The Christmas Orphans Club(90)
A man comes running up the concourse and everyone turns to stare because someone running in an airport is fairly alarming. Sure, he could be running to make a tight connection, but he could also be running away from something awful or on his way to do something awful. Airports always put me on edge.
I don’t have a good view of what’s happening because I’m buried in the scrum of people crowding the gate. I crane my neck to assess the potential threat and catch snippets of a man doubled over at the Jamba Juice kiosk beside our gate. All I can see is a mop of dark, curly hair. He has his hands on his knees as he heaves deep inhales trying to catch his breath.
When he rights himself and begins scanning the gate area, I catch green eyes.
Theo?
He’s in a heather-gray T-shirt and a pair of jeans, looking more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him.
When he spots me, relief cascades over his features. “Finn!” he shouts.
I feel the urge to pull up the collar of my coat and hide. Pretend it’s not me. He jostles his way to where I’m standing in a not-quite-line waiting for them to finish boarding comfort plus and move on to main cabin. A man behind me grumbles to his wife that Theo is cutting, and she shushes him.
“Hi,” Theo says. “Can we talk?”
I don’t want to talk. I’m five minutes away from being on this plane and closing the chapter on my life in New York. A failure on pretty much all fronts. The last thing I want to do is rehash my rejection in a crowded public space.
The gate agent calls, “Main cabin one,” and the not-quite-line surges forward.
“What are you doing here?” I only have to stall the time it takes for the fifteen people in front of me to scan their boarding passes and then I’ll be gone. I decide I’ll get a Bloody Mary once we take off to purge whatever conversation he’s trying to have from my brain. I think I’ll ask for an extra mini bottle of vodka.
“I’ve been texting and calling you all week. I need to talk to you before you leave,” he says. He keeps pace alongside me as the line advances.
“No, I mean, how are you even here? I thought they don’t allow people past security without a ticket since 9/11.”
“I got a comped ticket. That’s not what I’m here to talk about.” He presses his fingers to his temples.
“To where?” I only have to run the clock ten more passengers before I’m on the plane.
“I don’t know, it doesn’t matter. I’m not using it.” I wait him out until he looks down at the paper ticket clutched in his hands. “Bogotá, I guess.”
“Can we please talk for a minute?” He tugs at my arm, trying to pull me out of line, but I stand firm.
“My group is boarding. So if you have something to say, you can do it here.” It’s harsh, but I’m pissed it didn’t occur to him I wasn’t answering his texts or calls because I didn’t want to talk to him.
He takes a deep breath and eyes the distance between us and the front of the line. “Finn, I got scared. I panicked the other night when you told me how you felt. I guess I don’t have a lot of friends—”
“That’s absurd, you have more friends than anyone I know.” I’m not going to stand here and let him twist the truth like his. How dare he try to get me to feel sorry for him after he shattered my heart on Christmas?
“I have Saturday-night friends, but not Tuesday-afternoon friends. I don’t have anyone else to watch movies with on a weeknight or run errands with me. I don’t have other friends who want to talk at two a.m. when I can’t sleep. My other friends aren’t there when there aren’t tickets or parties or connections to be had. And I don’t want to go back to not having Tuesday friends.”
“So, you aren’t attracted to me, but you want to run errands together?” This is a thousand times worse than I imagined. I’m not even a friend, I’m the help. Or at best, maybe a human replacement for the Calm app.
“No . . . I’m explaining this wrong. I’m . . . can you get out of line so we can talk? Finn, of course I’m attracted to you. Have you ever seen yourself sing? How could anyone see that and not fall a little in love with you. But it’s not just that, it’s your strong hands, and the way you walk—it’s so graceful, like the whole world’s your stage—and your gorgeous brown eyes, and the way they crinkle when you laugh. And your heart, let’s not forget your huge, beautiful heart. I’ve been attracted to you since the very first night. I didn’t think I could have both.” I’m at the front of the line now and I have my phone out, poised to scan the QR code, but this makes me hesitate.
“Either scan it or get out of line,” the line dictator behind me says.
“One minute,” Theo says through gritted teeth, an octave below yelling.
“Can we?” He points to the wall of windows on the other side of the gate agent’s podium in front of a row of abandoned chairs. All my fellow passengers are in line.
“Fine,” I relent.
“Did you hear what I said back there?” he tries again once we’re off to the side. “I was so out of line on Christmas. Of course, I love you, but I was scared and I choked. And I know I hurt you and I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am, but I’d like to try—”
“You love me? You’re attracted to me?” I interrupt, needing to hear the words a second time. I switch my iced coffee to the other hand and draw my cold, damp palm across the back of my neck to jolt myself out of it if this is some kind of dream or delusion. I never expected to be having one of the most important conversations of my life with a Dunkin iced coffee in my hand. This must be what it feels like to be Ben Affleck.