Page 1 of Winging It with You

1

Asher

Boston Logan International Airport—Terminal E

Boston, Massachusetts

“I’m sorry, Asher…but I can’t go on this trip—”

The last words I expected to hear coming out of my long-term boyfriend’s mouth at the airline ticket counter. After months of meticulous planning—countless hours of my life I will never get back, painstakingly stressing over cost-analysis documents and packing lists and risk waivers—thiswas the one travel hiccup I could not have thought to plan for.

“Did you forget to pack something?” I ask, lining up my luggage as I try to visualize the now-packed to-do list I’ve been ticking items off from one by one. “There’s definitely still time to head back home…” But when I turn back toward him, there’s something about the way his overplucked eyebrows are pinched together that tells me a different departure is on the horizon.

That, and he’s awkwardly left about two feet of intentional space between us.

My fist clenches around the boarding pass the ticketing agent—Susan, I learn looking down at her name tag, which is bedazzled with glitter hearts—literallyjusthanded me after rather rudely being the human version of sunshine this early in the morning, and I instantly start to sweat. Her big, empathetic blue eyes are pooling with pity as she stares back at me, a hand extended out toward me slightly as if somehow she’s personally going to be able to fix this humiliating situation.

“I don’t think I can dothisanymore…” Clint’s voice cuts through my thoughts, more nasally than normal, and I swear the way he just emphasizedthis, like being here with me is the world’s biggest inconvenience, makes my skin crawl.

“The competition?” I ask daringly. “Weren’t you just telling me in the Uber over here how excited you were?”

He scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably.

I now notice that our awkward confrontation is holding up the growing check-in line. Maybe it’s the unflattering fluorescents or my sudden unbridled rage for the man, but Clint Hanson has never appeared more unattractive than he does right now in his too-small sweat suit with his matching fanny pack and hideous shoes that he insisted on numerous occasions all the celebrities and influencers were wearing. Based on the way he’s dressed, one mightalmostbelieve, if they really tried, squinting, that perhaps he’s the age he’s still pretending to be.

Just so we’re clear, he’s pushing forty.

“Clint, this entire trip—everything we have planned and saved for these last few months—wasyouridea,” I say, trying to use the calmest, most monotonous tone humanly possible to avoid being labeled as dramatic or emotional.

Again.

He hasn’t made eye contact with me since his sudden changein plans—both travel and life, something he’s really perfected during all the conflicts we’ve ever had. Instead, he is annoyingly playing with the buckle of his luggage tag.

“I’m just not sure we want the same things out of this,” he says after a painfully slow moment.

“This? Clint, what are you even talking about? What is it that you ‘wanted,’ ” I ask, putting aggressive air quotes around the word, “when you signed us up for this competition?” I take a deliberate step forward. “Or better yet, what about these last seven years? What’s changed about what you’vewantedthis whole time?”

Clint stands in silence as my questions are left unanswered.

I have spent the better part of the last decade carefully molding myself into the perfect boyfriend for him. We rarely argued about anything serious, and when we bought our house together, I made sure he felt like it washishome too despite his horrible taste in decor. I always remembered his family’s birthdays and anniversaries and never once brought up the fact that he was losing his hair. When he sent me unsolicited dick pics, I most certainly didn’t let him know how little it did for me—both on-screen and in real life—and when given the choice between joining him and his weirdly pretentious friends at their weekly themed charcuterie nights or doing just about anything else, I always chose him. Because that’s what you are supposed to do in your late twenties when you are in a relationship. You choose your partner.

Except standing here in the international terminal, sleep- and caffeine-deprived, I realize he isn’t choosing me or us, and instead of the usual panic or involuntary mental lists that I’d expect to begin forming about my imminent singleness, I’m overwhelmed with a surprising sense of relief.

“I just know that if I get on that plane, I’ll regret it,” he admits, a blow to the gut.

He’llregretit.I am legitimately at a loss for words right now.

“Let me get this straight—” The edge in my voice makes a timely and most welcome return as my anger rises. I notice a few onlookers are now being far less subtle about their interest in our preflight drama. “Somewhere between me sucking you off last night after making sure allourstuff was packed and this morning”—several teens waiting with their families can’t choke down their laughter at my lewd bluntness and it only sharpens my resolve—“you had some soul-shaking revelation that you, the one and only Clint Hanson, can’t dothisanymore.”

He stumbles toward me, nearly tripping over our luggage. “Keep your voice down,” he hisses through thin, dry lips and narrowed eyes. Ah, that’s right. He’ll do anything to avoid the world’s perception of him being tarnished. “Why don’t we go outside and talk about this? Somewhere private.”

An almost feral laugh escapes my lips.

The life I had been meticulously cultivating was just obliterated in an airport terminal and I’m laughing.

“There’s absolutely nothing to talk about. You decided you can’t do this anymore,” I say, waving my hands between the two of us. “So, we aren’t going to do this anymore. End of discussion.” I turn to try to divvy up our matching luggage, another unnecessary purchase to appease him, pushing mine toward Susan, who tags each of my overly crammed suitcases one by one.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking between me and my luggage in confusion.

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