Standing at the baggage claim in terminal three, I feel like even more of an automaton than I usually do waiting for my luggage. Every fiber in my being is telling me to look at my phone and read Lana’s message for the two hundredth time. Instead, I take a deep breath and resist, waiting the eternity that it takes for my shit to come around the carousel.

Sitting on the AirTrain, I have all of those ridiculous panicky symptoms—I’m nauseous, I feel my heart pounding at an unhealthy rate, and my mouth is bone-dry. I still want to read the message again, but instead I close my eyes so I don’t have to look at the ugly inside of the train car or the gray day outside.

When I’m at the curb and the taxi driver is loading my bags into the trunk, I take another deep breath and feel a little calmer. I use this as an excuse to read the message again and try to make sense of it.

Reading it again doesn’t help. The text message from Lana refers to a letter—not an email, not even a phone call, but an actual paper letter with a fucking envelope and postage—sent from Rainforest.com.

Getting a letter out of the blue from Rainforest isn’t good, and just the casual start of the text—“You got a letter from Rainforest” — is dreadful enough on its own. Not even a greeting.

Lana must be as worried as I am.

I scan through the entire message twice before getting into the back of the Suburban. I try to zone out during the ride, saving my energy for when I actually need to deal with this shit.

It starts raining lightly as we go up the freeway, and certain words and phrases keep popping into my head: “suspicious activity,” “reviewing the account,” “potential action.”

I don’t need this on its own, and I certainly don’t fucking need it on top of everything else. I’m not prepared to deal with it right now, but right now may be the only option I have. Lana convinced me I need to cut my trip short to address this immediately.

The sun’s coming out by the time we’re rolling through the city. Almost instantly, it’s a beautiful afternoon, with the sunlight dancing off the skyline. I try not to think about the letter—or WineBar.

We drive the last few blocks to my building. The sidewalks are crowded with people who all look so happy, basking in the weather like they’ve never seen the fucking sun before.

I notice couples—there seem to be so fucking many of them—looking content, fulfilled. It looks like it must be so easy for all of them, like they’ve never had to go through any struggles or challenges, like it all just clicked.

The taxi slows down gradually on my street, and my heart starts pounding again. That fucking text message, the letter...what does it mean? Why didn’t Lana send a photo of it instead of those few vague, terrifying words?

The driver tells me the fare. I hand him my credit card.

Is that what it’s like when you finally find the right person? It just clicks, with no challenges at all? The thought shoots through my mind as he hands me the receipt.

I listen to the Suburban drive off behind me as I look at the entrance to my building. At this very instant, I don’t even have it in me to walk inside.

I take a minute to look at the front entrance. Whatever’s on the other side, whatever’s in that letter from Rainforest, I need to face it eventually. So I guess I just have to say, “Fuck it. Here we go.”

I can’t see inside the building at all. There’s too much glare from the sun. I know that it will be the same lobby, hallways, and apartment for the millionth time.

I’m not looking forward to any of it.

I finally step inside, and at first the lobby looks empty. That’s expected at this time of day. Sunshine is also pouring in as I walk through the door, making it hard to see what’s in front of me.

I do see a figure, though. Just a shadow. Who the hell...wait...what?

The door closes, and the first thing I see is the flower. Just a single rose, and whoever’s holding it is bringing toward me.

“Em...”

That voice…and that face. I now see him so clearly.

It’s the only sight that could possibly bring me out of the funk I’ve been in the past few weeks. In Cancun, in New York. Pretty much every fucking minute since I woke up the day after the barbecue.

It’s Kirk. It’s WineBar.

He’s looking kinda bored out of his mind, as if he’s been here for hours.

But he sees me.

He’s coming toward me, holding that single rose.

Tears fill my eyes, and the doorman’s just looking at the two of us.

But I don’t fucking care because WineBar’s right there in front of me now.

“Emily, if it’s a choice between every other girl and you, I realized—it’s you,” he says.

I can’t speak. I’m frozen to the spot, my eyes locked on his as he looks at me in a way I thought I’d never see again.

“If it’s a choice between Miami or New York or any other fucking place in the whole fucking world and you—it’s still fucking you,” he says again.

I might be making some sort of noise, I’m not sure, but right now I don’t fucking care.

“And, Em...”

“Guh.” I can’t even form any words, and I know I’m a hot mess with tears spilling down my cheeks.

WineBar doesn’t even flinch. His eyes stay focused and serious. He leans closer, and now he’s just a few inches away.

I can feel his warmth. I can smell his wondrous scent.

I stare into Kirk’s eyes which are directed at mine, radiating warmth, both passion and tenderness and wild, raging desire and soulful intensity. He’s reflecting all of those indescribable things I feel, those things that I know now, we both feel.

“And, Emily...”

“Bluh.”

“It will always be you. Every fucking time. You, Em. It is you. It’s no one but you.”

I feel the warmth increase as Kirk moves in closer and wraps me in his arms as and brings me closer still, until our lips meet in a long overdue kiss.

I don’t know how long we’re there in the lobby, kissing like it’s the very air we need to breathe, but eventually we go upstairs.

I think…for the first day of the rest of our lives.