I had been away from her for three days. I spent the entire time telling my high school buddies about Jordan, about the cases I worked with Jordan on, about Jordan's bar. One of my friends made the comment that at the end of our vacation, he knew Jordan just as well as I did. I hadn't realized that rather than enjoying the sun and the tiny bikinis, I had obsessed over Jordan.

I called her twice to make sure that she got home okay. Each time she told me to go out and have some fun. Jordan warned me that I sure as hell better enjoy the Kinks concert; she had taken Nevil out for seafood and drinks to repay him of all his hard work and his favor. Jordan's only comment was that it was a really long night. I understood. It had been an incredibly long three days.

I was happy to be going home to Boston. It's funny how I began to call Boston my home. When people asked, I had accidentally called Boston my hometown more than once. I think it's because she is in Boston. For some reason, Jordan makes Boston feel more like my home than Wisconsin ever did. I miss her. I miss my home.

I spent four hours this morning trying to figure out what to bring home for Jordan. She wasn't easy to shop for; Jordan didn't collect things . . . she didn't hold on to many personal items. She lived in simplicity. Her apartment was free from clutter; it was almost oddly un-lived-in. It had a depersonalizing feel. Jordan didn't wear jewelry; I would never even attempt to figure out what clothes she might wear. I walked through shop after shop looking for something that screamed Jordan, but I was met only by frustration. I finally settled on a paperweight with an orange and palm tree inside only because I thought that it might look nice on her desk . . . even if it would eventually be consumed by her massive backlog of reports and forms. I was sure that her procrastination would hide the paperweight, but it didn't matter.

I kept a small box in my nightstand with trinkets of all the almost-dates that Jordan and I had been on. It ranged from ticket stubs to matchbooks from different restaurants. I had pictures of us at different parties and clubs. Sometimes, I wondered if Jordan kept those small memories the way that I had. I wondered if she would ever look through her collection just to relive some of those good times when it seemed that nothing in the world was good at that moment. I had done a lot of that in the last few months.

She waited in the terminal. She casually leaned up against a large cement pillar. Her figure was hidden by a thick winter coat. Jordan had her sunglass tucked on the top of her head. She was the only woman that I had ever met that would wear her sunglasses despite the weather.

We said the typical things; she asked me about my trip. I told her about the concert. Those things only occupied three minutes of our reunion. She hugged me and told me that it was good to have me home. I told her that I missed her . . . that I was glad to be home.

Something always seems to get in the way of our kisses, or lack there of. I had begun to call them ill-fated. They just never seemed to happen. Normally, telephones rang, people walked into rooms, murders were committed . . . just the standard annoying interruption. Today, I finally got to feel her lips against mine. I finally got to hold her close for a few minutes while the rest of the terminal stood back and looked at us a cute couple. There wasn't anyone there to tell us that this was wrong.

"Welcome home, Farm Boy," Jordan whispered as she pulled away from me.

It was good to be home.