“Later, Jones.”
“Later, Web.”
And then she’s gone.
I just stand there, watching the taillights disappear. Still not moving when they do. For minutes. For a goddamn eternity.
The morning birds chirp like nothing’s changed, but everything has. I feel gutted. Like someone carved me open and scooped out everything that mattered.
Why the fuck did I let her go like that?
I’m the one who said I wanted us to be real.
But I wasn’t. Not even close.
I didn’t say what I should’ve. What I wanted to say. I held back, hiding behind long stares and soft touches instead of calling it what it is.
Because I was too damned scared.
Of loving her.
Of failing her.
Of not being the kind of man that can make a relationship work.
And yeah, scared that maybe I’d put it out there and she wouldn’t feel the same.
All excuses. I know that. And the longer I stare down the empty street, the more the truth eats through the bullshit.
I can’t let her leave again without telling her how I really feel.
Fuck fear. Fuck living with regret. I’m doing this.
I check the time. Rayne’s house to O’Hare? Ninety-six minutes. Give or take. I sprint to the car, nerves and excitement riding alongside me.
Traffic’s jammed up as I near Chicago. The expressway is packed as far as I can see. I cut off two drivers. One gives me the stink eye, the other the finger, but I make it to the airport in record time.
Now, which terminal? Checking the options, I find that all domestic flights depart out of 1, 2, and 3. I try calling Lot, and it goes straight to voicemail. I take a wild guess, park in short-term, and bolt to Terminal 2.
Please let this be the right one.
I run through the sliding doors, chest heaving, eyes scanning the crowd. Suits. Backpacks. All a blur. No sign of Lot’s walk I’d know anywhere.
She’s already got a fifteen-minutelead.
I dart to the departures board, dodging a stroller and some guy’s saxophone case. So many cities. Too many flights. Okay, okay. New York. JFK or LaGuardia? There are two departures around ten. She lives in Brooklyn. I Google it fast, only to find out it could be either.
I go with JFK. I can’t explain why. Call it gut instinct or blind faith. Whatever it is, my feet are already moving. The flight leaves in forty-five minutes at 10:08. Terminal 3, Concourse K. I follow the signs. Thankfully, no train is needed. Just a walk. In my case, a mad dash.
I keep my eyes peeled for Lot as I skirt around the travelers, narrowing my focus, adrenaline surging. I reach security. Lines stretch like mazes as TSA barks instructions. I don’t see her.
Did I guess wrong? Do I backtrack? Do I just wait and say what I have to say over the phone? No, I need to see her. In person. Look her in the eye. And then?—
There she is.
Far line. Gold clips and mahogany locs. Jacket over one arm, Queenie’s carrier in her other hand.
My heart lurches.
