and she does look exhausted. “Would you mind if I take a nap at your house?”
“Of course, that’s fine,” Don says with such tenderness in his voice that I’m shocked. He normally only sounds that way when talking to his collectibles or me.
Chloe looks around the coffee shop. “In that case, Nick, you’re coming with us.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Why is my presence needed?”
Chloe looks at him like he’s being deliberately dense. “Uh, because this is a classic rom-com rush to the airport and it’s, like, seventy-five percent less effective if we don’t have a car full of people screaming as we run red lights.”
“I don’t run red lights,” Uncle Don tells the shop. “I’m a very safe driver.”
Nick looks skeptical, so Chloe runs behind the counter and grabs his arm. “Come on, Coffee Man, you’re coming with us.”
He puts up no resistance as he attempts to hold back a smile.
“Tobin!” Chloe yells. “You’re in charge! Can you handle it?”
Tobin shrugs.
“Good enough for me!” Chloe yells.
“This is a terrible idea.” Nick sighs. “I’m leaving my business in Tobin’s hands.”
“It’s finally ambient whale sound time.” Tobin double fist pumps.
“All right, people!” Chloe says to the room. “Annie’s off to get the love of her life, so wish us luck!”
Everyone claps, and Gary even wolf whistles. “Is this what it feels like to play team sports?” I whisper to Chloe.
“Wait,” Tobin says, raising a hand behind the counter. “While you’re at the airport, can you pick up my mom and my stepdad? I think I was supposed to do it, but I can’t remember.”
We all stare at Tobin.
“Call your mom and dad, kiddo,” Chloe says, and then we leave.
Chapter Twenty-four
Despite Chloe’s insistence on playing “This Is It” by Kenny Loggins (“It’s the perfect pump-up song!”), the drive to the airport is much less dramatic than it is in most movies, probably because we don’t run into any parades, drive through any road blocks, or ramp over any bridges under construction.
“That was anticlimactic,” Chloe scoffs from the back seat of the Prius when we pull into the airport.
“I don’t care about drama,” I say, tugging off my seat belt as our car moves forward in the drop-off lane. “I just want to talk to Drew.”
“So what’s your plan, here?” Nick asks, leaning forward from the back seat, his head between me and Uncle Don. “Because this isn’t a movie from the early ’90s. You can’t waltz into the airport and talk to someone anymore.”
“I’m going to buy a ticket,” I say like it’s obvious. “That way I can get in there and find Drew.”
“Wow,” Nick says. “You are . . . really invested in this.”
Chloe smacks him on the arm. “It’s called romance, doofus.”
I look over my shoulder and memorize the exact way Nick is gazing at her, the adoration hidden underneath irritation, so I can jot down the precise details in my screenplay.
Later. I can focus on the slow build of their relationship later. Right now, I have to get in the airport, buy a ticket for Drew’s flight, then get to him.
“I’ll be right back,” I call out as I step out of the car.
“I’ll go wait in short-term parking,” Uncle Don says. “Keep us updated.”
“I’m coming with you,” Chloe says, pulling off her seat belt and jumping out of the car.
“Why?” I ask as we walk through the doors, dodging a woman with a giant rolling suitcase. “You’re not buying a ticket. You won’t even be able to go very far.”
“Moral support,” Chloe says, linking her arm with mine. “And because I’m living vicariously through you. As soon as you leave, I’m right back to working and studying.”
I squeeze her arm. Once inside, we quickly find the right counter and run to it. “I need to get on flight 1147,” I practically shout, then try to rein it in because I’m not trying to look unhinged, here.
The man behind the counter clicks a few keys and then looks at me, lips pursed. “Sorry, that flight just boarded and is about to take off.”
“But it’s still here,” Chloe says, leaning forward.
“But you can’t get on it. It’s full, and it’s about to take off.”
Chloe’s mouth falls open. “You can’t, like, stick her in overhead storage or something? She’s a small person.”
“As a matter of policy, we don’t store passengers in our overhead bins,” the man says without smiling.
“Someone’s lap, then,” Chloe says. “One particular passenger’s lap.”
“Lap seating is only for children under two years old,” he says, looking at his computer