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I grab the rag from her, turning it over and over as if the rest of the note would be preserved in the Windex smears like a silly putty on a cartoon strip. Shit. Shit. And now my boobs are in her face. She wincing and trying to look away.

“I’m so sorry to scare you, please go.” She runs from the bathroom, and I sit on the edge of the bathtub staring at my note. The one I could only dream of but now is nothing. I know his last name. How many Patrick Donavan’s work for Sirius? Or perhaps this is fate telling me not to force things. This is the universe setting things the way they’re supposed to be. I stare at the mirror. I never even told him I don’t live in New York.

Sexpot – Gorgeous, Beautiful Sabrina

We’re not don—

The rest of the message is smeared beyond recognition. It’s gone. I laugh uncontrollably. The only part of Patrick that’s still left written on the mirror is Rick.

I dig my phone from my coat and snap a picture of the message. So I can remember he thought we could be something. That kind of shit never works out for me. I’m always the one invited along to make an even number for a reservation. He made me feel special. We were the odd ones that fit together to make a whole. And not a Tinywhole. A whole thing. I sigh, throw my hair up, and dash to the airport.

This fucking flight is so freaking early.

“United flight to Chicago, out of JFK, right?”

I nod and think about the shoes I left behind. I didn’t need some twisted memento of the best night/worst morning of my life. I watch as Patrick fades along with the New York skyline. I wonder where he is in this vast city. I know Chicago is a huge city, but it always feels manageable versus the chaos of Manhattan. Manhattan suits him. I could open my phone and find him right now but I’m not sure he wants to hear from me. I mean he’s got to be on social media but he didn't even leave a number. Or what if he did and the traumatized cleaning woman has it. Like she wrote it down and she’s going to call him. She might have blurred that part of the message first because she’s working with the universe to conspire against me. I’ll bet she’ll call, she’s braver than me. I can’t call. Maybe when I’m not so freaking tired I’ll stalk him. But that would be so awkward. I already have too much of that in my life. This feels like a heartbreak, and it was only one night. I swipe a tear. I’m so fucking confused. I’m tired. Even if we did connect somehow, I don’t know if I’m built for a long-distance relationship.

Here’s a dreadful thought: what if I’m only built for him.

I trudge onto the plane. I’m a hot mess of sweats and a disheveled bun. I splashed water on my face, but it didn’t take. I’m clammy from running and almost missing my flight. I shove my bag in the overhead and nod to the person in the window seat as I take my place on the aisle. I swear I can still smell the man. His outdoorsy cedary musk is wafting through the cabin. Or am I having a psychotic break? Time will tell.

Our takeoff is delayed, and we’re tarmac stranded. I turn my phone on. The one that doesn’t have his number. I should probably tell my sister Ricky is a criminal, or maybe she knows. I have a million texts and notifications. The airport squad’s been texting.

TABI: Well, she’s dead. I liked her. It’s a shame. Rory, would you like to say a few words?

I keep scrolling through and laughing at their messages. Seems Ben had quite the night. They all seem bold enough to own their emotions. Even Rory, the stoic, sexy, Scot seems head over heels for his Zoe. They’re brave enough. I hope I will be someday.

I’m a bit nauseous without real food for almost fifteen hours and a bit sad that the universe and the mortified maid are determined to keep me lonely. My eyes tear up again at the thought of his perfect face, and it stabs my heart. I shake it off. I’ll cry later in the privacy of my own closet. I throw my head onto the tray table. Despite the bruises, the arrest record, the broken shoes, starvation, fire, swelling hives, and abandonment, it was the best night of my life. He really did see me and like me. It’s going to take a minute to get over this night, but maybe there’s someone in Chicago who can make me feel like he did.

Or, what’s more likely, I’m doomed by fate to rot on my couch while trying to recreate my prison picnic every February 14th to stir up some emotion resembling what’s overwhelming me right now. I know time will take the enthusiasm and the minutiae of tonight, but I hope I can hold on to the feeling—at least a little. But no, it’s all going to be loneliness and many group lunches as the elderly single gal for me. I know I’m just about to be thirty, and everyone says there’s time to meet the “one.” But I did, and I only got to keep him for ten hours.

I feel the flight attendant before he gets close. I wave my hand at him without looking up from the crook of my arm. “Nothing for me. Nothing ever again will be good. Nothing. Not a beverage or a snack I have to purchase because nothing is free in this life. There’s nothing you can do. So no thank you, life.” He huffs, then slides a piece of paper under my arm.

I open it and see the opening sentence, then I lean into the aisle frantically, looking up and down.

My dearest Melanie,

Breakfast at my place? Seat 2B.

Forever yours,

Ricky

I grin and claw at my seatbelt. It won’t unhook, and I grunt and curse. The dude at the window looks at me.

He turns, red-faced. “You can’t get up. You’ll delay the plane. Where are you going?”

The flight attendant leans over and puts his finger up to his mouth then turns back to me. “He paid for you to move.”

I smile and throw my arms in the air. “Destiny. I’m leaping into muthafucking destiny. The universe doesn’t hate me! Take care, cranky man from the window seat. And happy day after Valentine’s Day.”

Running up the aisle, I bang my thigh on a stupid armrest. What’s one more bruise? He’s in first class, far from the back of the plane. I must have walked right by him. I did smell him. Thank god, I’m not crazy.

I arrive at his seat after dodging a crying baby and surprising an old lady who splashed me with apple juice by accident. He’s pretending to read. He looks disheveled with his rushed sexy bed head. There’s a small half-moon bruise under his eye. He’s gorgeous and perfect and he’s here. His skin is slightly flushed from what I hope is excitement. He’s wearing a bright green t-shirt stretched across his strong and cut chest. I’m confused. It’s a shirt from a bar in my old neighborhood. I say nothing, but my heart, vagina, and mind are buzzing with excitement and joy. I’m not sure I even knew what joy really felt like, but here it is. I stare straight ahead, playing his game. I put my arm on my armrest next to his. There’s a heat coming off us as our arms almost touch. But yet, it all feels totally normal. Like we’ve flown together a thousand times. It’s like we get to skip the parts of a relationship that neither of us likes or are any good at. He laces his fingers through mine. And we fit. I look at our hands and catch his eyes.

I narrow my eyes as I entwine my fingers in his. I wait as he captures my hand and heart. I even out my breath and eventually say, “First class? You owe me more than a bag of chips.” He kisses the top of my hand.

“I told you we weren’t done. How about the drink I never got to buy you last night? Does that work for you, beautiful Sabrina?” The flight attendant delivers mimosas to us.