His shoulders sag a little, the fight slipping out of him. “I’m sad,” he says softly, “that you even have to question it.”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug, pretending it doesn’t sting even though it does. “Men tend to notice the shiny hair and the legs first,” I murmur. “Not the girl attached to them.”
Matthew’s jaw tightens, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t.
Because he knows, he saw then first too.
Matthew
I stand at the arrivals exit wondering when, exactly, my life tilted into farce.
Two weeks since Paris. Two weeks since the best day I’ve had in years ended with a polite “I’ve got an early flight” and a doorclosing soft enough to feel like kindness and final enough to feel like a verdict.
I texted the next morning. Nothing.
Called when I landed back in New York. Voicemail.
Texted again, shorter this time, like fewer words might be less to ignore.
And now I’m here, at JFK Terminal 4, holding a sign like an underpaid chauffeur and an overpaid idiot. BROOKE, in block letters I rewrote three times because the first draft looked unhinged. Every sliding door sighs open, spilling tired people and rolling suitcases and my dignity onto the tile.
She’s going to think I’m a stalker.
Lenny in HR already does. “Matthew,” he’d said, pinching the bridge of his nose after I asked (begged) for her crew roster, “I’m never taking your call again.” Then he took my call again and told me what I already knew: I need therapy, not a manifest.
I shift the stupid sign to my other hand. The cardboard edge bites my palm. A kid nearby is holding a stuffed zebra by the tail; every time he swings it, the fin slaps his dad’s jeans with a wet thwack. A driver next to me flashes a laminated placard:Mr. Ken. Professional. Calm. Not dying inside.
What am I even doing?
Answer: trying not to let a perfect thing die because I was clumsy with one sentence. I didn’t mean it like a trophy. I meant it like a prayer finally answered. But intentions don’t count at baggage claim.
The automatic doors breathe another crowd at me. A wave of perfume, jet fuel, and the specific fatigue of people who’ve been awake in three time zones. No Brooke. I check the arrival boardagain, like the numbers might rearrange out of pity.MARX UNITED 312, LANDED.
I consider leaving. I consider dignity. I consider that I’ve already failed both today.
A security guard ambles by, eyes lingering just long enough to make me acutely aware of how much I resemble a man about to propose to someone who is not expecting it. I lower the sign a fraction, as if that helps.
My phone buzzes. I fumble it so badly I almost drop the cardboard. It’s a message, from Lenny.
LENNY: do NOT be weird
LENNY: stand like a normal person
LENNY: signs are fine. stalking is not.
LENNY: also i’m blocking your number
I huff a laugh I don’t feel. “Stand like a normal person,” I mutter, straightening my shoulders. I try a smile that says casual friend hello, not I’ve spent fourteen days replaying the way you laughed on a bridge over the Seine.
More people. More rolling suitcases. No Brooke.
I lift the sign again anyway. If this is pathetic, it’s at least honest.
Because the truth is simple and stupid: I want another chance to say it right. NotI just had sex with Brooke Masters. Not the headline. The real thing.
I miss you. I’m here. Tell me I should go, and I will. Or tell me where to meet you for coffee, and I’ll be there early with two cups and fewer words.
The doors sigh open again.
