I’m currently writing a third novel set in the world of elite gymnastics, due out summer 2020 (in time for the Olympics!). I also work as the senior dating editor at Elite Daily, editing stories about single life, dating, and relationships, and I stay busy taste-testing every cheese plate in New York City.

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Keep reading for a preview of

Meant to Be Mine

by

Hannah Orenstein

one

The minute the cab door slams shut behind me at JFK, the hair on my arms stands on end and my heart beats double-time. My palms are coated in sweat, and not just because it’s a sweltering day in late June. I wipe my hands on my vintage white Levi’s, grip the handle of my suitcase, and take in the travelers pulling luggage out of taxis and steering kids through the airport’s revolving door. I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I’m banking on the hope that I’ll know it when I see it.

I take my sweet time entering my name and flight number into the kiosk’s touch screen, hoping to meet someone, until I feel someone’s presence a polite few feet behind me. As the machine prints out my boarding pass, I sneak a glance over my shoulder. I was right—there is a man there. Holding hands with another man. I offer a self-conscious smile.

“Sorry, almost done,” I promise.

Going through security takes ten times longer than the Zara checkout line on a Saturday afternoon. But I don’t mind the wait today. My flight isn’t for another two hours, and I can use this idle time to scope out attractive people who happen to be passing through Terminal 5 on the morning of Friday, June 24, 2022.

My eyes skim over the couples and families ahead of me, pausing at the men who appear to be alone or traveling with friends. Near the front, there’s a group of bleary-eyed frat bros. Too young. Further down the line, a man in a tie-dyed tank top and bun totes a hiking backpack (not my type), and another in a T-shirt and headphones nods vacantly along to a beat. I watch him for a moment until he reaches up to adjust an earbud, revealing a wedding band. Everyone shuffles through the line until, eventually, I make it to the TSA officer. He looks like he’s my age. Crooked nose, white teeth, no ring. I hand him my boarding pass and driver’s license. He studies my picture—taken around the time I graduated from the Fashion Institute of Technology, in the thick of my retro phase: heavy on the eyeliner, hair teased sky-high—and flicks his dark eyes up to meet mine. I wait for a spark, a sign, something.