Twisted Love (Twisted #1)(87)

“Cancel my call with the VP—send my sincerest apologies and tell him I had a last-minute emergency—and book me a ticket to Europe that leaves in the next three hours,” I commanded as I passed her. “Dulles Airport.”

“You want me to cancel the—”

“Do it. ”

“Certainly, sir.” Carolina sprang into action, her fingers flying over her keyboard. “Which city would—”

“Doesn’t matter. Just do it.”

“Right away, sir.”

I only needed the ticket to get past security.

On a regular day, it took half an hour to reach the airport, but of course, today was the day every construction crew in D.C. showed up in full force. Roadblocks and closures littered the streets alongside a shitload of drivers determined to win the World’s Slowest Driver award.

“Get out of my way,” I snapped at the Lexus in front of me. Jesus, does no one in this city know how to drive?

I broke what must have been a thousand traffic laws, but I made it to the airport in thirty-five minutes. Parking, security—fortunately, Carolina had the foresight to check me in online—and I was through, racing through the terminal searching for Ava’s gate number.

I felt like the world’s worst movie cliché. Running through the airport trying to get the woman I loved to give me another chance…how original. But if it got me to Ava in time, I’d do it in front of prime-time TV.

Ava and I hadn’t spoken in months, but there remained a thread tying us together despite what happened in Philly. Something told me that if she were to get on that plane, that would change. We—or whatever was left of us—would change. And I was terrified.

Beneath the fear, though, there lay a glimmer of pride. The girl who’d been afraid to go near water a year ago—who’d dreamed of traveling the world but never thought she’d be able to—was taking an international flight for the first time. Flying over an ocean. Facing her fears. I always knew she could do it, and she didn’t need me or anyone else holding her hand.

I wondered if other people felt conflicting emotions like this every day. If so, I almost felt sorry for them. It was a pain in the fucking ass.

I dodged a mother with a stroller and a slow-moving group of students in obnoxious neon green T-shirts. The gate numbers whizzed by in a blur until I found the one I was looking for.

My stomach sank when I saw the empty seating area and closed door leading to the jetway.

“Flight 298. Did it leave?” I demanded of the attendant behind the counter.

“Yes, I’m afraid the plane took off a few minutes ago, sir,” she said apologetically. “If you would like to book another flight—”

I tuned her out, my heart beating a desperate, lonely rhythm in my chest.

The plane had left.

Ava was gone.





41





Ava





I loved London.

I loved its energy, the posh accents, and the anticipation that I might sight one of the royals any day. I didn’t, but I could , though I reassured Bridget she’d always be my favorite royal. Most of all, I loved that it was a fresh start. No one knew me here. I could be whoever I wanted, and the creative spark I’d lost in those dark weeks after Philadelphia came rushing back.

I’d been nervous, moving to a city where I had zero connections, but the rest of the WYP fellows and instructors were great. After two weeks of living in London and attending workshops, I’d already formed a small group of friends. We celebrated happy hour at pubs, went on photoshoots together on the weekends, and did touristy stuff like ride the London Eye and cruise on the Thames.

I missed my friends and Josh, but we video-called often, and Bridget promised to visit me on her way back to Eldorra later this summer. Plus, all the WYP workshops and activities and the excitement of exploring a new city kept me busy. I didn’t have time to be in my head, thank God.

I’d been in my head for months, and it wasn’t a great place to be. I needed a change of scenery.

I also needed to send a big thank-you gift basket to the original London fellow who’d agreed to swap places with me—she went to New York while I came here. It was the only way the program would let me change my location so late in the process, but it worked out.

“You sure you can’t join us?” Jack, an Australian wildlife photographer who was also in this year’s fellowship cohort, asked. “Half-off drinks at The Black Boar today.”

The Black Boar, located a few minutes’ walk away from the WYP building, was one of the fellows’ favorite pubs.

I shook my head with a regretful smile. “Next time. I’m behind on editing photos.”

I wanted to make sure the final products were top-notch because they weren’t for any ol’ workshop—they were for Diane Lange’s. The Diane Lange. I’d nearly had a heart attack when I first met her in person. She was everything I’d imagined her to be and more. She was smart, incisive, and talented beyond belief. Tough, but fair. Her passion for her art radiated from every inch of her, and I could tell she cared about us. She wanted us to succeed and be the best we could be. In a cutthroat industry rife with backstabbing and undermining other creators, her dedication to helping us perfect our craft with no ego said a lot about her character.