Page 48 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

She nods, understanding the urgency, and hurries to arrange transportation. I pull out my phone, checking the time with shaking hands. Dean's flight was scheduled for early afternoon, which means I have maybe an hour to reach him before he boards. Not much time, but enough. It has to be enough.

The taxi arrives with a screech of tires on pavement, the driver responding to the urgency my mother must have conveyed. I hug her quickly, fiercely.

"Thank you," I whisper against her hair.

"Go get him," she replies, pushing me gently toward the cab. "And Brooke? Don't hold back. Not this time."

I slide into the backseat, calling to the driver before the door is fully closed: "Kahului Airport, as fast as you can. It's an emergency."

As we pull away, I catch a glimpse of my mother standing in the driveway, one hand raised in farewell, a smile of satisfaction on her face.

The drive to the airport passes in a blur of tropical landscape and racing thoughts. I try Dean's cell twice, but it goes straight to voicemail—either turned off or already in airplane mode. No matter. I'll find him. I have to.

With each mile that passes, my resolve strengthens. The fear doesn't disappear—I'm still terrified of the unknown, of the changes and compromises ahead—but for the first time, I recognize it as the price of admission to something greater. Something worth fighting for.

I spend the drive rehearsing what I'll say when I find him, but every practiced speech feels inadequate, too scripted for the raw emotion churning inside me. In the end, I decide to trust that when I see him, I'll find the right words. The true ones.

The airport comes into view, a modern structure surrounded by palm trees, and my heart rate kicks up another notch. The driver, sensing my anxiety, pulls up directly to the departures area.

"Good luck," he says as I thrust cash into his hand, not waiting for change before bolting toward the terminal doors.

Inside, the airport is bustling with travelers—families returning from vacation, business people in wrinkled suits, honeymooners still glowing with newlywed happiness. I scan the departure board frantically, searching for flights to Denver or Colorado Springs.

There—a flight to Denver departing in forty minutes. That has to be Dean's. I check the gate number and race toward security, only to be stopped by a stern TSA agent.

"Ticket and ID, please."

"I don't have a ticket," I admit breathlessly. "I need to reach someone before they board. It's important."

The agent's expression doesn't change. "Can't let you through without a ticket, ma'am."

"Please," I beg, desperation making my voice crack. "I just need to talk to him. Five minutes."

"Rules are rules," he says, unmoved by my pleading. "You can try paging them from the courtesy phone."

I want to scream with frustration, but I know it won't help. Think, Brooke. There has to be a way.

The departures area is separated from the secure side by glass walls. If I can't go to Dean, maybe I can at least see him, make him see me. I hurry to the barrier, scanning the crowded terminal beyond for his familiar figure.

There—by the coffee shop, his back to me, that same stance I'd recognize anywhere. Dean.MyDean.

"Dean!" I call, but my voice is lost in the cacophony of airport announcements and traveler conversations. I bang on the glass, drawing irritated looks from nearby passengers, but he doesn't turn.

Desperate now, I run to the courtesy phone the TSA agent mentioned. An airport employee watches with mild interest as I grab the receiver.

"I need to page someone," I say breathlessly. "It's an emergency."

"Name?" she asks, fingers poised over a keyboard.

"Dean McAllister, on the Denver flight."

She nods, typing something before handing me the microphone. "Go ahead when you hear the tone."

A sharp beep sounds, and then my voice is echoing throughout the terminal: "Dean McAllister, please come to the main concourse. Dean McAllister to the main concourse."

I watch through the glass as he turns, confusion evident even at this distance. His eyes scan the terminal, looking for the source of the page. I bang on the glass again, waving frantically, and this time—this time he sees me.

For a moment, he just stares, as if unable to believe I'm really there. Then he's moving toward the barrier, his expression a complicated mix of hope and wariness that makes my heart ache.

---