Chapter 17 Jacks #2
I watched the automatic doors slide open and closed a dozen times, releasing waves of travelers into the humid afternoon. There were business people with roller bags, families with too many children, a guy in a full cowboy outfit for reasons I couldn’t begin to guess.
But no Skyler.
I checked my phone. No new texts.
A mass of a man with blond hair stepped through the glass doors, and I recognized Erik.
He scanned the cars, then his face exploded in teeth and brightened eyes as he spotted his girlfriend—no, fiancée.
I watched him weave through one line after the next before popping the back of a black SUV, tossing his bag inside, then stepping around to wrap an equally blonde woman with shoulder-length hair in his arms. Their kiss was passionate and deep in ways I’d only seen in Lifetime movies. It made my heart melt.
The annoyed cop appeared almost as soon as their lips locked, grumbling something while giving the universal motion for “get the fuck out of here.” Erik ignored him for a second, keeping their kiss going longer than the law allowed, then pulled away, clomped around to the passenger’s side, and climbed in.
They drove off without either of them noticing my sad little car at the end of the line.
I adjusted my mirrors for no reason. Then I fiddled with the air conditioning and changed the radio station three times before turning it off.
The automatic doors slid open again.
And there he was.
Skyler emerged into the pickup lane like another scene from another Lifetime movie—tall and golden and beautiful, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his eyes scanning the line of cars like Erik had done.
He wore navy joggers and a Lightning hoodie.
His hair was mussed from the flight, one side smashed irreparably upward in the way that screamed, “I slept against the window.” He couldn’t have looked more boyishly adorable if he’d tried.
Something in my chest cracked open at the sight of him.
Two weeks.
It had only been two weeks.
But seeing him then, in person, after all those texts and calls and late-night conversations, felt like coming up for air after being underwater for too long.
His gaze landed on my car.
And his face split into a grin.
Then he was walking toward me. The crowd parted as he wove through.
I was reaching across the front seat to open the passenger door from the inside, then he was sliding into the seat beside me. Suddenly the car felt tiny and very full of Skyler Shaw.
“Hey,” he said, slightly breathless.
“Hey, yourself.”
“I can’t believe you’re here.” He was still grinning, that goofy smile that made my insides go liquid. “I thought ‘sooner than you think’ meant like, tonight at the bar, not at the airport.”
“Surprise.” I tried to sound casual, like my heart wasn’t trying to beat its way out of my chest. “I figured you’d be sick of team buses by now.”
“You have no idea.” He slammed his door shut and settled into the passenger seat with a sigh. “Murph talked for six hours straight. I think he’s trying to set a world record.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It was. This is . . .” He gestured at the car, at me, at the whole situation. “This is really nice. Thank you.”
“Anything for a VIP. I think your booth missed you.”
For a moment, we sat there, grinning at each other like idiots while cars honked and airport security officers waved people along and the whole chaotic world continued around us.
Then I remembered we were in a pickup lane and couldn’t sit there forever.
“We should probably go before someone tickets me,” I said, reaching for the gearshift.
At the exact same moment, Skyler leaned toward me.
“Wait, let me—”
Our movements collided in the middle.
His hand was reaching for something—the seat belt, maybe, or the door—and my hand was reaching for the gearshift, and somehow we’d both leaned in at the same time, turning toward each other, and then—
Then his face was inches from mine.
Less than inches.
He was close enough that I could count his eyelashes if I wanted to, close enough that I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the slight part of his lips.
Close enough that I could taste his breath.
I was sure he could feel mine, too.
Neither of us moved.
The world outside the car ceased to exist.
The honking, the crowds, the security officers—all of it faded to white noise, drowned out by the thunder of my own heartbeat.
Skyler’s eyes dropped to my lips.
It was a slight movement. A micro-gesture.
But it lasted long enough for me to notice.
The air between us turned thick and electric, charged with the same impossible tension from the oak tree, from the moment under the branches when everything had shifted and neither of us had known what to do about it.
I could kiss him.
The thought crashed through my brain like a rogue wave.
I could close the distance between us right now, press my lips to his, and find out if this thing between us was real or something I’d invented in my own desperate imagination.
I could—
Skyler jerked back.
“Sorry.” His voice came out rough, strange. “Sorry, I was . . . the seat belt was . . . sorry.”
He turned away from me, fumbling with the seat belt he hadn’t been reaching for, then fixing his gaze out the passenger window. His profile was rigid, jaw tight, and shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact.
“It’s fine,” I managed, though my voice didn’t sound like mine. “No worries.”
I put the car in drive and pulled out of the pickup lane, merging into airport traffic with hands that were only slightly shaking. The silence in the car was deafening. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet we’d shared at the Taco Bus, but something heavier, painted with everything we weren’t saying.
Skyler didn’t look at me.
He kept his face turned toward the window, watching the airport give way to highway, his reflection ghosted in the glass. I couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t tell if he was upset or embarrassed or feeling the same earthquake that was rearranging my internal landscape.
I wanted to say something.
I wanted to break the tension, to make a joke, to pretend the last thirty seconds hadn’t happened.
But every word I thought of felt wrong, inadequate, and potentially catastrophic.
So I said nothing.
And Skyler said nothing.
And we drove in silence toward his apartment, the weight of everything unspoken filling the car like smoke.
The drive took twenty-three minutes.
I knew because I watched the clock on my dashboard tick through every excruciating second I wasn’t paying attention to the road, desperate for something to focus on besides the man sitting two feet away from me, radiating tension like a space heater.
Neither of us spoke.
Not when we hit the highway.
Not when we exited toward downtown.
Not when I navigated the familiar streets toward Skyler’s building, a route I’d memorized from the last time I’d dropped him off after a late night at the bar.
The silence was suffocating.
I kept waiting for him to say something—anything—to break the spell.
I hoped he might tell some joke about Murph, make a comment about the weather, offer a casual observation that would let us both pretend the almost-moment in the car had been nothing, a fluke, two people reaching for things at the same time.
But he just sat there, staring out the window, his reflection unreadable in the glass.
When I pulled up outside his building, I put the car in park and let the engine idle. The tension in the car had become almost physical, a third presence occupying the space between us.
“So,” I said, my voice coming out scratchy. “Here we are.”
Skyler nodded, still not looking at me. “Yeah. Here we are.”
Another silence.
I should say something. Clear the air. Laugh it off. Anything.
Instead, I heard myself ask: “Are we okay?”
He turned to face me, and something in his expression made my chest ache. He looked confused. No, he looked lost, like someone trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
“Yeah,” he said. “We’re okay. I’m . . . I’m tired. Long flight.”
It was a lie. We both knew it was a lie.
But I nodded anyway, because what else was I supposed to do?
With his face still turned away, barely audible, he said, “Help me get my bag inside?”
My breath hitched.
I blinked so fast I thought my eyelids might take flight.
One swallow later, I managed, “Uh, sure.”
Skyler only had one bag. One duffel. He hated luggage and fumbling at airports.
He didn’t need help.
I shut off the engine. When his hand pulled the handle, I popped the trunk, then opened my own door and climbed out.
By the time I reached the back of the car, he already had the bag slung over his shoulder and was slamming the trunk closed.
He gave me one unreadable glance, then turned away and led me toward his building.