I don’t want a drink, but I know she’s trying to help, so I agree. I hike across the airport and exit to the baggage claim, where I find a Starbucks amidst the circling luggage and tearful reunions.
A girl my age with long, dark hair wearing a flowery sundress beelines to the stairs, where an equally eager guy bounces down to greet her.
I’m winded, because O’Hare is a huge airport, but that doesn’t explain the emptiness in my chest.
When it’s my turn to order, I say, “Tall blonde vanilla latte, please.”
As I go to pay, someone reaches across with their own card. I’m momentarily disarmed but then lock eyes with a tall guy my age. Even without the shades or wide grin from his profile picture, he’s impossible to mistake.
Maxon. My breath hitches.
He says, “Is that your coffee order, or
