Page 105 of The Accidental Honeymoon

I round a corner. The security checkpoint comes into view like a gauntlet of metal detectors and impatient travelers. Security at the Atlanta airport is no minor matter. It takes up a huge hall that’s at least two hundred feet long and has lines that stretch for miles.

I skid to a halt and my mind races. There’s no way I’ll make it through in time. I clench my fists, hesitate for the briefest moment, and then make my move.

First, I jump in the shortest line, the one reserved for the first-class passengers. I unbutton my jacket and yank off my belt in one fluid motion. The line is only four people long, but I muscle my way to the front anyway. “Emergency. Huge emergency. I’m so sorry,” I plead. My usual charisma has been reduced to a raw, frantic edge.

Amazingly, people let me through. Maybe they’re swayed by the sheer intensity of my panic.

I reach the metal detector and hesitate for a split second. The guards eye me warily with their hands inching toward their radios. In a burst of impulsive clarity, I kick off my shoes and make a dash through the checkpoint.

Alarms scream. Voices shout. I don’t look back. I’m in a dead sprint now.

The hard linoleum bites at my sock-clad feet. I weave through terminals with the grace of a gazelle and the desperation of a man fleeing for his life. Security personnel give chase and their walkie-talkies bark orders.

I sprint through the terminal, my socks skidding on the polished floor. My heart pounds. It’s not just from the exertion. I’m sure someone will stop me, question me, or drag me back to the security desk for some imagined infraction.

Or actual infraction. But there’s no time for paranoia. I have to keep moving.

Then I see it. A boutique store with gaudy displays and overpriced trinkets. Without hesitating, I make a beeline for it. I nearly collide with a mannequin in the window. A sales clerk eyes me with suspicion and her gaze lingers on my disheveled appearance.

“Can I help you?” she asks. Her tone is as crisp as the folded T-shirts on the display table.

“Just looking!” I blurt. My voice cracks slightly. I dart past her, scanning the racks with laser focus. I need something, anything, to blend in. Or at least to look like someone who isn’t currently fleeing an existential crisis.

Or the law, if you want to be precise.

My gaze lands on a rack of hats. I lunge for it and find a floppy sun hat that screams "Floridian retiree." Perfect. I jam it onto my head and catch my reflection in a nearby mirror. The hat sits lopsided and shades my face in a way that’s more comical than mysterious. I grab a pair of oversized aviators from a nearby display and fumble them onto my face. The effect is ridiculous and I know it. I look like a budget version of a celebrity trying to dodge the paparazzi.

“That’ll be—” the clerk starts. But I just throw a hundred dollars at her.

“Sorry! I have to go catch a girl!” I’m already halfway out the door. I duck low and move fast.

The terminal is a sea of faces. I feel each set of eyes like a spotlight trained on me. I tell myself to walk casually, to act normal, as I cut through the throngs and weave between luggage carts and distracted families. Every laugh and every glance in my direction feels like confirmation that I’ve been spotted. I duck my head and clutch the brim of the sun hat over my face.

As I round a corner, my heart skips a beat when I spot a cluster of security personnel. Their uniforms are stark against the neutral tones of the terminal. One of them points, and my mind explodes with a thousand escape routes. I’m ready to bolt when I realize they’re pointing at a map, not at me.

I exhale shakily, my pulse still racing. I readjust the hat and sunglasses. I’m in too deep now to turn back. My stockinged feet pad against the tile floor as I dart through the terminal, scanning the crowd.

I’m three gates away from her, but that doesn’t matter. I’d be able to pick out her beauty from cruising altitude. Her dark hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail and her overnight bag is slung over one shoulder.

Calla is on a moving sidewalk and she’s headed away from me.

My heart skips a beat, then two. My feet are rooted to the cold, hard floor.

“Calla!” I shout and break into a run, parallel to the moving sidewalk.

In one desperate, clumsy motion, I try to leap the divider. My legs tangle and I go sprawling, skidding across the rubber surface like a human bowling ball. I hear Callagasp, then laugh. It’s a genuine sound that melts the tension in my chest.

I scramble to my feet and find myself directly in front of her. She’s smiling and shaking her head in disbelief.

"Nice move. And nice glasses, I guess? What are you, some kind of terrible spy?" she asks. Her head tilts. “What the hell are you doing here, Jay Rustin?”

"Calla, please. Just listen." I’m breathless, both from the exertion and from the sheer weight of what I have to say. "I know you don’t trust me. I know you think this is all just a convenient arrangement. But it’s more than that for me. You’re more than that."

Her expression hardens but she stays silent, waiting.

"I’m in love with you," I blurt out. I didn’t know what I was going to say until this moment, but the second I tell her I love her, the tight fist of panic eases. I keep talking, word vomiting, "I’m in love with the way you have dessert for breakfast and how you always razz me for eating muesli. I’m in love with your family stories and the way you light up when you talk about them. I’m in love with your Converse sneakers, Calla. I’m in love with you."

She chews on her lip. There is a heaviness in her hazel eyes that I haven’t seen before. Shit, is she about to tell me to leave? To go back to my high-profile, adventurous life and let her return to hers?

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