“Ladies and gentlemen, we regret to inform you that due to extreme weather conditions on the East Coast, all outgoing flights to New York have been canceled. Please see a gate agent for rebooking.”

It took me a second to register what I’d just heard. Flight 5741 was canceled.

Not delayed.

Not rerouted.

Canceled.

Fuck.

It came out louder than intended. A few heads turned. I offered an apologetic smile, which probably looked like a grimace. Panic unfurled low in my stomach, slow and tight.

My sister’s wedding was tomorrow. I was a maid of honor.

I couldn’t not be there.

Even being late wasn't an option. 

As I looked around, I witnessed chaos blooming like wildfire across the terminal. Passengers scrambled in every direction, descending on the information desk like it held the last lifeboat off a sinking ship. I stayed where I was, on the edge of the metal bench, watching the scene unfold like some kind of bizarre social experiment. Part of me considered joining the fray, but another part—a louder, more pessimistic part—wanted nothing more than to give up, melt into the floor, and cease to exist for a few minutes. 

And then I saw him.