He misses her more than he thought he would. Back home now, mere inches away, so close he can feel her breathe. He still misses her, because the woman beside him is only a warped facsimile of the one he's been waiting for. The woman who left for Argentina is not the same one that came back.
Heels on the block. Poised. The starting pistol rings out and she runs. No direction, no destination. Just her feet pounding the pavement and the wind in her hair. Trying to outpace the past.
Eyes close, arm outstretched. A dot on the map. Somewhere. Anywhere. Anywhere but here. She finds solace on the white sand beaches, an escape from New York, from Ted, from reality. But something gets lost in translation. Somehow, in forgetting her sorrow, she forgets herself too. And he has to remind her because she has to come back home. He misses her.
"You haven't changed, Scherbatsky. You're a sophisticated, scotch swilling, cigar smoking, red meat eating, gun toting New Yorker." Reminding himself in the process, because her face is blurry and fading, her memory slipping away like water through cupped hands. Even her scent is different, all salt and sand and Spanish massage oil. It just isn't the same without her.
"What you are not is a massage giving, windsurfing, bongo playing, teetotaling vegan peacenik hippie like your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend Gael. Back me up here, Ted."
"I'm just happy Robin's happy." He rolls his eyes because he knows it isn't true, but Ted is more concerned with her losing the break-up than with her losing herself.
She's hiding somewhere on a beach in Argentina. Toes in the water, head in the sand, trying to preserve an illusion that shattered on impact. If he could drag her back he would do it in a heartbeat. But this is her race to run. All he can do is wait at the finish line.
She slides into the booth, all scotch and smiles and cheap perfume. "Welcome home, Scherbatsky."
Piercing eyes dance in the fluorescent light. "It's good to be back." It just isn't the same without her.