Page 106 of The Pocket Pair

“Are either of those things crimes? Are you going to put me under airport arrest?”

“No, but—”

“I’m coming, Tiny! Hang on!” Chevy cries.

I peek around the security guard’s shoulders. From somewhere, James has procured a wheelchair, and is gently shoving Chevy into it. Then, in a move so smooth it belongs in a movie, James rips off his shirt.

I swear I hear the collective dropping of jaws all around the terminal at the sight of James Graham’s bare torso. He should come with a permanent warning label like the one you’re never supposed to remove from mattresses. Only his would say something like, Look, don’t touch, or my girlfriend will claw out your eyeballs and feed them to the crows.

With a gentleness I’ve only seen James direct toward Winnie, he helps Chevy into the shirt. Chevy’s arm in the sling can’t move, so there’s one empty sleeve hanging there.

One hundred points for James Graham.

The security guards, however, do not appreciate his act of kindness. Or his model-worthy bare torso. It’s only a matter of time before—

“Is that one of the Grahams?” I hear someone ask.

Guess the time for James to get recognized is now. I sometimes forget how famous the Grahams are. They’re all so normal. I mean, no—the abs that all of them possess are in no way normal. But I mean, they’re so down to earth, I forget unless I see them in a public space how well-known and respected they are. Even James, who never got to play pro ball.

I step around the security guard, who is now distracted by the people gathering, phones lifted to take pictures and video. James continues to provide a distraction to the security guards by standing firm in his shirtless Graham glory while they yell at him about proper airport attire. Winnie takes this opportunity to bolt, pushing Chevy in the wheelchair at a dead sprint.

In pink peep-toe heels.

Chevy clutches the armrests with both hands, looking as though he might regret this whole endeavor. Or, at least, the part where Winnie got control of the wheelchair.

Until our eyes meet again. And then, his expression shifts to something totally different. It’s the way I’ve always wanted someone—for most of my life, wanted HIM—to look at me. Like I am worth being pushed through an airport in a wheelchair. Worth all of this fuss and the scene he and Winnie are making. And the million stitches he might be ripping open with all this movement I know he shouldn’t be doing.

One of the security guards is trying to escort an unmoving James out of the building, while the other runs after Winnie, who ditched her heels somewhere for better speed. The security guard in front of me clears his throat and raises his eyebrows at me.

“Friends of yours?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m sorry for running and climbing over the trolley,” I tell him, then ask, “Have you ever done something stupid for love?”

His mustache twitches, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s uncomfortable talking about his feelings or trying not to laugh at me. “Who hasn’t?”

“Me,” I tell him. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things for a lot of people who weren’t worth it, but until now, I haven’t really done anything stupid for love.”

His eyes narrow. “Is the stupid thing you’re thinking about doing against airport policy?”

I shake my head. “Nope. My stupid thing is giving this guy a chance to redeem himself. Even though he was a total idiot.”

The security guard turns then, just as Winnie and Chevy reach us. My friend is panting and leans on the back of the wheelchair for support, while Chevy gets unsteadily to his feet. The security guard who’s been chasing Winnie finally catches up, too out of breath to even say anything to her yet.

My mustachioed security guy sighs, mutters, “Only at airports,” and walks away to help his friend deal with Winnie. I’d offer to help, but she doesn’t need it.

“Tiny.” Chevy stands in front of me, looking tousled and funny in James’s too-big shirt and empty sleeve dangling there. “I’m so glad I got here in time.”

“I still need to go soon if I want to make my flight.” His face falls, and I barely stop myself from reaching out to touch his good arm. “Are you okay?”

“Physically—I might have pulled a few stitches. But that doesn’t matter. Because I’m not okay otherwise.”

His expression takes on an intensity I’ve never seen before. They’re sparking with determination, but he drags a hand through his hair, looking like he’s fighting to find the right words. My instinct is to fill pauses like this with words—lots and lots of words—but I bite the inside of my cheek to stay quiet.

“I’m bad at this,” he says. “I’m so good at the light words, the ones that stay up near the surface. But I don’t know how to do these kinds of words.”

“What kinds of words?” I ask.

Tentatively, like he’s scared I’ll pull away, he reaches for my hand. I let him, and his shoulders sink with relief. “The heart kind of words,” he says.

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