She isn’t on Route 66, but right now, Joy couldn’t care less.

Her car is running. Both doors are wide open. She forgets all that and everything else but finding Dylan. A shrill whistle blows behind her. She ignores it and bolts into the terminal.

Boarding announcements blare through the speakers overhead. People move about, talking on their phones, tugging their roller luggage. A baby cries. Another child screams shrilly. He wants to go home.

So does Joy. But not until she finds Dylan.

She runs to the security line and shouts his name. She calls for him again, and again.

“Yo!” a guy in a black leather jacket shouts. He waves at her. “I’m Dylan.”

She spares him a glance. Not the Dylan she’s looking for.

She turns a full circle, eyes scanning, chest heaving. Has he made it to his gate? Is she too late?

Impossible. The security line is too long to make it through that fast, and they agreed to their last deal no more than five minutes ago.

He already has his boarding pass. Where is he? She’s buzzing with so much nervous energy that she can’t think straight. Think, think, think. Baggage check-in! His duffel is too big for a carry-on. Same with his guitar.

Joy sprints to the British Airways aisle. She hollers his name as she runs down the aisle, passing one check-in line after another. Damn, this airport is busy. Where is he? He couldn’t have gone far.

“Dylan!” she shouts his name.

“Joy?”

Her head whips in the direction of his voice and her heart leaps into her throat. There he is, one queue down. His duffel and guitar wait at his feet. He holds his blue spiral-bound notebook in one hand, a pen in the other, and she immediately wonders: Is he writing the reminder about the date and time to meet in ten years? Chills skitter along her skin.

He stares at her, baffled. “What are you doing here?”

“Something spontaneous!” She runs over to his line. “No deal!” she says, loud and firm, crossing her arms and wiping them to the side. “I don’t want to meet at Rob’s in ten years.”

His arms lower to his sides. “You don’t?” he asks, crestfallen.

“You said no more what-ifs,” she rushes to explain. “But that’s when we can’t change the past. What about the future? I’m tired of looking back on my life with regrets. I don’t want to rehash what I should have done. And I don’t want to regret that I didn’t take the chance to spend more time with you.”

“What are you saying?” he asks, frowning. He stands in line behind the retractable barrier strap. He’s barely moved, except for his pen. He slides the writing instrument into his back pocket. He flips closed the notebook.