I’m a writer. I write. I create. I have ideas. I observe life, and I spin my observations into humor. I will keep going even when I’m set back.
But the bigger, immediate setback is there are ten flights from San Diego arriving in the next three hours.
Then it hits me. What if he doesn’t fly into San Francisco International? What if he flies into Oakland? I groan. I’m so screwed if that happens. There is no way I can hurry to the Oakland airport in time.
Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I stare at the empty screen once more. Why aren’t there any messages from him?
I’m going to have to play eeny, meeny, miny, moe with these flights.
I find the flight board listing the incoming planes.
Shoot. There’s one from San Diego that lands in ten minutes. Is that his flight?
Why won’t he tell me?
Come to think of it, why won’t anyone tell me anything? No one has written to me all day. I know I’m not the most popular person in the world right now, and I wasn’t expecting to be besieged with messages or job offers, but I thought at the very least Old Navy would inform me about a discount paisley sweater set, and that hasn’t even happened.
Then, a billboard flashing the word dumbass mocks me.
I turned on the Do Not Disturb function on my phone because I couldn’t deal. I never turned it off. The only person I’ve seen today was my dad, and I called him.
I toggle the Do Not Disturb button to the right and wait.
In fifteen seconds, my phone is a slot machine, and I’ve made it rain. The emails are cha-chinging, and so are the voicemails, but I don’t care about either. Besides, the voicemails are probably from the dentist, reminding me that I have an appointment. I believe in staying on top of plaque.
But that’s not the point. The point is—did anyone text me? And the answer is . . . yes. I jump. I squeal. I point at the screen.
Tom: Hey! I land at 7:15. Are you home tonight? I’d like to stop by.
I dance. I jig. I might even sashay. I want to shout to the sky, but then security would probably lock me up or toss me out, and that would ruin my entire plan.
I check the time.
It’s 7:10. My pulse spikes. He’ll be here in five minutes. I scan the flight boards. Where is the next flight from San Diego? I don’t see it. Wait, wait, wait.
It landed early. Five minutes ahead of schedule, and it’s not at terminal one. It’s in terminal two and I’m in terminal one and they’re ten miles apart.
Okay, not ten miles. A lot less.
But still.
Then I pep-talk myself.
This is why you’ve been training for a triathlon. It’s not to swim, it’s not to bike, it’s to run across the airport from terminal one to terminal two.
With my office supplies tucked under my arm, I pick up the pace. I run past airline counter after airline counter.
“Excuse me,” I mutter when I weave around a mother holding the hands of two small toddlers.
“Sorry,” I say as I dart by a woman dragging two gigantic wheeled suitcases.
I race around a man pushing a cart full of luggage. I speed down the hall to terminal two, faster and farther, and I beam.
This is the airport chase.
This is the last road-trip trope.
This is the one that never happens anymore because we can’t hurtle security gates and stop flights.
But I’m not running to stop him. I’m running to him, fleet-footing it, flip-flops slapping against the floor, office supplies tucked under my arm.
“Slow down,” a woman in an official-looking airplane uniform shouts at me.
“Late for a flight.”
“Well, be careful.”
“I will.”
But the time for careful is long gone. I’m not trying to be careful. I’m trying to be brave.
It’s big-gesture time, and big gestures aren’t for sissies.
They’re for women who dare to take chances.
When I reach terminal two, I rush to the security lines, checking the time.
His flight is here. Right next to the security exit is a small waiting area where passengers congregate to meet their loved ones. A glass wall runs from floor to ceiling with a view of the passengers as they walk to the exit.
I head over there, and I hope I haven’t missed him. My heart beats jackrabbit-fast, and I’m bubbling with excitement.
Travelers on the other side stream toward the exit, weighed down with messenger bags and backpacks, with purses and garment bags, wheeling suitcases behind them and beside them. With every cell in my body, I wish upon a star that that’s his flight.
I scan the crowd, hunting for him.
Brown floppy hair. Strong shoulders. A chiseled jaw. Panty-melting glasses. A bouquet of flowers in his hand.
My heart rises skyscraper high.
But he’s staring at his phone. That won’t do. I send him a text.
Finley: Look up!
32
Tom
I write back to my brothers, updating them as promised.
Me: The eagle has landed, and the fat man walks alone. Also, I’m in San Francisco.
Nash: Get on it.
Ransom: No more dicking around.
Gannon: Report back. DO IT NOW.
Another text lands on the screen.
A new one.
A small firework ignites. When I see the message, the firework shoots high: Look up!
I snap my gaze, and I wonder if my eyes are playing tricks on me.
Is that?
Her . . .?
Here . . .?
With poster boards?
Thirty feet away, Finley waves at me frantically. Her hair is wild, and her eyes are wide. A smile tugs at my lips as I pass a bookstore, speeding over to her. A white poster covers her from waist to neck. I can’t make out what’s on it till she slams it against the glass. Squinting, I peer at it, the words taking shape as I reach her.
You had me at . . .
She flips it.
The boom box.
I meet her blue eyes, and they’re bright and twinkling. She drops the first board and switches to the next one.
I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to . . .
She turns it over.
Laugh with her.
My smile is too wide to be contained as she places the next one against the glass.
I wanted it to be you.
My heart thumps at the tweaked You’ve Got Mail line, along with the Jerry Maguire redo, and the Notting Hill adjustment. It continues on the other side.
I wanted it to be you so badly that . . . I’m big-gesturing.
The final poster is simple, with her nod to Ghost.
Ditto.
She slaps it over.
P.S. I love you.
I feel like the sun. My heart soars. This is the real thing. Heart, mind, and body. I mouth to her, I love you so much.
She’s such a complete goofball, and she’s a fantastically imperfect person, who’s perfect for me. I’m tempted to put my fingers against the glass, but that would tip the level of cheese to blue, and I can’t stand blue cheese. But I do love this woman.
Like the kind of love in the movies. Only better because it’s real.
With the bouquet of flowers in my hand, I jog then run through the exit and into the terminal. She rushes out of the waiting area, and I scoop her up in my arms as she tosses the posters to the ground.
She wraps her legs around my hips, clasps her hands to my face and grins.
“I’m so in love with you,” I tell her.
“I am so in love with you.”
Then I kiss the girl.
Everything is real, and everything is extraordinary. This is the moment when the curtain falls, the music swells, and the credits roll.
It’s like the movies, but it’s better. We get to live the next part.
33
Tom
I hand her the flowers after I s
et her down. “I didn’t want to come to you empty-handed. But you kinda beat me to it with your big gesture.”
She smiles. “I know. But in my defense, we really needed an airport scene in our romance.”
I drape an arm around her, keeping her close as we head to the exit. “We had to do one.”
“When else will we have the opportunity to participate in an airport chase?”
“You better not do an airport chase with anybody but me.”
“I don’t want to do an airport chase with anybody but you.”
“Also, have I mentioned I’m in love with you?”
She dusts a kiss to my cheek. “I think you did, but I feel like it’s the kind of thing I can hear over and over.”
“I’m in love with you,” I tell her again, and soon we’re making out in the back seat of our Uber.
Thirty minutes later, we arrive at my home. I drop my bags in the entryway. “Can I give you the tour?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want the tour.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you . . .” Her voice trails off and her eyes drift down. “To take off your pants.”
“Pants are dumb.”
We don’t make it to the bedroom. We barely make it to my living room, where I strip her naked and she climbs on top of me, straddling me. When I slide up into her, I groan, close my eyes, and let the sensations wash over me.
This woman came into my life in the most unexpected way, and I’m going to do everything I can to keep her for all my days. Fortunately, I’ve learned how to do that.
She likes to talk, and I finally learned how to listen.
Later, we lie on my couch watching clips from Splash. “See? That’s the line I was saying earlier, you big dork. You totally missed it.”
“Well, I was a little upset. Also, were you calling me a fish?”
“That is seriously one of the most romantic things ever. ‘All my life, I’ve been waiting for someone, and when I find her, she’s . . . she’s a fish.’”
“We might disagree on the romance of the fish line.”
“Don’t you get it? I’m madly in love with you even if you’re a fish.”
“Our love transcends species? You’re a little crazy.” She kisses the tip of my nose. “But you’re my kind of crazy.”
“You’re my kind of crazy too.” I run my hand through her curls. “By the way, I saw Cassie and apologized to her. Thank you for encouraging me to do it. It was like a weight lifting, and I also told her all about you.”
She smiles, like this intel delights her. “You did?”
I nod proudly. “Told her I met this girl I was crazy about. And I am.” I kiss her forehead, whispering softly, making sure she feels 100 percent secure in us. “Completely crazy in love.”
I’m kissing her again when her phone rings. “Ignore it,” I tell her as I slide my hand up her belly.
She melts under my touch, but then her phone bleats one more time. “Let me check if it’s my dad.”
She reaches for it, and it’s “Spam Likely” again. She rolls her eyes, then stops mid roll when a new text message pops up.
She gasps. “It’s Bruce.”
34
Finley
“You don’t answer your phone anymore?” Bruce barks at me. He’s always barked at me, and it’s oddly reassuring.
“It was on Do Not Disturb.”
“Am I a disturbance, Peaches?”
“I don’t know,” I say, laughing nervously, because I have no clue why he’s calling.
“I called you last night,” he says gruffly.
“I didn’t see a missed call from you.”
“It wasn’t from my office line.”
“Oh,” I say, and I furrow my brow. “Maybe my phone thought it was spam.”
“Maybe my phone thought it was spam,” he says imitating me in a high-pitched tone.
“Look, Bruce, I appreciate that you tried to call to give me a heads-up about the Douche Twins, but I went in like a big girl, and I took my medicine.”
“And how did it taste?”
“Bitter, awful, like failure, but such is life, and I’ll move on. I’m grateful for everything you’ve done.”
“If you’d checked your messages, it’d have tasted like sugar, Sweet Cheeks.”
I sit up, curiosity piqued. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve left you messages all day. Do you think after all we’ve been through, after I fought for your show, that I’d leave you high and dry?”
“They said you were let go,” I say, trying to piece together the details.
He scoffs. “Don’t trust those cats as far as you can pet them. I wasn’t fired. I left.”
“I’m glad it was your decision. Thank you for caring enough about me to call.”
“I’m not that caring. I called because I’m strategic and cunning. And because I didn’t toss you out with the trash. Want to know why I made you write those scripts solo? Without any help from the network’s assistant writers? Why I pushed you to deliver them to me in a week?”
“Why?” My interest climbs to Mount Everest levels.
Tom watches me, wiggling his eyebrows in a question.
“One word.”
I wait.
“Netflix.”
I suck in a breath. “Does that mean . . . ?”
“Sweet Cheeks, I took a job at Netflix. Network TV is for the history books. Netflix is the future. We’re blowing this popsicle stand. I sold Mars and Venus to Netflix. They bought the rights to the first season, and they made you an offer on a thirteen-episode renewal for season two.”
I scream like I’m falling at sixty-six miles an hour on a roller coaster.
“I think you pierced my eardrums. Also, they don’t fuck around. They love the episodes, and they want the rest of them in a month. It’ll go into production this summer. Premiere in the fall. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” I say, overjoyed.
“Also, why don’t you make sure my personal cell isn’t in your spam folder anymore? Do me that solid. I don’t like it when I can’t reach my star.”
He hangs up and I turn to Tom. “He called me his star,” I whisper in wonder, then I tell him the news.
“I always believed in you.”
I slide my hands into his hair. “Thank you for being my muse, and for being everything else too.”
When he kisses me once more, I know.
This is no rebound. I’m his everything girl.
35
Finley
A few weeks later
My dad tosses a tennis ball across the dog park. Mister Dog fetches it in seconds and brings it back stat.
He drops it at my dad’s feet and stares pointedly at it, panting.
“This dog knows what he wants,” I remark.
“He sure does.” My dad picks up the ball and tosses it again, Mister Dog scampering happily to the green object of his affection. “Hey, do you think you could write him into your new show? He asked me when you’re going to have a dog character.”
Laughing, I grab the ball this time when the faithful pooch returns it. “Now that’s an excellent idea. You know that line from Shakespeare in Love, after all?”
My dad lifts a brow in question. “Can’t say I do.”
“‘Comedy, love, and a bit with a dog. That’s what they want,’” I say, quoting from the Oscar winner.
He nods sagely. “Sounds about right.”
Yes, I’d say it sure does, and I make a mental note as I say goodbye and hop on my bike to talk to Tom about adopting a dog someday.
I’m going to see him later, since he’s driving up here tonight. First, though, I want to get him a gift. I ride over to Lucky Falls, stopping at A New Chapter. Once inside, I say hello to Arden, who’s at the register, her blonde hair in a pretty French twist.
“Hey, sexy thing,” I say.
“Oh, please.”
“The hair looks good. Also, I’m lo
oking for a cool new book on astrophysics. Something for the hot nerd in my life who’s already read all the big, popular science books.”
“I know exactly what you’ll want, then, for the science lover in your life,” she says with a wink and a definite emphasis on “lover.” She knows about Tom, and knows we’re together now.
She recommends a book that Stephen Hawking fans are loving, so I snag a copy and plop it on the counter. I tap my chin. “But maybe I should get something for myself too. What’s the best story that you’ve read lately?”
Arden casts her gaze down, then glances around. The coast is clear. “I’ve been reading up on all sorts of naughty things.”
My eyes widen. “You have? Spill the deets.”
She brings me closer, waving her fingers towards me. Her cheeks go the slightest tinge of pink. “Confession. My reading last night consisted of Fifty Ways to Spice Up Your Love Life.”
“Whoa. You’re not just a sexy thing. You’re a naughty girl.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “Tell me everything. What did you learn?”
“I even made a list of all the naughty things that I want to do.”
I’m salivating for details. “Who is this man that you’re going to try these things with? Do you have a new guy?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m not with anyone. But I do have somebody I want to ask to help me explore these things.”
“Oh, like a Lessons in Seduction trope?” I ask, digging into my basket of tropes and bringing out one of my favorites. “Because that’s a kick-ass one. You can do so much with it.”
Unzipped Page 21
