Page 81 of My Star-Crossed Summer

“Message received,” I say, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “Loud and clear.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

NOAH

Twelve hours earlier.

Departure day is always chaotic, but today is breaking my record.

It started when I woke from a criminally vivid dream about Victoria and me doing a few camp activities that would definitely get us fired. I had to run fives miles before dawn to get those images out of my head, but then we had that meeting with Roxy, and Vic had her hair piled up in one of her messy buns again and my brain went straight to the part of that dream where I’d finally—finally—gotten my hands on those unruly curls, pulled her tight against me and kissed her until we were both dizzy.

Not the best thoughts to have during our morning meeting with my boss.

Then I managed to spill my to-go coffee (the delicious kind, from my French press) straight down the front of my shirt while driving the kids to the airport. A massive wreck on the interstate meant we were over half an hour late. Then an emergency bathroom stop for Ethan, who decided to have every kind of dairy at breakfast despite knowing it would spark a revolution inhis entire digestive system, added another fifteen minutes to our delay.

Now I’m racing the kids through the airport, where two flights have already changed gates. I check my phone for an update from Sophie and see a text message from Victoria. I don’t even have time to read it as I hustle the kids into the line at security, reminding them to empty their pockets and take off their shoes, and also to grab everything at the end of the line because, yes, at least one kid always forgets to grab their shoes and heads off to the gate in only socks.

It happens more often than you might think.

Once the five of us are through security, I begin the real gauntlet: delivering the four kids to their departure gates.

First is Becca, whose flight leaves in thirty minutes. I say a little thank-you to the universe for this tiny airport as we jog over to her gate, where the boarding has begun. She says her quick goodbyes, and once she’s on board, we head to the next gate.

And then the next.

Ethan and Derrick are on the same flight out. We’re camped at their gate when my phone buzzes with another text. I see that it’s Vic at the same moment that Ethan’s stomach makes a noise that sounds like a bulldozer.

“Uh-oh,” he says and bolts toward the restroom.

Derrick heads to a kiosk behind us and says, “I’m hungry. They have donuts.”

“Be back in ten minutes!” I holler after them. This plane is about to start boarding, and I haven’t had a kid miss a flight all year.

And I don’t intend to break that record today.

I skim Victoria’s texts—they’re her typical blend of funny and flirty, reaching out to tease me about coffee and let me know that she’s staying in touch. Below, there’s an adorable picture of her with Layla and Priya. She looks content. Calm.

Utterly gorgeous and lit from within.

I type out a reply, then delete it. I start another and delete that, too. Why is it so hard for me to tell her how I feel?

A garbled voice comes over the loudspeaker and calls for boarding group four. I spot Derrick and Ethan at the kiosk a few yards away, grabbing an armful of snacks and bottled drinks.

I let out a sharp whistle that would make Sophie proud, and both boys turn toward me. “Come on, fellas,” I holler. “Let’s go!”

They shuffle over to where I’m standing in line with their luggage, next to a woman whose pug keeps sniffing my shoe. Derrick’s scrolling on his phone as he walks toward me, balancing the world’s biggest bear claw on top of a bottle of soda. As they approach, Ethan says, “I think I lost my boarding pass,” and I turn him around and head for the nearest flight attendant. In my haste, I trip over something that feels like a duffle bag but turns out to be that pot-bellied pug that has strayed from its owner, eyes fixed on Derrick’s bone-dry, overpriced bear claw.

The dog’s fine. He’s built like a tiny tank.

I, however, go sprawling towards the floor, zig when I should have zagged, and steamroll poor Derrick, who grunts with surprise as the soda and pastry go sailing through the air. Along with his phone and mine.

I land hard on the floor, wincing as my shoulder reminds me that I am not twenty years old anymore and not made of rubber.

Derrick chases after his soda as the pug lunges for the bear claw. Laughter erupts around us as the dog lets out a victorious snort-yip and scarfs that massive pastry in one obscene gulp. His owner, a twenty-something blond woman in yoga clothes, shrieks as he yanks her off-balance and drives her right into the chest of the man behind her. This catches the eye of the nearest security guard and his German shepherd, both of whom narrow their eyes at us in precisely the same judgmental stare.

Mortified, I scoop up my phone and tuck it into my back pocket as I hustle Ethan toward the flight attendant because we have no time to lose. Derrick holds their place in line, scratching the pug behind the ears.

“Found it,” Ethan says, his hand deep in the pocket of his backpack. “False alarm.”

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