Page 10 of Before I Should Leave

The second the word “fuck” left my mouth, I didn’t care who heard me.

Not the valet.

Not the family unloading in the lane behind us.

Not the woman in stilettos rushing to catch a red-eye with a toddler on her hip.

I stood there on the curb, blinking at the screen, heart racing, mind already spinning through backup plans.

Meet-and-greet tomorrow. Panel by noon. My name on a goddamn billboard in downtown Chicago, and no way to get there.

I turned in a slow, anxious circle, the rain barely missing me under the overhang, and cursed again under my breath.

“This is bullshit. I should’ve left earlier. I should’ve... damn it, damn it…”

Diesel stepped closer, tugging a hoodie over his head, brows slightly pulled.

“What happened?”

I held the phone out like it burned.

“Cancelled. Weather delays. Every flight for the night’s wiped.”

His jaw clenched for just a second, then relaxed.

“Aight. Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

He gave me a look.

I wasn’t breathing.

Not right, at least.

My chest was tight, the kind of tight that creeps up your throat and makes your ears ring.

My brain had already jumped five steps ahead to the missed connections, reschedules, losing my slot on the schedule, and refunding ticket holders.

Diesel reached out gently and placed his hand on the small of my back.

Low.

Firm.

And just like that… the spinning paused.

I didn’t lean into him.

Not fully.

But I didn’t move away either.

His palm was wide, warm, grounding. It didn’t ask for anything. It just… held me still.

“You not gon fix this by panickin’,”

he said low, voice cutting through the chaos like a bass note under noise.

“C’mon. Let’s go inside. You can check the counters and see what they got for the mornin’.”

“I don’t want you to—”

“I’m not leavin’ you out here like this,”

he said, soft but firm.

“Let’s go.”

And I did. Because something about the way he said that made me trust him with parts of me I usually keep locked up.

The sliding glass doors whooshed open as we stepped inside, and the airport hit me like a wave—bright fluorescent lights, beeping carts, gate change announcements over the intercom, crying babies, people arguing at kiosks, phones ringing, bodies moving fast in every direction.

I hated airports even when things were going smoothly. But now? My nerves were wired. Diesel stayed close, though not smothering. Not hovering. But present. His hand lingered just above my waist as we moved through the crowd, like he could sense the exact moment I was about to unravel and was ready to catch it before it spilled.

I spotted the Delta counter and started toward it, scanning the board above: CANCELLED lit up in bold red letters across almost every flight after 9:30 p.m.

“Jesus,”

I muttered.

“This is a mess.”

He stepped beside me, voice low.

“Want me to stand in line wit’ you?”

I looked at the crowd already forming and swallowed.

“I might lose it.”

“Then we’ll lose it together,”

he said, and somehow that made me laugh under my breath. Just a small one. Enough to remember I was still in my body.

I turned to him, my voice quieter.

“Why are you being so… patient with me?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“'Cause you don’t let people take care of you, and I can tell tonight caught you off guard.”

“Off guard is an understatement.”

“Exactly,”

he said.

“So I’m here. That’s it.”

I stared at him. This man, whom I didn’t know earlier today, was looking at me like he’d been holding women like me steady his whole life. Strong women. Loud, soft, brilliant, guarded, ambitious women. Women who didn’t cry in public. Who handled shit. Who fell apart quietly and expected no one to notice. But he noticed and didn’t run from it.