Chapter 2 — Grounded in Iceland
Liam
The airport café was dimly lit, its fluorescent lights casting a faint hum over mismatched tables and chairs. The air carried a blend of stale coffee, damp wool, and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine, mingling with the sharp scent of the cold wind that seeped in every time the door opened. Outside, gusts of icy wind rattled the windows, and snow swirled in soft, unhurried waves, draping the runway in a hushed stillness. Liam Harrington sat at a corner table, his sketchbook open in front of him. His pencil hovered above the page, but the lines refused to form. The emptiness of the paper stared back at him like a silent accusation, amplifying the doubt that had taken root in him long ago.
He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing out at the snow-covered tarmac. The storm outside mirrored the one brewing within, a storm that had been building long before he stepped onto that red-eye flight. He glanced down at the faint outlines of a street scene he’d started sketching days ago, but the details blurred, his focus faltering.
A flicker of movement near the café’s entrance caught his eye. He looked up just as Amelia Carter stepped inside. Her tailored blazer was rumpled, her sleek ponytail slightly loosened, but she still carried herself with the composed authority that had always drawn people to her. Her hazel eyes, as sharp as ever, scanned the room with brisk efficiency, pausing when they found him. For a moment, her expression faltered—just a flicker, gone before it could settle. Liam quickly dropped his gaze, pretending to adjust the corner of his sketchbook. His pencil remained still.
He could sense her hesitation, the weight of it pressing through the air between them. Her measured steps slowed before she approached his table, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked, her tone clipped, businesslike. If there was any trace of the turbulence that had tossed them here—or the years that had come before—it didn’t show.
“No,” he replied, keeping his voice neutral. “Go ahead.”
She slid into the chair across from him, setting down a steaming paper cup of tea. Her movements were precise as she adjusted the lid, her fingers brushing the sleeve of her blazer as if smoothing an invisible wrinkle. He watched her covertly, noticing how those hands—hands he’d once memorized—had become strangers’ hands. Hands that now moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who couldn’t afford to falter.
The silence between them was thick, broken only by the muted clatter of dishes and the low murmur of other stranded passengers. Liam’s pencil lightly tapped the edge of his sketchbook, an unconscious rhythm that echoed the tension in his chest.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Amelia said finally, her voice carefully controlled, her gaze fixed on the table.
Liam glanced up, meeting her eyes for a fleeting moment before looking back down. “You weren’t expecting to see me on the plane either, but here we are.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and he regretted the remark the moment it left his mouth. The defensiveness wasn’t fair—not to her, not to himself. None of this was her fault: not the emergency landing, not the awkward proximity fate seemed intent on forcing upon them. He sighed, softening his tone. “Long night. For everyone.”
She nodded but didn’t reply, her face unreadable. Liam studied her as she took a deliberate sip of her tea, the faint scent of bergamot curling through the air. Unbidden, a memory surfaced: lazy Sunday mornings, the scent of Earl Grey mingling with her laughter in their tiny kitchen. The ache of it settled low in his chest.
“You still drink Earl Grey,” he said, more to fill the silence than anything else.
She glanced at him, startled, before recovering. “And you still notice details like that.”
He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, his pencil tapping again. “Some things stick with you, I guess.”
Her gaze lingered on him, as if weighing his words, before dropping back to her tea. Another silence stretched between them, taut and uneasy. Liam’s fingers brushed the edge of his sketchbook, and for a brief moment, he considered closing it, hiding it. Instead, he asked, “Work?”
“Always,” she replied briskly, her eyes not lifting from the cup in her hands.
“You don’t have to, you know,” he said quietly. “It’s not like anything’s going to move forward until we’re out of here.”
Her head snapped up, her hazel eyes narrowing. “I don’t have the luxury of waiting, Liam. Deadlines don’t shift just because flights do.”
The edge in her voice cut deeper than he expected. He held up his hands in surrender, the pencil still pinched between his fingers. “Fair enough. I wasn’t trying to—”
“To what?” she interrupted, her tone sharp now. “Lecture me? Offer advice? Because I don’t need it.”
The words hung in the air, sharp and final. Liam looked down, his grip tightening on the pencil. “I wasn’t trying to lecture you,” he said softly. “I was just making conversation.”
She exhaled, her shoulders stiffening. “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “I’m just… tired.”
He nodded, though he knew her fatigue ran deeper than sleeplessness. It mirrored his own—the kind of exhaustion that came from carrying too much for too long. “I get it,” he said after a pause. “It’s been a long time.”
Her eyes flicked back to his, searching his face for something he couldn’t name. “Yes,” she said finally. “It has.”
The acknowledgment lingered between them, fragile and tentative. Liam hesitated, then closed his sketchbook, resting his hand on the worn leather cover. The movement drew her attention, her gaze shifting to it.
“I never stopped painting, you know,” he said, surprising himself with the admission. His voice was low, tentative, as if saying the words aloud might break something fragile.
Amelia’s brow furrowed. “Really? I… I thought you gave it up.”
“I did,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “For a while. But I found my way back to it.”
She studied him, her expression inscrutable. “That’s good,” she said at last. “You were always talented.”
Her words were polite, almost perfunctory, but the flicker in her eyes betrayed something deeper—something he couldn’t quite grasp. Before he could respond, the café door swung open, letting in a gust of icy air and a group of passengers returning from the information desk. One of them bumped into their table, jostling his sketchbook. It slid open, the pages fanning out to reveal a half-finished portrait of Amelia.
She froze. Her breath caught audibly, her hand hovering just above the page. Slowly, as if drawn by an invisible thread, her fingers grazed the edge of the paper.
“Is that…?” she began, her voice barely audible.
“Yeah,” Liam said, his throat suddenly dry.
Her hand trembled slightly before retreating to her lap. Her gaze remained on the sketch, her expression softening in a way he hadn’t seen in years. “You’ve been drawing me?” she asked, her voice tinged with something he couldn’t decipher.
He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling exposed. “I didn’t plan to. It just… happened.”
Amelia’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Her hazel eyes traced the lines of the portrait, her face a shifting canvas of emotions—nostalgia, confusion, something deeper. Finally, she whispered, “It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
For a moment, it felt as though the years between them had dissolved, leaving only the raw truth of what they’d once shared. But then she straightened, her walls snapping back into place. “That’s… a nice drawing,” she said, her voice measured, her composure returning. “But I should go. I need to check on the flight updates.”
Liam nodded, disappointment coiling in his chest. “Sure. I’ll see you around.”
She rose, hesitating briefly as her hand rested on the back of the chair. Her gaze lingered on him for just a second longer. “Goodnight, Liam.”
“Goodnight, Amelia,” he replied, watching as she walked away, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor.
He sat there long after she left, the sketchbook now closed and forgotten. Snow continued to fall outside, blanketing the runway in a quiet stillness that mirrored the unresolved quiet between them. Liam leaned back in his chair, letting the weight of the moment settle over him.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
