Idiot. Jerk. Fool. Moron. Stupid. Imbecile. Heedless baboon…
After twenty hours in the air and a three-hour layover in Paris, I’ve run out of insults with which to call myself. I had the perfect woman, and I let her slip through my fingers.
“Man, enough already with the pity party,” Archie says, cutting into my thoughts as we disembark at JFK. “Yeah, you’ve been a boneheaded monkey…” Boneheaded monkey! I’ll add that to my list. “…but once we get back to Berkeley, LA will be only a short trip away. Fly down there and woo the lady all over again. If she fell for it once…”
We follow the directions toward our connecting flight, turning down a hall, then another, until we reach our terminal.
Archie bumps into me on purpose, prompting me to scold him. “Can you please be serious for once in your life?”
“Nah, you’re grim enough for the both of us,” Archie says, and points at a bar just below the departures board. “How about some overpriced Italian coffee?”
We sit at the counter, and I let him order for me as well. “One espresso for me, and a double for my friend.”
The bartender nods and, with efficient, practiced motions that seem second nature to him, grinds the coffee beans, loads the black powder in the shiny coffee machine, and brews away.
He serves Archie first, and when he places my mug in front of me, he asks, “Need that extra kick, huh?”
The last thing I want is to discuss my problems with a total stranger, so I give him a noncommittal grunt in reply.
The guy seems to take the hint and walks away to busy himself with the drying of glasses or other bartender-y stuff. But Archie calls to him, “Excuse my friend, he’s having a bit of a hard time.”
“Bad work trip?” the bartender asks.
“No, man,” Archie replies. “The other thing.”
“Ah, a woman, then.”
“What else?”
They share a knowing stare, half-serious, half-mocking, at my expense.
I scowl at Archie for spilling the beans about my private life, then drink my coffee in brooding silence. I won’t be baited into talking.
“Ah,” the guy behind the counter sighs. “All my patrons today seem to suffer from woes of the heart.”
“Really?” Archie asks.
Apparently, my friend is in a chatty mood. How fun for me.
“Yeah, a woman just left after telling me the most incredible story about naked archeologists, jungle treasure quests, ex-Special Forces gone rogue…”
My ears prickle at that, and suddenly all the exhaustion of the long journey evaporates out of me, steamed out by the bartender’s words.
“Was she tall, with white-blonde hair?” I interrupt. “The woman?”
“Yeah, why—oh my gosh.” His eyes widen as he stares at me. “You’re Logan!”
I jump off the stool with such force I send it tumbling to the floor. “How long ago did she leave?”
The bartender checks his watch. “Not twenty minutes ago, man, you should be able to catch her if you run.”
“You know what flight she was on?”
“American Airlines, I think.” He glances up at the departures screen. “They’ve just started boarding.”
I follow his gaze to the big board with all the flights listed in orderly rows, scanning furiously for Winter’s flight. There! American Airlines to LAX, gate 46.
“Thank you, man,” I say, already taking my first step backward. If I had the time, I’d jump behind the bar and kiss the guy. But I don’t have a second to spare. I won’t screw this up again. “Archie, can you—”
“I’ve got it covered, Logie Bear,” he says. “Go!”
“Thank you,” I say.
As I turn and run, Archie calls after me, “And try not to screw it up this time!”
I race through the concourse like I’m twenty years old again and playing football. The drive is on, the end zone, gate 46. The gate gallery is my open field. I break into it, dodging travelers with luggage in tow, toddlers escaping their mothers, airport electric carts… I scamper yard after yard, the ball is my heart, winning Winter back will be my touchdown.
I look up at the gate signs, numbers flying by.
Gate 25. I’m halfway there!
The momentary distraction almost makes me crash into a family of four assembled outside a newswire, but at the last second, I skim left and avoid smashing the teenage son to the ground by a hairbreadth.
I run on.
Gate 31.
Gate 37.
While I run, I scan the crowds for a white-blonde head.
By gate 42, I’m winded hard. I’m really not twenty years old anymore. But I summon the last dregs of energy and force my legs to pump forward.
When I finally reach gate 46, there’s a long line of passengers waiting to board the plane. The flight attendants are already letting people in.
Panic strikes.
Panting hard, I search the queue for Winter while my pulse speeds out of control, both from the physical effort and the fear that I’ve missed her again.
But then her unmistakable blonde hair waves at me like a signal flag in-between two tall, athletic types, who, judging from the breadth of their shoulders, could be real NFL players.
“Winter,” I call. But the sound comes out half-strangled and not nearly loud enough for her to hear me.
Hands on my knees, I take a few deep breaths until my respiration goes back to almost normal.
“Winter,” I shout again. “Winter, wait!”
I walk up the line until I’m right beside where she’s standing.
“Winter!”
Her head finally turns, and her eyes go wide as they meet mine.