Page 39 of Johan. (Van Den Bosch #8)

Johan

This week with Hannah has flown by, each day a precious gem in a sea of uncertainty.

Now, I stand by the car, the driver waiting patiently to take me to the airport.

The early morning chill bites at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the cold feeling of leaving her behind.

The sky is a muted gray, the sun hidden behind a veil of clouds as if the world itself mourns our parting.

Hannah stands close, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

I try to etch every detail of her face into my memory—the curve of her lips, the way her hair catches the light, and the deep, soulful look in her eyes.

She’s wrapped in a thick coat, but I can still see the tremble in her shoulders, whether from the cold or the emotions, I can’t tell.

“I’ll come back,” I promise, my voice thick with emotion, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

She nods, but her eyes betray her doubts. “Worst case scenario, I’ll try to see you before you go to Oman,” she whispers, her voice barely steady.

She steps closer, wrapping her arms around me in a tight hug.

I feel the warmth of her body against mine, the way her hands clutch at my back as if holding on for dear life.

Her tears begin to soak through my shirt, each one a silent testament to the pain of our impending separation.

It hurts, knowing how much this is tearing her apart, and I can feel my own heart breaking in response.

“I’ll miss you,” I whisper into her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo, trying to memorize everything about this moment. I hold her as tightly as I can, trying to pour all my love and reassurance into that embrace, wishing I could somehow stay.

Hannah pulls back slightly, just enough to look into my eyes. Her face is streaked with tears, and the sight nearly undoes me. “Stay safe, Johan,” she says softly, her voice trembling. “And remember, I love you.”

“I love you too,” I reply, my throat tightening with emotion. I lean down and kiss her, a desperate, lingering kiss that I hope conveys everything I can’t put into words. Her lips are warm and soft, and for a moment, everything else fades away.

The driver clears his throat gently, a polite reminder that time is slipping away. I reluctantly release Hannah, feeling the sting of loss as I step back. She clings to my hand until the last possible moment, her fingers slipping from mine like sand through an hourglass.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” I say, forcing a smile, trying to hide the fear and sadness that gnaw at my insides.

She tries to smile back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I hope so.”

I get into the car, the door closing with a soft thud that feels painfully final.

The sound reverberates through me, a physical manifestation of our parting.

As the car pulls away, I watch Hannah in the rearview mirror, her figure growing smaller until she’s just a distant silhouette, standing alone in the driveway.

The ache in my chest deepens, and I feel a tear slip down my cheek, but I quickly wipe it away, trying to focus on the road ahead.

The journey to the airport is a blur, my mind replaying every moment of the past week.

Her laughter, her touch, the way she looked at me with so much trust and love.

Each memory is a double-edged sword, comforting and painful all at once.

I grip the silver ring on my finger, the one she gave me from her oddities collection.

The intricate design of the intertwined three nude figures feels cool against my skin, a tangible connection to her that I can carry with me.

I turn the ring slowly, studying the delicate craftsmanship and the way it captures the light.

It’s a small piece of her, a reminder of her love and the bond we share.

As the car approaches the airport, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the days ahead.

I have to stay focused, gather the evidence I need, and return to her as quickly as possible.

The thought of her waiting gives me strength, a beacon of hope in the midst of this storm.

The terminal looms ahead, a gateway to the next phase of this challenging journey.

“I’ll come back to you, Hannah,” I whisper to myself, clutching the ring. “I promise.”

With one last deep breath, I step out of the car, ready to face whatever lies ahead, driven by the love that waits for me back home.

The plane touches down at Heathrow, and I peer out the window to see rain cascading down in relentless sheets.

The sky is a dismal gray, casting a somber tone over the landscape.

The drive to my family estate is similarly bleak, the windshield wipers working furiously to keep up with the downpour.

The roads are slick, the trees lining the streets are bare, their branches dripping with rain, and the entire scene feels like a reflection of my mood.

When I finally arrive, the familiar sight of the grand estate offers little comfort.

The stone facade is imposing under the dark sky, and the once-welcoming structure feels almost alien.

To my surprise, Mum and Dad are waiting by the door, their expressions a mixture of relief and anticipation.

The cold air bites at my cheeks as I step out of the car, the sound of rain hitting the gravel driveway a constant backdrop.

“Welcome home, my boy,” Dad says, clapping me on the shoulder. His grip is firm, almost as if he's trying to ground me. “I’ve got a golden mask and a tuxedo ready for you in your bedroom. It’s all set for the ball.”

I nod, forcing a smile. “Thanks, Dad.”

Inside, the warmth of the house envelops me, but it doesn't reach the cold knot in my stomach. The interior is just as elaborately decorated. The grand staircase is wrapped in garlands and fairy lights, a massive Christmas tree stands in the foyer, adorned with delicate ornaments and shimmering tinsel. The scent of pine and cinnamon wafts through the air, but it feels artificial, like an attempt to manufacture a festive spirit that isn’t truly there.

I pull out my phone to text Hannah, letting her know I’ve arrived safely. Her reply is immediate, her words a balm to my frayed nerves. I wish I could stay in that moment of connection a little longer, but reality pulls me back.

After arriving in my bedroom, I head to the ensuite shower and let the hot water cascade over me, hoping to wash away the lingering sadness.

The bathroom fills with steam, the heat enveloping me, but it does little to soothe the ache in my chest. I close my eyes, allowing the water to flow over my face, trying to lose myself in the moment.

Just as I begin to relax, my phone rings.

For a brief, hopeful moment, I think it might be Hannah.

But a quick glance at the screen shows it’s Astrid.

I answer, forcing a lightness into my voice. “Hey, Astrid.”

“Johan, darling! I’m glad you answered so fast. Are you all set for the ball?”

“Yeah, everything’s ready,” I reply, keeping my tone neutral, trying to mask my irritation.

“Great! Just wanted to let you know you can bring my Christmas gift so we can exchange the gifts during the ball.”

I freeze. In the rush of everything, I hadn’t thought to get Astrid a gift. “Of course,” I say quickly, hiding my panic. “I’ll bring it.”

After hanging up, I rack my brain. Astrid, like Hannah, enjoys oddities.

But where would I find an antique shop open at this hour?

It’s already seven pm, and most places are already closed.

Desperate, I put on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and head downstairs to the library, hoping to find a vintage edition of a book that might serve as a suitable gift.

The home library is a haven of old books, a generational treasure that has been growing over the years.

The shelves are lined with leather-bound volumes, their spines a tapestry of faded gold lettering and intricate designs.

The scent of aged paper and polished wood fills the air, grounding me momentarily.

I lose myself among the shelves, running my fingers over the bindings, searching for something rare and valuable.

As I’m perusing the titles, I hear the door creak open and the soft sound of footsteps entering the room.

I turn to see Mum, her expression a mix of concern and determination, as she closes the door gently behind her.

She walks silently in my direction, while I simply keep my attention on the shelf.

“I was sad you didn’t join us for Christmas,” she begins, her voice gentle but probing. She takes a seat on one of the leather armchairs, her gaze following my movements.

“I had other arrangements,” I reply tersely, not looking up from the shelves. My fingers trace the edges of a particularly old book, but my mind is elsewhere.

She stands up and starts pacing behind me, the silence stretching thin. “Darling, do you… hate us or something?”

I heave a sigh, feeling a wave of annoyance. Still, I don’t turn to face her. “If you don’t mind, the less we talk, the better. There’s no need to blurt out hurtful truths before a joyous night.”

She stops pacing, the room heavy with tension. I can feel her eyes on my back, her concern almost palpable. “I wish we could talk, though. What’s going on, Johan?”

“Nothing. Just doing my duty and being the man everyone wants me to be.”

But Mum isn’t deterred, and just like that, she throws a question that makes me pause. “Is it true that you spent Christmas at the house of a student of yours?” Her voice is softer now, hesitant.

I place the book I’m holding back on the shelf and finally turn to face her. Her expression is a mix of hurt and confusion, her eyes searching mine for answers.