contender for the love of my life”.

“Yep,” I replied, just as benignly. In contrast, an ugly snake of misery was weaving its way through my gut.

We stood next to the security checkpoint, regarding each other awkwardly. I was positive I looked atrocious—like a confused, miserable woman, who’d cried a lot in the last eight hours and needed a giant mug of tea and a lie down.

We started speaking at the same time again.

“Sarah—"

“James—”

We shared a half-hearted laugh. “Please, go ahead.” Ever the gentleman, James.

“Okay. I was just going to say that you truly are a wonderful man.” His chin dropped to his chest and he sighed. I was screwing it up. Do not give him the “it’s not you, it’s me” bullshit, Sarah. “That came out wrong. Sorry. I mean, you are, but … oh, crap, I’m making a mess of this.” That made him lift his head and I was surprised to see a smile—an actual smile on his face.

“You are a lovely woman, Sarah Parsons. I am truly, truly sorry that I am not the man who gets to make you happy for the rest of your life, but I am glad I’ve known you.” Then he leant down and kissed my cheek.

A gentleman, and possibly the most perfect man in existence.

I dropped my carry-on and handbag and threw my arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. “Bye,” I whispered. “And thank you.” Then I let go, picked up my bags and turned towards the security line before I could rethink my decision, before I shoved aside everything I truly wanted and stayed with him forever. I didn’t turn back as I placed my bags on the conveyor belt and walked slowly alongside them. I went through the scanner and by the time I turned around on the other side, he was gone.

James Cartwright was gone.

Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.

I murmured it as a mantra as I walked away from security and looked for somewhere to buy a drink. I found a bar close to my gate and climbed up onto a stool.

“Hi there,” said a cheerful and an impossibly Kiwi-accented guy. I sometimes wonder if the Kiwis are taking the “puss” out of their own accents. “What can I get you?” he said, which sounded like, Whut cun Oi gat ew?

“Wine, please. Red. I don’t care what kind. And a lot. Of wine.”

Maybe it was my tone, or possibly my strange syntax, but his look changed from “cheer” to “concern” in an instant. He reached above his head to take a large wine glass from the rack, then below the counter to retrieve a bottle of red with the cork half sticking out. He pulled the cork and poured me a very generous glass of wine. He pushed it across the bar to me.