Chapter 24: Gate B22

On the Friday before the next Labor Day, I stood at Gate B22 at O'Hare with my boarding pass in my hand.

It was the same gate, and nearly the same row of seats.

The agent behind the desk looked at the screen, and then at me.

"Ms. Pruitt, Traverse City?"

"Yes."

I held the pass under the reader.

It flashed green, and it made a small, ordinary beep.

"Enjoy the lake," the agent said.

I stood there a moment longer than I needed to.

Behind me, Wes cleared his throat.

He had two coffees and a canvas bag, and he was grinning at me, the real one that pushed the scar in his eyebrow up.

"Take your time," he said. "It's a good beep."

"I bought that seat myself."

"I know. I watched you do it." He tapped his own pass against the reader and got his own green light. "I bought mine. We have a rule."

"We have a lot of rules."

"Filed," he said.

We sat down at the window, under the departures board.

My phone buzzed on my knee.

It was my old number, the one I had gotten back in October, with my own name on the account and my own card on the bill.

A small chat sat at the top of my screen, with two names on it and nothing else.

Wes had made it the week after the dinner, and he had typed the first message himself: What do you want for dinner?

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