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Fork Guy’s eyes go wide, then narrow with determination. “This is better than any soap opera. You making a grand gesture? Dude, you need backup. I’ve got emergency flight miles. My parents gave them to me in case I needed to flee the country or, you know, attend a family funeral. This is basically both.”
I stare at him, weighing my options. If I say yes, there’s a one hundred percent chance something will go wrong. If I say no, he’ll probably follow me anyway. Why am I letting him come? Panic? Sleep deprivation? Do I actually want his brand of chaos right now?
Before I can answer, he’s already pulling up his airline app. “Let’s go, Baseball Boy! Love doesn’t wait, and neither do flash sales.”
Okay, well. This should be… interesting.
The airport isa fluorescent-lit hellscape of rolling bags and cranky toddlers. Fork Guy insists on taking the lead, which is a mistake even my sleep-deprived brain can see coming. He barrels toward security, neck pillow bobbing, duffel bag slung crosswise like he’s about to storm the beach at Normandy.
He gets stopped at security immediately, his fork-covered neck pillow setting off the metal detector in a flurry of beeps. A TSA agent, built like a linebacker and with the patience of a saint who’s run out of miracles, gestures. “Sir, can you remove your…accessory?”
Fork Guy beams, unbothered. “It’s feng shui. For travel luck. Positive energy, open chakras—airport chi.”
The agent’s expression does not change. “Sir, do you have any liquids?”
Fork Guy, undeterred, solemnly produces a Capri Sun and hands it over like a sacred artifact. “For emergencies only.”
I’m already halfway through security when he calls out, “Hey, Baseball Boy! Tell them we’re on a mission of the heart!”
The agent glances at me, dead-eyed. “Is he with you?”
I think about all the choices I ever made, the dominoes that toppled to bring me to this exact moment, and sigh. “Unfortunately, yes.”
They scan Fork Guy’s bag three times. I watch as they pull out a tangle of healing crystals, a single tube sock, and what looks like a laminated photo of Emerald the gecko.
“For spiritual support,” Fork Guy explains, completely straight-faced.
The agent shakes his head and waves us through. “Don’t let him near the pilot,” he mutters.
At the gate, Fork Guy slides into the plastic chair next to me, Capri Sun in hand. “See? The universe wants us to win. Also, I got my Capri Sun back. You ever had one at thirty thousand feet? Tastes like freedom. Like childhood, but with less supervision and more existential dread.”
I let out a laugh, surprised at how much I needed it. My hands are still shaking. “You’re insane.”
He grins. “You’re just figuring that out now?”
I try to settle, but my knee’s bouncing and my mind’s spinning. What if Camdyn doesn’t want to see me? What if I distract her from the game? I press my palms together so hard my knuckles pop.
Fork Guy watches me for a second, then leans back and stares at the ceiling. “You know, most people think they have more time. That’s the real problem. They think there’s always another chance, another day to say the thing. But then you wake up and it’s gone, and you have to live with the echo of what you didn’t do.”
It’s so uncharacteristically deep, I almost ask if he’s okay. But he’s already back to fiddling with his airline app, humming the Jeopardy theme.
I try to picture what I’ll say if I actually get to Camdyn. There’s a version where I blurt it all out—“I’m sorry, I was an dumb ass, please don’t let my idiocy ruin the best thing in my life.” There’s a version where she laughs in my face. Or throws something. Or worse: she’s just tired. Tired of me, tired of the drama. I don’t even know how to start. I wish I had a script. I wish I had a single clue what would actually fix this.
On the plane,Fork Guy takes the aisle seat. He immediately starts talking to the stranger next to him, launching into a monologue about “the metaphysical implications of airport carpet patterns” (the stranger pretends to sleep, but Fork Guy is undeterred). I close my eyes and try to plan. Step one: find Camdyn. Step two: don’t make it weirder than it already is. Step three: say something that matters.
But Fork Guy’s already flagging down the flight attendant. “Excuse me, do you guys serve vegan ramen? No? Okay, what about just, like, a cup of hot water and some vibes?”
The attendant blinks. “We have pretzels.”
Fork Guy beams. “Perfect. Could I get two packs? For feng shui.”
I slide down in my seat, wishing for invisibility. I try to focus—how do you apologize for a screw-up you can’t even name out loud? How do you convince someone you’re worth a second chance when you’re not even sure you believe it?
Fork Guy offers me a tiny fork “for luck.”
I eye it—it honestly looks like a weapon. “Where did you get these?”
He shrugs. “Amazon.”