Chapter 7 Now
Now
The airport on a Friday morning is one of my least favorite places to be. I’m slightly hungover from last night’s wine-heavy dinner, moving at half speed through security in a matching sweat suit, hair slicked back into a claw clip and zero makeup on. A true vision.
TSA PreCheck was supposed to be the perk that made me feel like a put-together adult. Instead, I’m heating up in my sweatshirt and trying not to gag at the scent of cologne following me through the line.
As I shuffle forward, a guy a few people ahead catches my attention. Light blue UNC sweatshirt, a little scruffy in a hot-by-accident way, and currently getting stopped for a pat-down. His arms are lifted in a T pose, chin tilted toward the ceiling, and somehow he still manages to look incredible.
My first thought is: At least that’s not me. My second is: Shit.
The idea sounded genius when I was wallowing in my hotel room alone last night.
Now, in the harsh fluorescent lights of Terminal A, it feels insane and completely unhinged.
Reenacting meet-cutes from romance novels?
I sound like a modern-day Carrie Bradshaw: well-intentioned with a heaping side of delusion.
This is stupid. I’m not ready. I can’t even maintain eye contact with the barista at Starbucks right now, let alone flirt with a stranger.
I also look like I just rolled out of bed.
Even if I did go up to him, what then? It’s not like I’m trying to date.
I’m just research curious. And sad. Very, very sad.
I haul my suitcase onto the conveyor belt and try to quiet the voice in my head that’s already mocking me.
I knew you couldn’t do it. You have no guts. You don’t even want to write this book; in fact, you can’t. Who would want you right now anyway?
I hover behind him at the body scanner, debating. The moment feels too big and too small all at once. He walks through, gets cleared, and just like that, he’s grabbing his bag and heading out. It’s over. I blew it.
“Ma’am, we’re pulling your bag for extra screening.”
Of course they are.
By the time I get my stuff back, he’s vanished. I let out a breath and try to tell myself it’s for the best. At least I didn’t humiliate myself.
Then I see him. Sitting just past the checkpoint, scrolling on his phone, headphones in. This is my moment. I start walking, then speed walking, then almost jogging. He looks up, startled as I approach.
“Did I forget something in the bins?” he asks, yanking out an AirPod.
“Oh. No, sorry! I just—I saw your sweatshirt and…” My sentence trails off, leaving us both wondering where it was going in the first place.
He blinks. “You okay?”
“Did you go to UNC?” I blurt.
He looks down. “Oh. Nah, my sister went there. Did you?”
“Yeah. Class of 2021.”
“Same year, Virginia Tech. Go Hokies.” He gives a small laugh. “You live in Boston?”
“Just visiting. Work thing,” I say, deciding not to launch into my whole backstory but also wondering what else to say.
He nods. “Nice. I live here. Off to Scottsdale for a bachelor party.”
“Fun,” I say, trying to sound cool.
We start walking, and he offers his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m Fisher, by the way.”
“Ainsley,” I reply. Somehow this feels more normal now. Almost cute.
“So what do you do for work?” he asks.
“I’m an author.”
Fisher raises his eyebrows. “No way. That’s awesome. What kind of books?”
“Romance,” I say, bracing for the polite brush-off.
Instead, he grins. “Seriously? My girlfriend eats that stuff up. She’ll love this. What’re they called?”
The word girlfriend hits me like a slap, but I smile like it doesn’t sting. “Where Do We Go Now? and The Lucky Ones.”
He pulls out his phone and starts typing. “Oh, she’s gonna lose her mind. And hey, if you ever want someone to, you know, fact-check the spicy parts, I volunteer as tribute.”
I choke on my own saliva, gasping out an uncomfortable laugh. “Your girlfriend might not love that.”
He smirks. “Well, she doesn’t need to know.”
And just like that, the bottom falls out. This isn’t a meet-cute. It’s the anti-meet-cute.
I laugh awkwardly, fumbling for an exit. “Well, I hope she enjoys them.”
“Oh, she will.” He winks. Actually winks. Then he lowers his voice. “But if you ever get bored of writing happily ever afters, let me know. I could give you some material.”
By the time we reach my gate, I’m mortified, hot-faced, and desperate for escape.
“It was nice meeting you, Ainsley,” Fisher says, like he didn’t just ruin the entire fantasy. “I’ll make sure she leaves you a five-star review.”
“Safe flight,” I mutter, peeling off toward the gate seats like I’m fleeing a crime scene.
I drop into a chair, stomach in knots. I tried, I really tried, and it still managed to suck in a spectacular, cinematic way.
I sit there, staring at the stretch of carpet between my sneakers, replaying every second like a bad highlight reel.
For a minute, I really thought I was pulling it off—walking up to a stranger, holding an actual conversation, almost sounding confident.
It could’ve been cute. It could’ve been something.
Instead, it turned into exactly what I was afraid of: proof that I am not the kind of girl things just fall into place for. Not right now anyway. Maybe not ever.
The worst part isn’t even Fisher being sleazy. It’s that I let myself believe in the possibility, only to get the rug yanked out from under me like the universe is reminding me I’m not in a romance novel. I’m just the girl wearing a sweat suit, hungover in an airport, trying too hard.
I pull out my phone. A new email waits in my inbox. From Tess.
Subject: Quick Check-in—Timeline
Hi Ainsley!
Just wanted to confirm what week you think you’ll be sending over a few pages for the third book. I know you’re still on tour but the publisher’s asking for an update. No pressure, just let me know what to expect and I’ll handle it!
—Tess
I stare at the screen, my stomach knotting. Even though she said no pressure, I suddenly feel like all of it is on me.