My phone buzzes again.
Garth:My flight's canceled. At O'Hare now. You?
Of course his flight's canceled. He's probably already making backup plans while everyone else panics.
I stare at the message, at the snow, at all the happy couples walking past. And I do something either really brave or really stupid.
Canceled too. Need help with anything?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Find us a hotel room. Everywhere will be booked.
Us. Hotel room.
My heart does something complicated and completely inappropriate.
I'm already scrolling through hotel apps like my life depends on it. He's right—everything near the airport is booked solid. Downtown is worse. The suburbs are a joke.
My phone rings. Garth, actually calling.
"Where are you?" He sounds annoyed, which is basically his default setting.
"Still on Michigan. Everything's booked, I'm trying—"
"Get a car to O'Hare. I'll meet you there. Keep looking."
He hangs up before I can answer. I order an Uber with shaking hands and slide into the back when it shows up, my tablet balanced on my lap while I frantically search.
Sold out. Sold out. Sold out.
The drive takes forever, traffic crawling through snow that's coming down harder now. The whole Midwest is shutting down. On the radio, Bing Crosby is crooning about white Christmases, and the irony is almost funny.
I finally find something when we're ten minutes out. The Parkside Inn, some boutique hotel near the airport. One room available—their honeymoon suite just became available due to a cancellation.
Their. Honeymoon. Suite.
I stare at the listing. There's definitely only one bed in a honeymoon suite. Probably a massive one. Probably covered in rose petals or some shit.
My phone rings again.
"Did you find something?" Garth demands.
"Maybe. The Parkside Inn has one room, but—"
"Book it. I'm at the airport. Terminal Three."
"It's the—"
"Just book it, Claire."
Claire. Not Ms. Abbott. He only uses my first name when he's stressed or pissed or both.
I book it before I can overthink, my fingers flying across the screen. Confirmation comes through right as we pull up to Terminal Three. I spot Garth immediately—kind of impossible to miss him, tall and commanding in his perfect coat, briefcase in one hand, phone in the other.
I pay the driver and stumble out with my roller bag. Garth's eyes land on me, and for just a second, something flickers across his face. Then it's gone.
"Did you get it?" he asks.
