The arrival at SJU - Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport - in San Juan, Puerto Rico ended with a deboarding process that felt smoother with someone like Maria beside her. The woman had talked more here and there on and off the plane, but didn't force it.
They'd even exchanged personal social media - something Renée rarely did with strangers. But there was value in connections forged in vulnerable moments… and she wanted to send a signed book to her daughter.
In a story, Renée might have written this as a moment of transformation - the kind stranger who appears just when needed. For good or bad, reality was messier than pure fiction. Moments where everything changes in a grand way are fewer and farther in between.
That didn't mean the short experience was insignificant. The engaging kindness possible through human natures was something for an author to treasure.
"Good luck with your wedding."
"Thanks. Good luck with your students when you get back from your vacation."
Maria parted ways with her at baggage claim… which was fine with Renée. She couldn't have hid behind the shorter woman anyway.
Not long after she broke away, her eyes caught the cream linen blazer hanging perfectly on a set of familiar shoulders. Her mind automatically catalogued the 'character details': shoulder-length hair styled in dark elegant waves, an unconscious authority in her posture, the way she held her phone while speaking with Simon.
[9/10. Still.]
The last thought came unbidden, and Renée pushed it aside. Ayla Bozkurt wasn't a piece of one of her settings to be analyzed. The stone feeling in her gut had passed during the long flight, but something very similar came back *very* quick.
She had imagined their first convergence would be at the resort. They would be surrounded by other guests and wedding activities. Not here in fluorescent-lit baggage claim.
With her hair disheveled from the flight. Lingering effects of her PTSD still coursing through her head, whispering a beg to find a quiet place and curl up. But then, the timing of her episodes had never been particularly cooperative.
And even before she learned tools to dull the impact and manage the fallout, she was weirdly adept at hiding it all. That 'skill' had actually given her a lot of… setback. Renée hurriedly checked her own phone, finding a message from Marcus about meeting to wait for the resort shuttle.
The writer was about to head outside in a careful hurry when she was seen. Simon reached out his hand and gestured her over. Not with a lot of animated motion, but instead like he expected her to listen.
[Well. This is happening now.]
As she took a breath and began to take advantage of the lawyer's ruthless expectation, Ayla was just standing there. Elegantly… in that way that spoke of both effort and artful carelessness. The etiquette classes she was put through by her family when she was young had made her 'professional' even before they had met.
She was speaking about something with Simon. Her expression was composed and professional as usual in public as she examined something he was showing her on his phone. The man noticed her close approach first and acknowledged her so the other party would.
"Ms. Laurent."
The formality drew Ayla's attention. Her posture shifted noticeably… like something tense and something loose was tugging at her. Subtle, but unmistakable to someone who had once known her for years. The woman's expression remained exceptionally cool, though her hand moved to adjust her blazer's lapel.
It was all a tell of her nervousness. Renée remembered that easily enough. It would be more devastating to have seen her completely unmoved - but other than that… the author chose not to think or hope too deeply.
"Hello, Simon. I didn't realize you'd arranged your private transportation."
Renée nodded to him first and answered the greeting. Then immediately tried to engage him in conversation to put off having to be the first one to say anything to the person whom she 'absolutely did not come to the island to hope for'.
"The island shuttle timing was inconvenient. I'd like to be settled as soon as possible so I can handle some work. Ms. Bozkurt was kind enough to assist."
His tone was polite but distant. Just like when he obliquely informed that young man in their group of her sexuality. His indirectness back there while being direct about himself in his speaking wasn't something she hated.
But he also wasn't exactly her friend, so she chose not to pry about his work. That left turning to the other person standing there. Renée was surprised how easy it felt to do. Ayla's amber colored eyes met her set of green-hazel.
For a moment, the airport noise almost faded to a distant hum as nostalgia and tension overwhelmed them both.
"Hello, Renée."
"Ayla."
Her name felt both foreign and familiar on Renée's tongue. She used to say it all the time like it was the best set of two syllables there was… but had spoken it a minimal number of times since they broke up.
[Since I broke us up.]
"You look well."
"Thank you."
The woman's gaze flickered briefly to Renée's new tousled pixie cut before pulling out her phone. Whatever observation she made about the haircut went unvoiced. The author found herself regretting a decision at the salon.
[I knew I should have had them dye it something other than the usual ash green.]
Their group fell into an awkward triangle, with Simon acting as a passable buffer. The walk through the terminal was filled with silences punctuated by the man's occasional comments about island weather. Forced small talk about much of nothing.
The moments of his voice catching their attention created opportunities that allowed stolen glances without the pressure of direct conversation. Both women had enough they could say to fill hours of time, but both also had their reasons to refrain.
Except when he told her she should ride with them and she nodded again without thinking.
"I mean, if it's too-"
"That's okay with me."
Her ex girlfriend interrupted to assure her and the quiet returned. At the parking area, Ayla's sleek rental car waited. Simon claimed the back seat without a word… like a man well used to being chauffeured. It left Renée to take the passenger side.
As she settled in, she caught a deeper whiff of the woman's familiar perfume - something citrus and expensive. The scent dug into the author, making her head buzz with words and scenes. Her eyes closed and her head tilted into the closed window as the car started.
[Don't be conceited.]
Renée did not want to think about it. That Ayla had worn a different scent when they first met, but started wearing citrus tones… for her.