I haven’t been to LAX in almost two years, so part of me wishes that Dean had come inside with me, but I decide that it’s better I didn’t drag all of this out longer than need be. He would have hated watching me disappear beyond check-in. Besides, I can manage on my own. I think.
As I predicted, the terminal is incredibly busy when I get inside, even at this time. I weave my way through the flow of people until I find a clear spot to stop for a moment. Swinging my backpack off my shoulder, I rummage around inside and pull out my phone. I draw up my text messages, grab hold of my suitcase and, as I make my way toward check-in, I begin to type.
Looks like next summer is here. See you soon.
And then I send it to the person I’ve been waiting three hundred and fifty-nine days to see.
I send it to Tyler.
2
It’s only when I land at Newark Liberty International Airport that I realize it’s not even in New York. It’s in New Jersey, and it’s packed. Despite taking off ten minutes late, we land ten minutes early. My body is still telling me that it’s 2PM and I’m craving lunch, but really, it’s now 5:17PM here.
Which means that any second now, I’ll be seeing him.
My heart skips a beat as my eyes scan the information signs above me. I’d take a moment to stop and figure out where I’m supposed to go, but I can’t stop now. There’s no way I can delay this any longer. I just want to see him already, so I sling my backpack over my shoulder and follow the people who have gotten off the same flight as me. But with each step, the more nauseous I feel. The more I realize I shouldn’t have come here. The more I believe this is a bad idea.
Of course it’s a bad idea, I think.
As if I’ll get over him by spending time alone with him. If anything, this is going to make it worse, harder. It’s easy for him. He’s probably long over me and he’s most likely dating some cute girl with a New York accent. And then there’s me, the idiot who’s spent an entire year still thinking about him. I know that when I see him, everything I ever felt will come rushing back at once. I can feel it already. I can feel that same nervous feeling in my stomach that I always did whenever he smiled at me, and I can feel my pulse racing at the same speed it always did whenever his eyes met mine.
I wonder if it’s too late to turn around.
The group I’ve been following heads down an escalator, but I hesitate at the top and step to the side, lingering for a moment. Maybe this won’t be so bad. I am excited to see him, despite the fact that my nerves are outweighing my excitement, and I’ve been waiting so long for this that it’s stupid to be having second thoughts.
I’m just confused and my head’s a mess, but I’m here now. It’s time to see him for the first time in a year.
My grip tightens around the strap of my backpack as I step onto the escalator, and my heart is quite literally thumping against my ribcage. I wonder if the people around me can hear it. It feels like I’m having a heart attack, like I’ll collapse any moment now from an anxiety overload. My legs feel stiff, but somehow I manage to keep moving, somehow manage to get off the escalator and advance across the arrivals level.
I’m half looking for the baggage carousels and half looking for a pair of green eyes. Around me, I can see people hesitating, looking. People in suits holding placards. Families searching the crowds flowing off the escalator. I study them in return twice as thoroughly. I know exactly who I’m looking for. For a moment, I think I see him. Black hair, tall. But just as my heart’s about to stop, he draws a woman into his arms and I realise that it isn’t him at all.
My eyes return to roaming the concourse as I make my way toward baggage claim, still forcing my feet to move, however numb my legs feel. I’m stealing glances at the line of placards as I pass, taking in the last names and wondering what all those people are coming to New York for. My thoughts don’t last long, however, because suddenly one placard in particular catches my eye. It draws my attention, of course, because I see my name scrawled on it in black Sharpie, each letter slightly out of alignment with the next one.
And that’s when I see him.
That’s when I see Tyler.