Chapter 42
“I’m sorry,” Judith says, but she doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But we really don’t have any other options right now. I can put you on standby, but nothing’s moving. Not here. Not anywhere.”
She taps her keyboard the way a judge strikes a gavel, declaring the end of my dreams, then gestures to the line behind me.
“Next.”
I just stand there, blinking, until someone clears their throat behind me. Then I walk away, but I’m not really sure where I’m going.
The airport feels smaller now, or maybe just louder. Everyone’s talking, moving, pacing. One guy is on speakerphone yelling that he’s “absolutely not missing this wedding,” while a woman near the coffee shop is crying into a phone that keeps cutting out.
It’s not just me. Everyone’s stuck, but it still feels personal.
I glance around the terminal once more—more out of instinct than anything—and the guy from earlier is gone.
Of course he is.
Handsome stranger with sad eyes? Probably had a private jet waiting.
I drop onto a bench near a vending machine that doesn’t even pretend to work and pull out my phone. One ring. Then they pick up at the same time on the second ring.
“April?”
“What happened?”
“Did you cry?”
“Did you punch someone?”
“Tell me you didn’t punch someone.”
Closing my eyes, I let out a shaky breath. “There are no flights. Nothing. They said I can go on standby, but even that’s a stretch. She said it’s a ‘system-wide grounding,’ and like… what does that even mean?”
“They’re saying it’s a cyberattack,” May says, her voice suddenly very business casual and slightly terrifying. “I saw a headline about it already. Major disruption. FAA’s investigating.”
“They’re canceling flights everywhere,” June adds, softer. “Even international ones.”
“I should’ve left yesterday,” I mumble.
“Okay, but you didn’t,” May says. “And that’s fine. We adapt. We pivot. We panic creatively.”
“I’m gonna check rental cars,” I say, opening another tab on my phone.
“No need,” May says. “Already ahead of you. Every single company is sold out within a hundred-mile radius.”
I groan and drop my head back against the wall. “You’re kidding.”
“I never kid about logistics,” she replies.
“People are freaking out,” June mutters. “You’re not the only one trying to get to something important.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But it feels like I am.”
There’s silence on the other end—the kind only sisters understand. I’m trying so hard not to cry, and they both know it.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky with standby,” June murmurs.
“Yeah,” May adds. “And if not… I don’t know. Bus? Hitchhiking? Emotional blackmail? We’ll brainstorm.”
“Thanks, let me figure out my options. I’ll call you later.”
They tell me they love me before hanging up. I sit there for a minute, watching the crowds move around me while I wonder what the hell I’m going to do.
Eventually, I melt to the floor against the wall and sit cross-legged, then dig through my inbox trying to find the contact info for the woman who scheduled my interview. Maybe I can explain what happened. Maybe they’ll understand. Maybe—
“Hey.”
I look up.
Gray coat. Slightly windblown hair. Vending machine guy. He has eyes that could disarm a bomb. His voice is like a secret you wish you could hear for the first time again.
“I don’t mean to sound like a creep, but I overheard you,” he says, gesturing toward the check-in counter behind me. “You’re trying to get to LA, right?”
Flat-lipped, I give a slow nod. “…Right.” I get to my feet, and… God, he’s tall. I have to tilt my head just to meet his eyes, then it’s suddenly way too hard to think straight.
He shifts his weight and tucks his hands into his pockets. “I’m driving there, I’m actually leaving in the next hour. I have a car—it’s already set up. If you need a ride…”
I blink. “Wait—you got a rental? How?”
“My job hooked me up,” he states. “Lucky timing, I guess.”
I blink. “You want me to get in a car with you? A complete stranger?”
He gives a slow shrug, wearing a small smile. “Not saying it’s a good idea. It’s just… an option.”
I stare at him for a second longer. “Why me?”
He tilts his head, surprised by the question.
“I mean”—I gesture wildly— “why not anyone else? Why offer this to me? Did I look especially tragic while begging Judith for mercy?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “A little, yeah.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you a serial killer?”
“No.”
“A kidnapper?”
“Nope.”
“Rapist?”
His jaw tightens, but he shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”
“…Who did you vote for?”
That gets a real laugh out of him. “You’ll have to guess.”
“I swear to God, if you make me listen to Joe Rogan through four states—”
“Never,” he says, hand on his heart. “I respect women’s rights way too much to be part of the right… or to listen to Joe Rogan.”
I squint at him. “Flat earther?”
“I believe in gravity and feminism.”
He’s calm, not pushy, handsome in that disheveled, out-of-my-league kind of way, and most importantly, he doesn’t feel dangerous.
He just feels… steady.
“…Do I get to pick the music?”
He smiles. “I insist.”
Her eyes light up, wide and disbelieving, as if I’ve just offered to fly her to the moon. Which, to be fair, would be less weird than what I actually said.
A cross-country drive with a stranger? Yeah, not the strongest pitch.
But she’s gripping the handle of her backpack like it’s the only solid thing left in her world, her shoulders drawn tight, eyes darting around for an escape that doesn’t exist, and something in me can’t stand the idea of walking away from that.
She’s smaller up close. Not short, exactly, just… compact. Tense. Wound tight like a spring. Her leggings have a thread snagged near the knee, and her sneakers look like they’ve carried her through some shit, but her face? It’s one you don’t want to look away from.
Strong jaw. Soft mouth. Big expressive eyes that haven’t smiled in a while but clearly know how to. Her beauty isn’t loud, it sneaks upon you. Quiet and honest and completely disarming.
She’s fidgeting, her right thumb rubbing over the edge of her phone. She’s considering it. I can tell, but she doesn’t trust me yet.
Good. She shouldn’t.
If roles were reversed, I’d think this offer was insane. Actually, I do think this offer is insane, but here I am.
I answer her questions—serial killer, kidnapper, rapist, right-wing manchild—with steady eyes and a leveled tone, because it matters that she knows I’m not a threat, and when she mentions Joe Rogan, I don’t even blink.
“Never,” I say, hand over my heart. “I respect women’s rights way too much to be part of the right… or to listen to Joe Rogan.”
That gets a reaction—her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile, but her eyes stay sharp, narrowing just enough to let me know she’s still not sold. She’s testing me.
I like that about her, that she’s not quick to leap; she still has fight left in her, even when everything’s clearly falling apart.
When she finally says, “Do I get to pick the music?” I almost exhale in relief.
“I insist,” I say, but then she hesitates again. Her fingers tap her thigh, and she scans the floor like she’s thinking through every worst-case scenario.
She’s not sold yet, and as much as I want to push—say something clever, make her laugh—I don’t. This has to be her choice.
“Five minutes,” she mutters, lifting her eyes back to mine. “I just… I need five minutes to think about it.”
I nod. “Take all the time you need.”
“Where will you be?”
I glance toward the center of the terminal. “Across from the baggage claim near the coffee shop. Layover Latte, do you see it? I’ll be there.”
She gives me a tight nod.
“I’m Max, by the way.” I offer my hand, which she takes.
“April,” she replies, shaking my hand. Then she turns, sits back down, and pulls her knees to her chest, and I walk away.
Every step is heavier than the last; I want her to say yes, but I know she shouldn’t.