How to End a Love Story(30)

Helen nods. He hesitates in the doorway, as if debating whether to say something. Instead, he says, “Night, then.”

As she walks out the door, she hears people cheering his name behind her and it’s a reminder that no matter how far they leave the past in the rearview mirror, some things really never seem to change.



Grant shows up at Terminal 7 of LAX with his one carry-on bag and a grim determination to get on a flight out of this godforsaken city, one way or another, before midnight. After missing his first flight from Burbank because his elderly neighbor needed help retrieving her escaped cat from under the porch and then having his second flight canceled due to thunderstorms in Texas, he books a direct flight from LAX to Newark and vows never to fly the week of Christmas again.

It’s just after four p.m. when he tips his cabdriver and heads for the security checkpoint, only to find that the line to go through airport security wraps clear into a second building. Of course.

It’s past six by the time he finally gets through security and heads for his gate. His stomach grumbles that it’s time to eat, but he’ll be damned if he misses a third flight today.

As he stalks with purpose toward Gate 27B, he hears, “Grant? Grant Shepard!”

He turns to see—Helen. She’s sitting at the terminal’s wine bar, wearing a soft, gray, loungey travel outfit. Her cheeks are slightly flushed from calling out his name, and he feels a lick of surprised pleasure that it’s her. He frowns then—his flight plans can still get fucked.

“I missed my flight,” he says, checking his watch. “Then it got canceled. So now I’m here. I have to get to 27B. It’s boarding in—”

“Two hours,” she says. “It got delayed.”

His face must be one of utter devastation, because she pats the seat next to hers and orders another round.

“I hate flying out of LAX,” he mutters as he finishes off the wine she’s slid his way.

“It’s not so bad,” she says, looking around. “There’s good Wi-Fi and plenty of outlets.”

“And overpriced food, and miles of walking to get from one checkpoint to another, and a million shops that exist just to take your money while you’re trapped here,” he grumbles.

“You don’t travel well, do you?”

“I try to avoid it when I can.”

“When’s the last time you went home?”

“Home is LA,” he says, inspecting the menu and frowning at a thirty-two-dollar pizza. “But I get back every other year, usually.”

He orders a burger and checks his phone. Nothing new besides three texts from the airline.

“Are you looking forward to seeing everyone?”

Grant shrugs. “Not really.”

“That’s surprising,” Helen says, tucking into an overpriced crème br?lée. “I’d have thought—”

“What, that I love reliving my glory days in a basement with all my old football pals?” Grant raises a brow. “Give me some credit, Helen.”

She dabs at her mouth with a napkin. “I always got the impression you guys all stayed friends,” she says. “From Facebook and whatever. Like I always saw a post every year of you hanging out with that old crowd.”

Grant gives her a wry smile. “Been keeping tabs on me?”

Helen scoffs. “I just mean when I go home, it’s . . . it’s not like that.”

Grant frowns. He doesn’t like to think of her lonely in their small town.

“I did keep in touch with the old crowd,” he says. “Kevin Palermo throws a New Year’s party that I usually end up at when I’m in town. And I see a few of the others around then too. But the last few years, it’s like . . . our lives have been moving in different directions. They’re all getting married, having kids, buying houses.”

“You have a house,” she says.

Grant laughs. “Yeah, a two-bedroom bungalow in Silver Lake. Not a four-bedroom colonial with a two-acre backyard and room to grow with the family.”

“Do you ever wish you had what they have?”

Grant considers the question. “I’d like to be married someday. Have a family. But not right now.”

“Too busy sowing wild oats,” she says sagely, sipping another glass of wine.

“You leave my oats out of this,” he says, and she laughs. “No, I just . . . I have some work to do on myself. I don’t think it’d be very fair for someone to be saddled with all of this in a permanent way until I’ve figured some shit out.”

He feels Helen’s assessing eyes sweep over him warmly.

“Saddled with all of that, right,” she murmurs with pursed lips. He lifts a brow and she says dryly to her wineglass, “I bet the women of LA don’t mind so much.”

He chuckles and the corner of her mouth twitches up, and he wonders if that means what he thinks it does.

“I get it, though,” she says into her chardonnay. “My mom’s been sending me photos of all her friends’ kids’ weddings every chance she gets. Not so subtly hinting about grandchildren while she’s still here to hold them.”

“You want kids?”

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Most of my writer friends are either married with kids or freezing their eggs. I used to assume motherhood would be a given, but as I think about it more, I don’t know.” She tilts her head. “I guess I’m afraid of being responsible for someone who never asked for me. And I don’t want to do it alone.”