Chapter 38
thirty-eight
JAY
I got one mysterious text message twenty minutes ago.
Calla will be on Delta flight 2224 to New Orleans tonight at 6:15.
I tried to text the number back a dozen times, to no avail. But its message zings through my blood.
One last chance. All I have to lose is my cab fare… and my heart.
Am I an idiot for buying the first ticket going anywhere just to get through security?
That remains to be seen.
Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport isn’t just a place where planes take off and land. It’s the busiest airport in the world . It’s a labyrinthine city unto itself. And it is always complete chaos.
My nerves have me unsure which is up and which is down as I exit the cab. With no other plan besides hurrying, I run toward the doors, hurdle a luggage trolly, sidestep a toddler wielding a juice box like a weapon, and almost trip over a wayward duffel bag.
But I keep going, because I’m a man on a mission. Every fiber of my being screams with the urgency to reach Calla before it’s too late.
“Excuse me! Sorry!” I call out. The knot in my stomach tightens with every step.
I’ve never been one to second-guess myself. This is different. This is crazy even for me. Yet the thought of her leaving and not having the chance to explain my side and plead my pathetic case propels me forward.
Do both airport employees and airline customers alike think I’m insane as I run past them like I’m being chased by vicious honey badgers? Certainly. But I don’t care.
I round a corner. The security checkpoint comes into view like a gauntlet of metal detectors and impatient travelers. Security at the Atlanta airport is no minor matter. It takes up a huge hall that’s at least two hundred feet long and has lines that stretch for miles.
I skid to a halt and my mind races. There’s no way I’ll make it through in time. I clench my fists, hesitate for the briefest moment, and then make my move.
First, I jump in the shortest line, the one reserved for the first-class passengers. I unbutton my jacket and yank off my belt in one fluid motion. The line is only four people long, but I muscle my way to the front anyway. “Emergency. Huge emergency. I’m so sorry,” I plead. My usual charisma has been reduced to a raw, frantic edge.
Amazingly, people let me through. Maybe they’re swayed by the sheer intensity of my panic.
I reach the metal detector and hesitate for a split second. The guards eye me warily with their hands inching toward their radios. In a burst of impulsive clarity, I kick off my shoes and make a dash through the checkpoint.
Alarms scream. Voices shout. I don’t look back. I’m in a dead sprint now .
The hard linoleum bites at my sock-clad feet. I weave through terminals with the grace of a gazelle and the desperation of a man fleeing for his life. Security personnel give chase and their walkie-talkies bark orders.
I sprint through the terminal, my socks skidding on the polished floor. My heart pounds. It’s not just from the exertion. I’m sure someone will stop me, question me, or drag me back to the security desk for some imagined infraction.
Or actual infraction. But there’s no time for paranoia. I have to keep moving.
Then I see it. A boutique store with gaudy displays and overpriced trinkets. Without hesitating, I make a beeline for it. I nearly collide with a mannequin in the window. A sales clerk eyes me with suspicion and her gaze lingers on my disheveled appearance.
“Can I help you?” she asks. Her tone is as crisp as the folded T-shirts on the display table.
“Just looking!” I blurt. My voice cracks slightly. I dart past her, scanning the racks with laser focus. I need something, anything, to blend in. Or at least to look like someone who isn’t currently fleeing an existential crisis.
Or the law, if you want to be precise.
My gaze lands on a rack of hats. I lunge for it and find a floppy sun hat that screams "Floridian retiree." Perfect. I jam it onto my head and catch my reflection in a nearby mirror. The hat sits lopsided and shades my face in a way that’s more comical than mysterious. I grab a pair of oversized aviators from a nearby display and fumble them onto my face. The effect is ridiculous and I know it. I look like a budget version of a celebrity trying to dodge the paparazzi.
“That’ll be—” the clerk starts. But I just throw a hundred dollars at her .
“Sorry! I have to go catch a girl!” I’m already halfway out the door. I duck low and move fast.
The terminal is a sea of faces. I feel each set of eyes like a spotlight trained on me. I tell myself to walk casually, to act normal, as I cut through the throngs and weave between luggage carts and distracted families. Every laugh and every glance in my direction feels like confirmation that I’ve been spotted. I duck my head and clutch the brim of the sun hat over my face.
As I round a corner, my heart skips a beat when I spot a cluster of security personnel. Their uniforms are stark against the neutral tones of the terminal. One of them points, and my mind explodes with a thousand escape routes. I’m ready to bolt when I realize they’re pointing at a map, not at me.
I exhale shakily, my pulse still racing. I readjust the hat and sunglasses. I’m in too deep now to turn back. My stockinged feet pad against the tile floor as I dart through the terminal, scanning the crowd.
I’m three gates away from her, but that doesn’t matter. I’d be able to pick out her beauty from cruising altitude. Her dark hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail and her overnight bag is slung over one shoulder.
Calla is on a moving sidewalk and she’s headed away from me.
My heart skips a beat, then two. My feet are rooted to the cold, hard floor.
“Calla!” I shout and break into a run, parallel to the moving sidewalk.
In one desperate, clumsy motion, I try to leap the divider. My legs tangle and I go sprawling, skidding across the rubber surface like a human bowling ball. I hear Calla gasp, then laugh. It’s a genuine sound that melts the tension in my chest.
I scramble to my feet and find myself directly in front of her. She’s smiling and shaking her head in disbelief.
"Nice move. And nice glasses, I guess? What are you, some kind of terrible spy?" she asks. Her head tilts. “What the hell are you doing here, Jay Rustin?”
"Calla, please. Just listen." I’m breathless, both from the exertion and from the sheer weight of what I have to say. "I know you don’t trust me. I know you think this is all just a convenient arrangement. But it’s more than that for me. You’re more than that."
Her expression hardens but she stays silent, waiting.
"I’m in love with you," I blurt out. I didn’t know what I was going to say until this moment, but the second I tell her I love her, the tight fist of panic eases. I keep talking, word vomiting, "I’m in love with the way you have dessert for breakfast and how you always razz me for eating muesli. I’m in love with your family stories and the way you light up when you talk about them. I’m in love with your Converse sneakers, Calla. I’m in love with you."
She chews on her lip. There is a heaviness in her hazel eyes that I haven’t seen before. Shit, is she about to tell me to leave? To go back to my high-profile, adventurous life and let her return to hers?
Then she lets out a shaky breath. "Do you really mean that? Because I’m not interested in being anyone’s backup plan, Jay."
"You’re not.” I grab her hand. The words pour out of me, raw and unpolished. "You’re not a backup plan or a last resort or anything less than everything. You’re the only thing that makes sense to me right now."
“Jay…” Calla rubs her temple. “You can’t love me. You ca n’t want me. It seems like you may just be repeating the same cycle with me as you did as with Blake. We had a good three months. All right, an amazing three months. But if we don’t want the same thing, what are we even doing here?”
“We do want the same things!” I insist. “We both want to be happy. We want to be in love with our spouse. We want a big house jam-packed with kids. And we’re already fucking married. There is literally nothing keeping us apart other than… us.”
She quirks a brow. “You want an adventure partner. I’m looking for stability.”
“I found the perfect person for adventures. She’s right in front of me. And I want to be her rock, through thick and thin, for the rest of my damned life.”
“Wha—” Her mouth falls open, but her protests don’t have any real bite. “Jay, are you serious?”
“Serious as a graveyard.” When I speak, it comes out as more of a growl. “You listen to me, Calla Nikolakis. I’ve never felt love before. You want to know how I know that for sure? Because I’ve never felt this kind of a connection with anybody else. I know I can seem like I just care about performing for the camera. But I want more. You make me care about having a life that’s about more.”
We come to the end of the moving sidewalk rather abruptly. I step off without a problem, but Calla nearly loses her footing. I grab her at the last second and pull her against my body. She looks up at me with a sheen of tears building in her eyes. An older couple huffs as they pass us and I draw Calla aside, out of the way of people hurrying to catch their flights.
This moment between us can’t be rushed.
Calla wets her lips, her eyes fixed on me. “We barely know each other, Jay. ”
I clutch her hand to my chest. “I know you, Lily. I see you, inside and out. Even when you eavesdrop or maybe aren’t your best self? I know you and I love you. I’m desperate to keep being married to you. It just took getting married by accident for me to figure it out.”
“Oh god.” She scans my face. “Jay, I love you too. When I thought that you just wanted to be… married with benefits… I couldn’t handle it anymore. My heart broke and I had to leave.”
I cup her jaw. “Stay with me.”
She brushes away a tear before it can fall. “You mean it?”
“More than I’ve ever meant anything in my entire life.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for cracks or insincerity. When she doesn’t find any, her mouth wobbles. She’s never cried in front of me before. But she’s about to burst into tears here in the middle of the airport.
Calla pushes up onto her tiptoes, grips my shirt, and kisses me so passionately that my fucking toes curl. I thrust my fingers into her hair and kiss her back like this is our last moment on earth before the asteroid hits.
When she breaks the kiss and her cheeks are flushed, she has never been more beautiful to me. She shakes her head. "You’re unbelievable. You know that?”
"Unbelievably in love with you," I say.
A laugh escapes her then, light and unexpected. "You’re also a terrible runner.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. She’s here. She’s listening. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I can breathe again.
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder and yanks me. I stumble and spin, and that’s when two police officers tackle me in a synchronized, NFL-worthy takedown. My cheek smashes against the cold floor.
“Oh shit.”
"Hands behind your back!" one cop barks. The other wrestles with a set of handcuffs. I’m too stunned to resist. They’ve got me cuffed and utterly subdued before I fully realize it.
"Wait! Stop!" Calla’s voice cuts through the commotion. She stands a few yards away. I turn my head and see her eyes are wide with shock and fear. "What did he do?"
The officers ignore her and haul me to my feet, my wrists bound and my hair a disheveled mess. I feel like a man who’s just survived a kidnapping attempt only to be arrested for loitering.
"Calla," I warn her. She looks like she’s prepared to take these cops on. “I deserve this!”
She rushes to me anyway. "This is all a misunderstanding. He was just trying to"
"Ma'am, step back," one cop interrupts. He holds up a hand to block her, then they start to drag me away.
"I love you," I shout over my shoulder to my wife. "Wait for me!"
"Where the heck are they taking him?” I hear her demanding of someone on the moving sidewalk.
“You can come get your boyfriend at the TSA offices,” one of the cops yells over his shoulder, “They’re right next to the baggage claim.”
Calla runs after us. “He’s actually my husband! Funny story… We had some tequila and got matching tattoos, right? Then we accidentally got married…”