"Bye," I call, but the crowd already swallowed her up.

Once I'm on the other side of terminal, the night sky stacks like building blocks in the large, square windows. Yet everything inside is lit up, blinking, flashing, rushing, and dashing.

Against the frenetic energy surrounding me and inside of me, I take my time putting my shoes back on and gathering my luggage. I wander over to the newsstand and buy a few magazines, a giant bottle of water, and some snacks. I drift toward the gate, enveloped by a sense of the surreal. Am I really doing this? I could go back now, return to my life, to business as usual. Mr. Douche is going to be pissed. I could do the exercises in the UBoss program that I missed, go on dates, and hang out with Kat.

I could.

But the point of the program and everything I learned about myself in the last month is that I can think and contemplate and journal and all the rest, but none of that will substitute actually living more, following my heart, seeing where it leads me, and what kinds of dreams materialize.

I continue through the terminal past people coming and going on business trips and from faraway places to see friends and lovers. Families say goodbye and hello. In a way, I'm saying goodbye to the past and hello to something else, yet to be defined.

When I turn the corner, I spot him standing by a bank of windows, a backpack slung over his squared shoulders and his reflection a wavy blur in the glass.

I study him: long, clean lines of muscled arms and powerful legs. The kind of posture that nothing can sway, except maybe me. I never want to see him so ruined as when I told him to leave and when I said I hated him. I don't want to forgive myself, but if he does, I have to do the same because I can't keep living with heaps and piles of guilt.

I step closer. There's no turning back. My heart accelerates. My surroundings turn fuzzy. I wobble on newborn pony legs. Life is about to change. Either we'll be in it together or it'll be over.

I clear my throat. "Carrick," I call.

He turns slowly as though he isn't sure whether he heard his name floating in his thoughts or if it was a trick in the din of the bustling terminal. His expression rapidly passes from surprise to overwhelming joy to uncertainty. He closes the space between us in several long strides, dropping his bag at our feet. He picks me up and swings me in a circle, knocking over an elderly woman's cane leaning against her seat.

I press against him, relieved to be welcome into his strong embrace-the pillar I needed against my uncertainty.

"Sorry," I speak the muffled apology into his shoulder.

Carrick's hand shakes as he palms mine, leading me over to the windows. He takes the other one and we face each other. I look up and up, meeting his blue eyes.

"This isn't what I expected," he says.

"I'm sorry for everything I said."

"I'm sorry for everything I did or didn't do." When his apology leaves his lips, this time I accept it.

"You gave up on me once. I gave up on love once, let's see what happens if we don't give up."

He leans in and whispers, "I never gave up on you, not during all of the years we were apart. I thought of you every day, regret haunting me, desire moving me. I don't know how else to say it, write it, or tell you. I have a few typos, some misplaced commas... I'm more of a work in progress than a finished draft."

"I'm alright with that. I haven't even gotten that far. I'm like an outline."

He smooths my hair back and his face brightens when I smile. "You slay me with that fucking dimple." He gazes up at the ceiling as if steeling himself. "Now, it's up to me to show you what something else means," he says.

"We don't have to define it. It can be whatever we want it to be. It's up to us."

"Let's start simple. Navy, will you go on a date with me? You look beautiful, I might add."

I smile my biggest dimpled smile. "Where?"

"Everywhere and wherever you are."

I wave my ticket. "Starting with Rome?"

"Happy Valentine's Day."

Chapter 33.

Valentine's Day Night We settle into first class seats.

"Thank you for the ticket, sir," I say, giving a little bounce and then swinging my legs like a child. "This is a nice way to travel. Should I expect warm nuts?"

Carrick chuckles.

Katya and her innuendoes cross my mind. "That's not what I meant. I mean, never mind." My knee bounces uncontrollably. I shift to get comfortable. I fidget with the lap belt and the buttons and dials in our shared compartment. There's a TV, a privacy screen, and I tip backward, my feet lifting onto the footrest of the reclining chair. I don't have to worry about people's knees behind me as I adjust the position of the seat and scrub my clammy hands down my skirt.

"Where I thought you were the strong and silent type. I was wrong on one account. You're strong, that's for sure, but it's clear you're full of words, like, literally spilling onto the page."

Carrick nods for me to go on.

"So, let's talk more. Be honest. Not hold thoughts and feelings back."

"Sounds good to me."

"From now on I'll tell you everything that's on my mind. Well, not everything, because there's a whole lot of weird going on up here you want no part of."

"I don't mind weird."

"Trust me. It can be crazy."

He shakes his head. "So we'll each be an open book."

"Ha ha. No secrets. No regrets."

"Agreed."

"I believe in true love and in happy endings."

"No, not endings, beginnings." His smile warms me.

"I'm very romantic, but don't need a knight in shining armor or want rescuing."

"You already saved me," he says, patting the scar on his chest.

"I'm at a funny place in my life. I quit my job; I'm getting on a plane. I'm sitting next to Carrick Kennely and am happy about it."

And there it is. The look. The I-want- you-right-now look, but if I've learned anything from romance novels, it's to relish the slow burn, the anticipation, the brush of fingers, the lazy gaze, the quirk of lips, the look.

Butterflies dance across my skin and then swoop in my belly. I'm not a nervous flyer. I'm excited! I'm with Carrick! Together at last! We're going to Rome for goodness sakes!

There isn't a second love interest I'm leaving behind, a love triangle of sorts with my heart torn between two uncommonly attractive men. I'm not giving up a career/house/dream for a guy. I'll miss Katya, but we'll text and talk because that's what we do no matter what continent we're on, and she's been to nearly all of them. I love New York and I'll be back there for sure. My career, well, perhaps this trip will help me figure out what that is. It's mostly the unknown, the next chapter, the unfinished chapters...

All the loose ends are resolved and wrapped in a tidy little bow. The couple often walk off into the sunset, hand in hand... What I rarely read in my romance novels is how even after the OTP get together, there are still jitters and nerves. I can't believe I've never thought of this before. That can't truly be the happily ever after because they're not going to keep walking forever, no beach is that long. That's not how real life works.

What happens next? What's the next chapter after the last one? The reader in me MUST KNOW what goes on in a writer's mind. I wonder if I asked an author- "Carrick, what happens after the last chapter?"

"Huh?" he asks, inclining his head in question and running his giant paw across his stubble. His fingers distract me as they've done since I had that first surge of hormones when I was thirteen and I imagined them twined in mine.

Record scrattttchhhh. Wait a gosh darned minute. I resist a smile and put my elbow on the shared armrest, nudging his over a little. I line up our arms as best I can and then edge my hand over before taking Carrick's pinkie in mine, lacing them together-seventh grade-first date- at the movie theater style. His knuckles press into the soft part between mine.

Simple fact #1: they fit together.

Simple fact #2: I never want to let go.

My heart knows this. We may have decided we're not defining this something else, but I'm pretty sure finger holding is allowed. He squeezes my pinkie and then doesn't let go.

"Did you finish the book," he asks. "Is that what gave you the change of heart?"

"I was really pissed that you basically wrote our story."

"I know."

"It hurt to see fragments and whole chunks of myself on the page like that."

"I know."

"I could have sued you."

"I know."

I laugh. "I wouldn't."

"Thank goodness." He clears his throat.

"It hurt so much I went home and cried for a few days."

He flinches. "I'm sorry. I meant for you to read the book and see that there could be a happy ending. Instead of the end for us I wanted there to be possibilities and I didn't know how else to show you or tell you because I'm a big meat head."

"I won't argue with you there, but I'll add that you're a really hot meat head. Jar head, whatever. Anyway, Katya read the book while I was gone and she made me look at it from a new perspective: a story of what could be, an actual love letter. She suggested I see how it plays out in real life."

"I didn't mean to blur the line between fiction and reality quite so much."

"But you did. That's what I'm getting to; I'm going to read the rest of the book, then you can tell me what happens next for Xavier and Olivia. And as for us, we'll write our own story."

He scratches his thumbnail. "I've seen enough to know that real life doesn't always turn out for the best."

"But it has the potential to."

I take his entire hand in mine, our contrasts rarely more apparent.

Big, little.

Disciplined, a bit chaotic-or rather, neurotic.

The beauty, the beast. Well, maybe we each inhabit both and we're not quite so opposite. Maybe we're big and little in different ways. I can be very disciplined about having very little self-restraint. And he's a beast, a sexy one, but also beautiful too. And perhaps he sees the same in me.

But my original question pesters me. "I still wonder, after you write The End, what then?"

"I did write a second book in the series," he answers. "It follows a different main character-she was a secondary character in the first novel, but you find out more about everyone's lives after the last page in the first book."

I sigh. "Hearing you talk about novels is so damn hot."

His lips quirk with amusement.

I probe further as the flight crew prepares for takeoff.

"We're talking fiction versus real life? Then I guess the characters live in me in a way. I don't truly know where they come from-bits and pieces from my experiences and people I know, but in order for them to be likeable, believable, and carry the story from start to finish, they have to be their own three-dimensional people. I guess what I'm saying is there isn't a clear answer. I think about the characters often, random ideas will pop into my mind almost like memories in reverse. I'll see Xavier and Olivia eating at a little restaurant with brick walls and linen tablecloths. Then I'll see it in real life. They're sharing this amazing pasta dish and falling more and more in love. I'm at a friend's house in Tuscany and my mind is blown by a plate of pappardelle."

"It's strange to hear you of all people say the word love."

"Why? I write love stories and I use it all the time: I love pizza. I love football. I love dogs. I love Italy. I love-"

I stop him before he can say more. "Will you show me romantic Rome?"

"Every piazza, bridge, museum, restaurant... We'll leave nothing unexplored. Every inch." He smooths a piece of my hair through his two first fingers. "Every inch, Navy."

We both shift in our seats so we're face to face. He leans close, our eyes meet-blue still so clear and beautiful even though they've seen so much destruction and pain in the world. Yet he still creates love stories; he sees love everywhere.

I watch his lips form the words, "What could be between us?" His voice is a whisper and he dips his nose to the side of mine and tilts his head slightly.

I smile, envisioning us starting over, starting anew, and kissing like mad. "Remember you asked if I was going to give your book a chance? I'm going to give us a chance."

He presses his lips to mine.

The world falls away.

Time stops.

There is nothing but the ever holy now.

Words, thoughts, questions disappear into the simplicity of mouths, tongues, saliva, and our beating hearts. This is what my father meant about mystery. There is no need to understand it; it just is, and it is beyond delightful, blissful, enjoyable, and pleasurable. It's something else.

A kiss isn't just a kiss. It's more-the beginning, what's always been, the future.