Traveling has always been something I have loathed. I find it completely overwhelming, especially if said travel is by air. I hate packing because I never know what I’ll actually need, inevitably leading me to overpacking in case I get caught going somewhere nice and need a dress or a laid-back environment where I need to attempt looking like a casual twenty-two-year-old. Or maybe I won’t go anywhere because plans will be canceled due to weather, and I’ll have the entire night to do nothing but drink my dad’s homemade eggnog and eat sugar cookies while watching every Christmas movie on the Hallmark Channel, requiring my favorite sweater and fuzzy socks. Will it be teeth-chattering cold? Or freeze-your-eyelashes cold? Are we going to spend most of the break outside? Inside? Do I need boots?

Once I overcome my packing debacle, which always leads to removing several articles of clothes only to later pack them again and then remove them again, then finally settle on repacking a few of the items because I must have thought to pack them initially for some reason … right? Then I’m faced with transportation to the airport. Do you leave your car? Take a taxi? Beg for a ride from some unsuspecting friend, promising to bring back something to make it worth them coming back to get you?

And then there’s the worst part about flying: the waiting.

Patience has never been my strength. I know this. I can fully admit this. Which is why I come prepared with my favorite trash magazines, the knowledge of the nearest Starbucks, and headphones so I don’t have to listen to everyone else’s impatience—or worse yet—their life story.

That’s why I moved here to New York City when I was just eighteen, shocking some and becoming a local joke for others. I want to become an actress, and the fastest place for that to happen is here in the Big Apple. The jokes don’t bother me … much, at least not anymore. I’ve been turned down, mocked, and thrown out of rehearsal halls by some of the most infamous and unknown directors on Broadway—if I can handle those blows, I can certainly handle Mandy Bergen who graduated and never stepped a foot out of our home town, and her bitter jokes.

And while I hate to travel, and even hate going back home where the mocking is guaranteed to be thicker than the icicles lining my parents’ roofline, Christmas is in three days, and Christmas is one of the few things that I don’t hate.

Everyone has a list of what home reminds them of. This is mine:

Food. My mother has never been a great cook. You can’t even consider her mediocre. She grew up believing salt was the equivalency of arsenic and therefore only uses pepper, making most dishes bland with a slight bit of spice. Still, I get homesick for her chicken-fried chicken and country gravy and experience physical withdrawals when it comes to her pork tenderloin.

Emily. Emily is my best friend. My sister … and now sister-in-law. Our moms are best friends, and though she’s a year older than I am, nothing has ever kept us apart. Now she’s married to my older brother, so there’s no escaping me.

Elvis. My parents share a ridiculous and oftentimes embarrassing obsession for the King.

Clean air. It’s as though smog doesn’t exist in Minnesota.

Really noisy birds. I think this has to do with the clean air.

Driving. Everything is sooooooo far away. This is one of the greatest things about living in New York.

Gossip. When you live in a small town, your neighbors, friends, enemies, and frenemies know all. It’s a fact of small-town life.

My “Home Christmas List” has to be expanded because each of these items is still prevalent, but now you have to add:

C7/C9 light bulbs. You know, the really large ones that everyone has replaced with smaller LED lights? Not my parents. Dad still has boxes of extra bulbs so that each year, when the lights are turned back on, revealing burnt-out bulbs, we’re at the ready.

Tinsel. We’ve lost two vacuum cleaners to my mother’s obsession with the tacky silver strands that tangle in our branches each year.

Sledding. If it’s a good snow year, we trek up the old mining hill and spend entire days riding down the hill.

A Christmas Story. I work to avoid the living room because this movie is played ALL day long in our house on December 25th, and each year I hate it just a little bit more.

Dominos. Every Christmas ends with all of us sitting around the table, our bellies still too full from dinner as we try to eat the numerous desserts my mom spent days baking, while we play dominos.

And lastly: Eggnog. My dad makes the best eggnog you’ve ever tried, and it improved after I hit twenty-one and he started spiking it with brandy.

Since I was recently rejected for a role that cost me my waitressing job where I was making my best tips and have now picked up a housekeeping job for a local hotel, I know home this year is mostly going to equate to one thing and one thing only: trying to get me to move back to Minnesota. This knowledge is making my bags feel heavier as I release a deep breath and march forward, my chin high, my annoyance for everyone going the speed of mosey even higher.

“God, it looks like Armageddon out there,” a woman beside me remarks. I feel her eyes on me seeking agreement, but I avoid her as avidly as I do the large picture windows we’re passing. The clerk informed me when I checked in that my flight was delayed. (Delays, another thing I hate about traveling!) It made the line through security even more painful. I should add that traveling during the winter makes things even more difficult because you have to wear a coat and several layers to keep you cool enough while you wait and warm enough for the frigid flight, thus making removing the layers to go through the machine that reveals everything your clothes hide a much-hated experience. But, thankfully, I’ve found Starbucks. My cup is in hand along with a magazine holding the promise of celebrity gossip, trending styles, and all that doesn’t include the idea of moving home, easing my tension.

Everything is going to be fine.

The tarmac and runway will be plowed while I drink my Toasted White Chocolate Mocha, and the flight will be ready to go by the time I’m caught up on the current dramas happening in Hollywood. I know this because if it doesn’t, my parents are going to be punctuating the reasons for me to move home with reminders of why they suggested I travel earlier.

My carry-on stalls, hitting the shoe of a man lounging against the wall with his legs stretched to their full length. Deserving the scowl I shoot him, he slowly retracts his legs before I stack my shuffled purse back on my bag and set forth again.

If I didn’t need to send my mom a text to update her on my arrival time, I would be searching for an empty row and pursuing my plan to block everything out, but I need to get an update on my flight. Every ticket desk with an airline employee present is being swarmed. Voices are raised. Hands are waving. Children are crying. And my neck muscles each constrict, causing an instant headache to grip my thoughts.

I suck in a deep breath and angle myself behind a man wearing a hunter-green cable-knit sweater who is clearly restless, his neck swiveling continuously from the airline representative to the throngs of people waiting at the nearby gate. My attention remains focused on the rep. Her hair is wrapped up in a ponytail that visibly wasn’t her initial hair style this morning, and her shoulders are beginning to fall inward as protests are shouted from every direction. She, along with every other person wearing the matching blue-and-white uniform, has become enemy number one, right ahead of Jack Frost himself.

“What are you people doing to get us home?”

“It’s Christmas!”

“Are you going to reimburse me for my hotel?”

“What about food?”

Questions are being launched from every which direction as my bag and sides are jostled, causing the hot liquid hope of my coffee to slosh onto the back of my hand painfully. I can feel myself getting ready to lose it. Each nerve in my body suspending itself with the added cocktail of adrenaline.

“Can you just tell me when the flight to Saint Paul is leaving?”

My ears perk up, and my anger ebbs with the necessity of concentration becoming a higher priority. Saint Paul is also my destination.

“All flights have been canceled at this time. As soon as we have more information, we will let you all know. For now, the best thing for everyone to do is find a seat.” Her words make me want to join the crowd’s mentality of disgust and betrayal, but another angry passenger bumps into me, this time causing enough of my coffee to spill that some of it hits my suede ankle boots, causing an alarming sense of anger to rocket through me as I shrug my way out of the crowd.

“This is going to suck,” I mutter, peering around at the filled seats at every gate. Clearly flights have been delayed all morning, possibly even since last night based upon the number of people congesting the seats. Then again, it’s days before Christmas. Everyone wants to be home for Christmas.

My shoulders begin to slip but pause as I gather myself and stand to my full height, all five feet and seven inches, as I pass by people whom I work to ignore as much as I do the storm outside.

Seeing two empty seats beside each other makes me feel as though my luck has changed. I carefully position my suitcase in front of the empty seat beside me, unravel my headphones, and dig for my magazines as my muscles slowly relax.

My luck grows when I see Charlie Hunnam has a feature and Robert Pattinson is single again. Neither of them knows it yet, but one of the two will one day be my future husband. I often spend time in front of the mirror of my tiny apartment, which always smells like sweet and sour sauce and fried dumplings because it sits over a Chinese take-out restaurant, and practice my expressions and media speeches, explaining how Charlie or Robert and I met. It will be on a set. One that defines not only my career but my future because our on-screen affair will translate so much further. The details change to ensure I’m effectively expressing each emotion. Someone who doesn’t dream and work to be an actor generally thinks the hours I spend in front of a mirror to be a symptom of insanity and vainness, but they’re not. As my toughest critic, it allows me to practice, similar to an athlete spending hours in the gym or a chef creating a dozen recipes of the same dish with slight modifications. Don’t judge me by what I choose to discuss during my one-on-one time with myself and pretend media. I’m supposed to feel passionate, and I am passionate about these men because, unlike the guys I’ve met and dated, these ones don’t make me wonder if I’ll end up living with a dozen cats and an unhealthy reliance on Netflix. I can make Robert and Charlie as perfect, sweet, caring, compassionate, and obsessed with me as I want to imagine. And believe me, they’re addicted.

“Is this seat taken?” The slow smile my lips were curving into at the thought of Charlie Hunnam’s fixation with me turns into a pronounced frown as I look up and see a guy wearing designer jeans and a leather jacket. I’m not sure how I didn’t notice him before he spoke; his cologne is so strong I’m certain it’s already leaching into my clothes.

I glance at the rare empty seat beside me. I knew it would be filled, but at the same time, I’d hoped it wouldn’t. My annoyance is thinly veiled as I move my carry-on and purse a little closer to my feet, creating more room for him.

“I’m CJ,” he says. His cologne becomes a tidal wave with his movement to sit, making my throat tickle and tingle with the need to cough.

I lift my magazine. In Minnesota, this would be considered rude. Hell, in other parts of New York, this would be considered rude, but we’re in New York City, where turning one’s head is the universal clue that the other person doesn’t want to talk.

“It’s getting hot in here,” he says, ignoring my signal. “I bet they’re turning up the heat in case we lose power.” He leans forward, adjusting his jacket that fits too tight across his shoulders. He’s huge, his muscles not just defined but bulky. I haven’t but glanced at his face, not needing to see if I find him attractive because he screams roider, and while some girls get off on guys with giant muscles who live to take selfies of themselves flexing, I do not. This sounds hypocritical when I spend so much time in front of a mirror perfecting expressions, but I don’t do it because I’m in love with my reflection. I do it to improve and become acutely aware of each detail so when a director tells me to show him more anger, I know just how much to tighten my jaw and lower my eyelids to procure the right appearance.

CJ leans closer, and I sit back, pulling out my phone to send another unsubtle hint that I don’t want to chat. I scroll down to text Emily.

Me: HELP!!!!!! I’m stuck at the airport and need Valium.

Emily will know how little sarcasm is truly in this message.

“Even if we don’t lose power, we’re going to start running out of food and water. The bathrooms are going to run out of toilet paper. Babies are going to run out of diapers. This is going to be hell. You should create a stock pile. Empty your bags and fill them with nonperishable food items and lots of water bottles. Get enough, and you’ll be able to trade them for laptops, iPads, probably nearly anything. People will be desperate,” CJ continues.

I hate even considering the possibility of pandemonium and his advice even more. What kind of greedy bastard would buy up all the water to later barter for goods worth way more but far less important?

My eyes grow, not with question but annoyance, as he peers around as though mapping out where he’s going to begin his looting. “I’m sure traffic will still be able to get into the airport,” I say, finally breaking my silence.

His attention snaps to me, his lips climbing into a slow grin that reminds me far too much of the original Grinch. With that thought, his product-drenched hair and long bony fingers begin to make the resemblance even greater. Not to mention his intentions. “Have you looked outside? No mode of transportation is going to be able to navigate the streets anytime soon. It’s going to become a state of emergency, and then some political game as they negotiate contracts and fees to get roads plowed and create a plan of execution.”

I don’t look at his face to see if he’s waiting for confirmation because I’m still looking at his fingers, wondering how they have managed to stay so slender and clean. He must get regular manicures, and while Charlie and Rob probably get them as well, in my fantasies, they don’t.

My eyes find his. He’s not bad looking. If I was still new to the city, I might even call him attractive, but I’ve seen men while living here—and one back home—who make him look like the understudy of the understudy. Nothing objectionable per se, just nothing special. “It’s Christmas. Plus, you said it yourself, we’re going to run out of things decently fast with how many people are stuck in here. They’re not going to waste time getting us out.”

His eyebrows rise just slightly, his lips climbing higher. He wants to laugh at me. He thinks I’m being cute, like I have no idea how the real world works—probably because I’m female and wearing a sweater that molds close to my chest thanks to the free meals I was receiving at my last job. I’m hoping that while my hips slim, my chest doesn’t as this new housekeeping job starts to kick in. His eyes dance back over my newly expanded area with an appreciation that makes me shift with discomfort.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and while he ignores it, prattling on about his plan to gain from others’ weaknesses, I turn to read Emily’s reply.

Emily: We’re watching the news now. It looks bad.

Me: Not. Helping.

Emily: Your mom says to call when you get a chance, and your dad wants you to go buy water… He didn’t find my comment about you being in a snowstorm, surrounded by water, very funny.

Me: If you drink my eggnog, you die.

Emily: Maybe you should nap while they get the runways plowed … dream of being plowed. ;)

Me: I can’t sleep. Someone will steal my bags if I do.

Emily: Go find a hot guy to watch your stuff while you sleep. Double duty.

Me: The hotter they are, the less you can trust them. Eventually, you’ll learn.

Emily: I already found the hottest guy. ;)

Me: GROSSSSSSSS. My brother is NOT the hottest guy, and I don’t want to know anything more. Remember rule number one of dating and marrying my brother: it does not exist.

Emily: I’m drinking your eggnog.

I set my phone down because while Emily knows me well enough to realize my current bad attitude is being magnified by my predicament, I don’t want to allow myself to possibly say something that might hurt her feelings. I also don’t want to push her hard enough that she comes back and tells me something about my brother that is going to make me chug bleach for having shared drinks and ChapStick with her in the past.

CJ is staring at me expectantly, and I sigh deeply, knowing my bitchy attitude is not going to improve by sitting here. Perhaps he’s a perfectly great guy. Maybe he has the potential to love a woman as much or more than himself. There’s even the chance that he hasn’t used steroids long enough to effect his manhood region. But, I’m not the girl who is going to learn if those possibilities are realities.

“I’m going to get some food.” I’m out of my seat, sliding my arms into my jacket before he can suggest joining me, heading toward a mass of people who are gathering around the few restaurants in the terminal.

“Don’t forget water bottles! They’ll be worth more than gold!” CJ yells after me.

“Scrooge,” I mutter, slinging my purse over my shoulder and pulling my suitcase along.