Cassidy drives me to the airport with a wide smile on her face. July sunshine reflects off the diamond ring nestled on her left hand, nearly blinding me as she navigates the Boston traffic.
My sister came home from work to me hauling a packed suitcase down the stairs, and didn’t hesitate to offer to drop me off at the airport. Josh has been coming over most nights after work to cook dinner and to see Cassidy and Tommy and was happy to watch his future stepson.
“Dreams” is playing on the radio, Cassidy singing along loudly, and it feels like a sign.
I’m angry with Otto. Furious he told the world that he was leaving FC Kluvberg and that he loved me before bothering to inform me.
I also know exactly why he did. Because he knew what I would have said if he had told me first. It’s what I’m flying to Germany to tell him anyway.
“What about Nantucket?” Cassidy asks me as she takes the airport exit.
“You hate boats,” I remind her.
“Your quarterback beau probably has a helicopter he’d let you use.”
I roll my eyes. I made the mistake of mentioning my conversation with Brady Simmons to Cassidy, and now she’s trying to rope him into wedding plans.
“He’s not my beau. If you want to get married on Nantucket, you’ll have to wait five years for a venue and take a ferry over.”
Cassidy sighs, then brightens. “Does Otto have a helicopter?”
“Terminal E,” I say, pointing at the sign.
Cassidy flicks on her blinker, navigating over a lane. She pulls up alongside the curb, outside the terminal, a few minutes later.
“You know what Mom would say if she were here.”
I glance at my sister. “What?”
“It only has to make sense to you.”
That’s what my mom told me whenever I worried if a career as a professional athlete was a foolish choice. And I know Cassidy is right; it’s what she’d say to me now. She’d say not to worry about all the outside noise and focus on what I wanted.
I give Cassidy a quick hug. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Her arms tighten briefly before she lets go. “Me too.”
For the first time ever, I walk into the airport under the three-hour window recommended for international travel. The security line is ridiculously long, and my flight is already boarding by the time I make it to the gate. I white-knuckle the armrest during takeoff. And then it hits me, as the flight attendants are passing out headphones, that I have no clue where in Kluvberg Otto lives.
The absurdity of that—I’m flying halfway around the world to see a guy whose address is a mystery—makes me giggle. Once I start laughing, it’s hard to stop. I’m still in shock, I think, from watching his press conference. From having the extraordinary become reality. I’d accepted that Otto and I were an impossibility.
The woman seated next to me raises her silk eye mask to aim a disapproving look in my direction.
“Sorry,” I whisper, swallowing my nervous giggles, settling in my seat, and staring at the digital map that tracks our progress. We’re already over the Atlantic, the tiny plane on-screen moving deceptively slow since we’re hurtling through the sky.
I doze on and off, nerves giving way to sheer exhaustion, only waking when breakfast is served before the plane starts its descent. I nibble on a biscuit between sips of coffee, searching for glimpses of land beneath the cloud cover.
By the time we land, I have a partial plan. I could just call Otto, obviously, but that feels like cheating. He hasn’t reached out since the press conference. He’s giving me space to react, or he’s assuming I haven’t seen the news yet. I want to surprise him, to follow this impulsivity through. Match his gesture.
He put love on the line, and I want to do the same.
Once I’m in a car headed toward the city, I search Saylor’s name in my Contacts. I have her old number saved from years ago, and she shared her new one when she was in Boston.
I tap my fingers against my thigh as I listen to it ring, unsure what I’ll do if she doesn’t pick up. Impulsivity doesn’t allow for a plan B. I’ve barely come up with a plan A at this point.
Finally, Saylor answers. The first thing she says is, “Did you see it?”
“Uh, it’s Claire,” I say, not sure if she’s expecting a call from someone else.
