Page 111 of The Pocket Pair

I never have before, but give me a glue stick and I can make any kind of bouquet!

Vanz

Does that include taxidermied chicken feet?

CraftyCarol

No. Sorry.

Vanz

Then you probably shouldn’t say “any kind” of bouquet. False advertising.

Neighborly Mod

The comments on this thread have been closed. Please remember to be kind and above all, Neighborly!

EPILOGUE

Val

I’m an anxious, sweaty mess when I get off the plane in Austin-Bergstrom. Because, as I realized on my first-ever flight, I’m not just a nervous flier. I’m the kind who jumps at every bump, who screams at strange noises, and who uses multiple barf bags. A panicked flier. And, of course, a cheap flier, which means I had two layovers.

But I came prepared! No way am I going to see Chevy for the first time in months looking like death warmed over and then flambeed. True to his word, he came to Costa Rica a month ago. The visit took the edge off the distance, but barely. I mean—letters, calls, video chats, and the visit were great, but nothing will beat finally being home for good with Chevy.

Six total months away, and I’m ready to be back with the person who is my home.

It only takes a few minutes in the airport bathroom to freshen up—new shirt, freshly applied deodorant and a new perfume I found in Costa Rica, and a little bit of mascara. I’m giving my reflection a silent pep talk—since I’m not alone—when the woman washing her hands next to me meets my eyes in the mirror. She has blond hair and the kind of tiny lines around her eyes that say more about her propensity for smiling than her age.

“You’ve got that look about you,” she says with a smile. “A glow. Coming home to a boyfriend?”

“It’s probably just remnants of nervous sweating from the flight,” I say, zipping up my makeup bag.

She laughs at this, and I hand her a paper towel since I’m blocking the dispenser. “No—it’s definitely that love glow,” she says. “Enjoy your reunion.”

I know I will. And it’s thoughts of the reunion that have me power walking once I’m through customs. We’re supposed to meet at baggage claim, and I’m straining to see a familiar cowboy hat or those warm brown eyes or the crooked grin.

Instead, I spot a different familiar face.

“Lindy?”

She envelops me in a hug so tight I think she realigned my spine. As glad as I am to see her—especially with the new, rounded belly I can’t help but get teary over—she isn’t the person I wanted to see.

“I know,” she says, patting her belly. “I’m huge. I’m a whale. A double decker bus.”

“Hey! Stop talking about my friend like that. You look perfect. But, um, where’s Chevy?”

Lindy’s face falls. “He couldn’t come.” Trying to brighten her expression, she grabs my hand. “But Pat and Jo are out in front waiting.”

I force my disappointment down, down, down. Because I am excited to see Lindy again, to see Jo and Pat, to be home. But I ache for Chevy in a way that I don’t for anyone else, and I’m going to be in a constant state of buried frustration until I’m in his arms.

Per the usual, Pat provides an epic distraction.

“What are you driving?” I ask as he hops out of a sleek black minivan at the curb.

“Don’t ask me,” Lindy mutters. “I wanted a suburban.”

“Aw, you know you love the heated seat massager.” Pat gives me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Looking good Val! Don’t be too mad at my boy for sending us to pick you up. It kills him not to be here.”

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