Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
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"Flight 8109 from Wilmington to Los Angeles will start boarding in five minutes. Again, this is your five-minute call for flight 8109 from Wilmington to Los Angeles."
The gate agent's voice cuts through the terminal and jolts me awake. For a second, I don't move. I can't. I just sit there, blinking, trying to piece together where I am and how long I've been out, before awareness comes rushing back in all at once.
My legs are stretched out in front of me, crossed at the ankles. My arms have slipped off the armrests and are draped uselessly over the empty seats beside me. My mouth feels dry – really dry – which can only mean it's been hanging open for who knows how long.
Terrific.
I swipe quickly at the corner of it, just in case, then sit up straighter, trying to recover some shred of dignity.
I feel like I've been asleep for hours and not long enough at the same time, that heavy, disoriented kind of tired that makes everything feel slightly off. Realistically, it's probably been ten minutes. Fifteen, if I'm lucky.
Plenty of time to look completely unhinged in public.
I glance around instinctively, half-expecting someone to be holding up their phone, capturing the moment for the internet. Because that would be my luck.
Our flight is about to board, and Greyson is still in line for coffee. I can't even be annoyed about that. The place is packed.
People are everywhere – clustered around the check-in counters with rolling suitcases and overstuffed carry-ons, filling the small restaurants and bars, some picking at breakfast, others already working their way through something stronger. A group of teenage girls crowd near the windows, taking selfies with exaggerated pouts, the runway stretching out behind them, while parents chase after restless kids weaving through the seating area like they've been set loose.
Closer to the outlets, a handful of business travelers sit hunched over laptops, cords tangled at their feet, voices low and clipped as they squeeze in calls before boarding.
The sun isn't even up yet, and the place is already buzzing.
There's something familiar about it. The movement. The noise. The constant sense of people who think they're more important than everyone else going places.
It reminds me of New York – but instead of that suffocating pull of wanting it back, it lands differently now. Weaker. Like something I can look at without feeling like I lost it.
I sit up, rolling my neck and shoulders to work out the stiffness from the position I fell asleep in, and when I glance over my shoulder, I spot Greyson making his way toward me, two coffees in one hand and a Starbucks bag in the other – and just like that, everything else fades out a little.
It's not subtle. The way people react to him.
Conversations stall. Heads turn. A couple walking side by side instinctively shifts apart to let him pass, like they don't even realize they're doing it. Men glance twice, recognition flickering, nudging each other under their breath, while women – young, older, doesn't matter – watch him openly, eyes tracking him in a way that isn't even trying to be discreet.
