There are only three restaurants in this terminal: a fast-food burger restaurant, a Chinese restaurant, and a bagel shop. I wouldn’t mind any of the options, but what I really need right now is a drink. I step out of the way of more people debating between the three restaurants and make my way down a ramp that leads to the same hall of long picture windows lining both walls. I manage to keep my gaze focused ahead as everyone continues to comment on the weather, overhearing conversations of people fretting over travel and missed holidays while others worry themselves over lost luggage and gifts.

The next terminal is even busier, larger with more dining options. I hang back so people are able to navigate around me as best as possible with my large bag as I look to each location.

A man’s expression etches into a deep frown, his eyes rounding with anger as he trips over my suitcase. I want to tell him he should have been watching where he was going, not talking on the phone, but he’s already out of earshot, shaking his head.

My arm burns from the weight of my bag as I approach the first sit-down restaurant with the name “Bar and Grill” in the title. There’s, of course, a line. There will be a line to eat anywhere, and I know that. Still it annoys me as I remove my jacket and sweater, too warm to be wearing even the long-sleeved cardigan I have on. I doubt I can fit my coat or sweater into my bag though, because I didn’t want to have to worry about checking a bag and opted to ship the gifts I bought for my family and carry my luggage on. That was a feat. Thankfully they don’t weigh carry-ons, because I’m sure mine weighs well over the fifty-pound limit.

My hair’s charged with static from the friction of removing my outer layers, causing it to stand on end. I hastily run my hands over it, trying to calm or possibly threaten the strands. This is not what I need right now.

My attention shifts from my reflection in the large glass walls of the restaurant. I’m not sure what catches my attention. A movement, a familiarity, possibly a voice, but I’m turned, facing the last person I expect and more importantly last person I want to see. EVER.

I quickly drop my hands from smoothing my hair, and my entire body jerks in the opposite direction in an attempt to hide. In my haste, my elbow catches a plastic cup set on the corner of the host podium. A loud crash echoes at my feet. Pens and hundreds of tiny rocks spray my legs and the surrounding floor. I’m frozen, staring at the mess for several seconds before the reason for my hurried retreat steps into view, his chin tilted as he looks at me with amusement dancing in his dark-blue eyes.

“Piper Peterson.” He says my name like the answer to a trivia question that was on the tip of his tongue he’s afraid might get lost again.

I dutifully ignore him, moving my bag and focusing my attention to help the hostess working to clean up the mess I’ve made. “Sorry,” I mumble, dropping a handful of the stones back into the cup.

She doesn’t reply to accept or deny my apology, likely because the bane of my existence is hovering close to her, picking up the last of the pens.

I drop a few last rocks on top and turn, reshuffling my belongings and getting ready to jet to the other side of the airport.

“Carter,” a man calls from behind me, promising me a clean getaway.

“Yeah, can I add one more?” he asks, and then he’s grabbing the handle of my suitcase, stopping my progress and nearly making me stumble over my own bag.

“No!” I cry the single word louder than all of the commotion around us. Several people look our way, but I don’t care. They can watch me make a scene all they want.

“A table for two,” Carter repeats raising his hand to reflect two fingers as he begins tugging my bag back toward the restaurant.

“I’m not hungry,” I argue.

“Sure you are.”

“No, I’m heading back to my gate.”

“The airline attendant told me they have the best burgers in the entire airport.”

“Great. I hope you don’t choke on it.” I tug on my suitcase again, careful not to touch him.

“I see we’re making progress,” he says, a smile making his barely visible freckles both easier and harder to see.

I scowl, jerking the handle of my suitcase to try to regain my positioning. It doesn’t move. Then he pulls it forward, making me follow a few steps before I release it and stop.

“Sir, ma’am, this way please. It’s really getting busy, and we need to get you seated unless you’ve decided to dine elsewhere.”

“Yes,” I say at the same time Carter gives an even louder no.

“No,” he repeats, “we’re ready.”

I briefly consider leaving my belongings and retreating to the safety of my terminal again. I probably would if my glasses and contact case weren’t tucked inside somewhere. Curious eyes follow us as we move past the last few in line and into the small alcove of the restaurant.

“Your server will be with you in just a moment,” the man says, his attention avoiding me as he quickly departs from our table.

“Still making everyone in your vicinity quake a bit, I see.” He has the audacity to smile as he scoots his chair closer to the table.

“That was your fault,” I hiss.

“I gave you the opportunity to eat an hour earlier than you would have if you’d waited, and you practically accused me of being a terrorist!”

“Shhhhh!” My eyebrows draw low over my eyes before I scan over the nearby tables to ensure no one else heard him.

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a knot.”

“Maybe you should try getting yours in a knot for once. Maybe then you’d understand that the world isn’t all about you.”

“Brad said you were still living over here. I was waiting for you to contact me so we could go to lunch or something.”

“You’re my brother’s best friend, not mine.”

“I’ve known you since you were two.”

“Which means nothing.”

“Pipe…”

My eyebrows rise with question, loathing him calling me the nickname so many use. From him, it’s too personal.

“Yes, Carter?” I ask when he doesn’t continue.

“Hey, folks, my name’s Jeanie, and I’ll be taking care of you this afternoon. Can I start you off with something to drink? Lemonade? Iced tea? Coke?”

“I’ll have a gin and tonic, please.”

“I’ll take a beer,” Carter adds.

She smiles before leaving, giving me hope that not everyone is expecting this place to turn into doom and gloom.

I avoid Carter’s glance and raise my menu high enough to obstruct my entire face from view and look over the pictures. It’s an old habit, one I can’t always rely on. Dyslexia is something I can often ignore and avoid. While I’m in school or studying, I can focus and remember old tips and tricks so my disability barely slows me down. However, stress makes words become indecipherable hieroglyphics. This place doesn’t have a lot of pictures but enough that I’m able to get the gist of the menu and find something that makes my stomach rumble.

I leave the menu raised until our waitress returns and then act like it’s completely normal when I point to what I’d like to order rather than state it aloud like Carter does after me.

“So…” he begins.

“So…” I repeat back.

“How are you liking the Big Apple?”

I look at him blankly. With all of our history, this is the question he wants to ask me? A bullshit surface question that means absolutely nothing?

“You’ve ignored me for the last four years,” he says, reading my thoughts. I hate that he can. It’s something so few men are capable of doing, and yet knowing Carter as long as I have, he knows my expressions and their significance better than even I do. “I thought we could open up with something easy and light, nothing that will end with your drink being thrown in my face.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

“Don’t you kind of miss … even just a tiny bit…”—his index finger and thumb rise with the barest of spaces between them—“miss hanging out?”

“You put gum in my hair.”

“When I was eight!”

I shrug, not caring that it was seventeen years ago.

“And I won you that giant car stuffed animal at the fair to make up for it,” he says.

I loved that stuffed animal. It was a better quality than the cheap ones they give away today and lasted for years on my bed as my cuddle source. Unfortunately, he knows this as well.

“Then you pushed me while we were trick-or-treating, and I fell into the ditch and had to get stitches!” My index finger runs over my covered shoulder, recalling the exact location.

“You kept telling me I looked like a girl because I was dressed as a lion.”

“It wasn’t because you were dressed as a lion. It was because that mane made it look like you had California beach hair,” I recall, my lips lifting into a smile with the memory.

“My mom made it. What was I supposed to do?”

“Not try to kill me for being honest.”

“You mean like that time you pushed my sled off the mining trail?”

My eyes roll. “I did not try to kill you. I was on the sled with you. It was just a sharp turn.”

“I had to get nineteen stitches and a cast.” He did. A lime-green one that my brother and I spent hours drawing the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on. Until this day, he never once blamed me for that accident. In fact, he had told my dad that the sled tipped because of the weight.

“And you gave me my first black eye.” He draws an invisible line under his left eye.

“You ripped the head off my Barbie!” I accuse.

“After you broke my robot and laughed!”

Our matching glares are interrupted by the delivery of our food. My club sandwich and salad that looked appealing on the menu pales in comparison to the cheeseburger and fries Carter ordered. His burger’s huge. Stacked with layers of tomatoes, bacon, and cheese so thick I can visibly see it, topped with pickles and fried onion rings. I sigh, thinking I should have ordered a burger, too.

“Don’t sulk. I’ll share,” he says lifting his knife and cutting into his burger, causing his toppings to become more prominent.

“I don’t know how you always order better than me.”

“It’s my saving grace,” Carter grins, his dimples becoming deep valleys in his cheeks. It makes me think I should walk him by CJ to show him what he ought to work to aspire to look like because without a single doubt, Carter O’Brien is the best-looking guy I’ve ever seen. Even the men in New York City, with their sleek and tailored suits, dark and mysterious eyes, and full swaggers, can’t compete with Carter’s broad shoulders that are strong from years of working at his dad’s pet and feed store, plain and basic jeans that fit him like Levi’s ads portray, and attentiveness that shows he isn’t looking for your reaction to his body or financial status.

He extends a long arm across the table, depositing the larger half of his burger on my plate, and I catch the scent of soap on his bared forearm that still reflects the many bales of hay he had to lift and carry.

“Do you mind bringing us some ranch, please?” Carter asks, catching our waitress as she walks by. “Two.”

Conversation halts as I dig into the burger, closing my eyes as my taste buds do a happy dance that has me almost liking Carter again. When I finish it, I hand two of the triangles of my own sandwich to him and steal a handful of his fries. They’re dusted with parsley and other spices that seem too fancy for being in an airport.

When the waitress returns with our check, I reach for my wallet, but Carter waves me away, inserting his card and leaving it near his elbow in case I try to touch it. If I didn’t have half of my cookie-and-ice-cream dessert left, I’d probably argue. Instead, I eat.

“We should probably find some water bottles and snacks,” I concede as we exit the restaurant.

“That was my thought, too. And then hopefully find an outlet to charge our phones and things. We can see how the storm is.”

I don’t waste time telling him there won’t be a “we.” I figure we both need supplies, and I’m willing to go as far as doing that with him. Afterward, I will let him find his own outlet while I find some empty seats.

We wander through the airport at a slow pace due to our bags and more people wandering in search of food and answers. Carter tips his head when we come to another long hall connecting terminals, where several vending machines are lined against the wall.

I follow him, getting in a short line before rummaging through my bag to get change. “Three dollars!” I cry when we get to the front. “Does someone stand at the end of the glacier and collect this water by hand?”

Carter chuckles. “We’ll get a few and see what the news is saying.” He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and grips a handful of bills.

“Are you working at a strip club?”

His smile is so familiar and has been absent for so long. A small ache in my chest has me looking away as Carter starts feeding the dollars to the vending machine.

“What should we put them in?” I ask, eyeing my coat. Perhaps we could make a makeshift hammock with it.

“Here,” he says, pulling an empty backpack from his suitcase.

“Lots of singles and an empty bag? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you arranged this snowstorm.”

He shakes his head once, handing me a chilled bottle of water. “I’ve been here a few hours and had time to do a little planning.”

Carter O’Brien is a handy man. A Boy Scout to the T. My dad always said he would make one hell of a cop or investigator because he was always three steps ahead of everyone else and rarely got concerned because regardless of what he faced, he navigated the situation and almost always surpassed expectations.