Page 105 of The Pocket Pair

I can feel my sweatiness growing in proportion to her irritation. I wipe my forehead with the sleeve of my jacket as I grab my phone. “Sorry. Hang on.”

I manage to pull up the ticket on my phone and pass over my driver’s license and passport because I don’t know what she needs. I also have my birth certificate and my very last high school report card tucked in my purse. I’m not sure why I even still have it, or why I brought it, but BETTER SAFE THAN SORRY.

A few sweaty minutes later, my big bag is rolling away on a conveyor belt, and I’m checked in—no need for my report card, as it turns out—and headed toward security when I hear a familiar shout.

No—I imagine a familiar shout.

Because there is no way I actually hear Chevy shouting. He’s in the hospital. And even if he weren’t, he pushed me away just days ago. No way is he going to chase me down in the airport now.

Unless …

Unless he realized he was being an idiot and DID show up here.

No way. Again: he’s in the hospital.

And maybe the person was shouting Sal or Hal. Not Val.

I keep shuffling forward with the rest of the people through a zigzag maze rivaling an amusement park line. This is far from amusing.

I hear another shout, this one shouting a word I can’t possibly mistake. “TINY!”

My head whips around.

I spot a shirtless and still bandaged Chevy all the way across the terminal just as two beefy and out of breath security guards reach him. My eyes meet his across the crowded space, and something inside my chest locks into place.

He’s here. He came!

Though thoughts are quickly followed by questions: Where’s his shirt? Did he escape the hospital?

I stand there, still staring dumbly, as two airport security guys say something to Chevy I can’t hear. It doesn’t look pleasant, based on their expressions and the way they grab his bare arms.

Even from here, I can see the way Chevy winces at their rough hold.

“HEY!” I shout, and now everyone’s turning to look at me. I start working my way backward through the line, never taking my eyes off Chevy. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Sorry. Could I get by?”

People grumble as I fight my way past, trying to keep my wheeled carry-on from whacking people in the shins. The security officers are yelling at Chevy now, which allows me to catch pieces of conversation, like about how he needs a shirt and needs to leave.

“Chevy!” I call, right as a large motorized trolley thing stops right in front of me, letting a handful of older men and women pile off with their carry-ons, almost completely boxing me in.

I hoist my bag in my arms and hop onto the trolley, cutting right across one of the rows.

“Hey!” the driver shouts. “You can’t be on here.”

“Just taking a short cut,” I call, making my way across and hopping down.

Now, James and Winnie have joined the fray, and while one of the security guards still has Chevy by the arm, Winnie is shouting at the other, channeling all her fierce Winchester Boyd indignation.

“Can’t you see he’s injured!” Winnie shouts. “He’s a cop and was injured in the line of duty, so hands off and back up!”

“Let’s all calm down,” James says, just as another security guard with a bristly mustache appears in front of me.

He holds up two placating hands, which are anything but placating at the moment. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to stop running through the airport.”

“I’m not—”

His hands go up higher, much closer to my face. If he doesn’t watch it, I’m going to take a bite out of one of his fingers.

“I saw you going the wrong way through the line and using the trolley as a springboard.”

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