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“Morning. I need a ride.”
This time, I’m not just giving Boone a chance to make money. In our tiny town, waiting for an Uber would take too long.
Chasing her down at the airport might be cliché, but it’s the only move I have left.
“Morning?” I can hear a grin in Boone’s voice. “It’s twelve-thirty in the afternoon.”
Fuck. According to the clock on the microwave, he’s right.
This might be why I don’t feel particularly hungover, which still doesn’t mean my BAC is under .08, which would make me safe to drive.
When is Brooklyn’s flight? Did I miss it already?
Fuck. I don’t even know which airport or airline. I was counting on convincing her to stay so much that I never asked for the specifics of her trip home.
“When can you be here?” I demand.
“Two minutes,” Boone says. “I was just cutting the grass in your community.”
Ah. Right. Hiring him despite his prior conviction was one of the few things I strongarmed the HOA to do. Boone got into trouble with the law for making homemade moonshine without a license, which doesn’t exactly scream “incapable of doing landscaping.”
I run back to my place and grab some food from the fridge—it’s best I talk to Brooklyn on a full stomach, assuming I get the chance. While I’m here, I feed Harry and Sally as well, and by the time I’m done, Boone is pulling into my driveway.
“To the Jacksonville Airport,” I tell him, choosing the closest and biggest one as it’s most likely to be Brooklyn’s point of departure. “And punch it.”
He does just that, driving like he’s in an episode of The Dukes of Hazzard.
As we go, I use my phone to research which flight Brooklyn is likely to be on, and staring at a screen in such a fast-moving car doesn’t help my remaining wooziness. I ignore flights before one p.m., as I have no chance of making it to those, and focus on the ones headed to JFK because it’s closest to Brooklyn. That gives me one candidate: the Delta flight at one-thirty.
Except even with our current speed, I won’t be able to reach the airport in time to intercept her if she’s on it. When I tell that to Boone, he really floors the gas. His poor car shakes as if it’s going to fall apart, but miraculously, it doesn’t.
Equally miraculously, we don’t get stopped by the police. Instead, we enter the airport at such a speed that Boone almost runs over an old lady before he comes to a screeching halt—a New Yorker lady, I suspect, at least if the bird she flips us is anything to go by.
As I hop out of the car, Boone wishes me luck, his labored breathing sounding like he’s carried me here on his back.
I sprint inside and dash for the nearest ticket booth. By now, Brooklyn must be through security, and they won’t let me through if I’m not a passenger.
“Give me a ticket,” I demand.
The lady at the counter frowns. “Where to?”
“YUM,” I reply. I’ve never flown to this particular airport in Yuma, Arizona, but with a code like that, they’d better have the best restaurants in the world.
The lady hands me the ticket and I run for security, thanking the TSA gods I’m precleared for expedited screening.
The problem is, there’s a line of other expedited passengers, and it’s long—though not as long as the regular line.
Gritting my teeth, I wait. And wait. And wait.
By the time I’m through security, I have to run at full speed to Brooklyn’s gate.
Shit. They’re almost done boarding, and what’s worse, I see Brooklyn showing the agent her ticket.
I guessed right about her flight. And I’m still going to miss it.
“Wait!” I shout. “Brooklyn, hold up!”
No reaction—other than walking into the gate. She didn’t hear me or, worse, pretended not to hear.
