I kiss the English boy goodbye with dry eyes for the first time, and I know it’s because for the first time, I actually believe that I’ll see him again.
We’re thinking November, but I’m crossing my fingers for the unlikely July.
I hitch a ride with his best friend to the bus stop an hour away, where I wait an hour and a half for the four hour bus to London. I’ve given myself a half hour transfer before my two hour bus to Brighton, which turns out to be more than enough time because it’s delayed. It takes me over ten hours to travel 200 miles as the crow flies.
I’m tired of travel—exhausted, really. The hurry-up-and-wait at check ins, the long layovers and uncomfortable bus seats, the worrying and prebooking and getting-to-know-you conversations and the awful feeling of goodbyes that are possibly forever.