It was September 2020 when Dan messaged me on Facebook. The day after my 38th birthday. The sight of his name met the memory of being 19 when we dated in college. So much had changed. I was divorced with two kids and living in Houston, far from our New York roots. He was divorced and living in Chicago as an airline pilot.
I had shared on social media that I was restarting my life and my hopes for the future. In his message, Dan asked if I would be comfortable with a phone call and gave me his number. I never forgot him, but I never expected to hear from him.
His voice sounded the same. It reminded me of a time when I was younger, braver, and free, when life seemed endless, and the future was far in the distance. Back when I was wearing tiny dresses and going to themed college parties, and he was in his dorm studying thick aviation books.
Now I was working as a journalist and he was flying around the U.S., and we talked about the years in between then and now, the places we had lived, and the highs and lows.
I just knew I had to see him again.
It was still the pandemic, flights were cheap, and Dan could fly for free if a seat was open, so we prayed to the airplane gods. We made plans for him to visit me in Houston.
I remember being so nervous and excited driving to George Bush Intercontinental Airport (IAH) to pick Dan up and see him for the first time. It was a humid fall day, and I wore my favorite long, strappy tan and black dress. It was sultry and brought out my curves in the right places. On the way, I felt airy and lighter, as though the grief I had been carrying receded and dissolved into tingles of butterflies streaming through my body.
Arriving at the airport, I followed the signs cluelessly but found my way to Terminal A.
My heart was racing as I waited for his plane to land.
When Dan came out of the airport — wearing his uniform and stripes and pulling off his face mask — his hug connected to me just like it had years before. When he said I looked the same, all I could think about was being in his dorm room again.
During the next months I learned the ins and outs of the gray, fluorescent IAH airport: When he visited, I would meet him at the airport Marriott parking lot because it was quicker than waiting in the long lines at the terminal. When I visited him, I would plan to take the last flight out on Sunday to Chicago after dropping my kids off at switch time. I’d be in his arms before midnight. I usually just brought one carry-on bag with my clothes and laptop stuffed inside.
As the weather got cooler, he’d bring me a coat and gloves. We’d spend the next few days cuddling up at his place like we were in our own igloo. Before my flight took off to Houston, we didn’t want to leave each other until the last boarding call. On the plane to Houston, I felt lucky that there was still time left for us. The future seemed long and endless. IAH’s traffic and lines — even delays — weren’t annoying or stressful to me. It was all a piece of keeping our relationship going.
By November, I was thinking about his kiss while driving off the airport grounds after returning to IAH from Chicago, and I had butterflies streaming through my body. I was falling for him.
Dan visited me many times.
At my apartment, we cooked together, or we wore our masks and had dinner outside on the patios at restaurants near The Galleria. There was so much catching up to do and making up for lost time. When he put on his uniform and his suitcase was by the door, I would sneak a little love note in his bag to take with him back to Chicago. Every time he left the Bayou City, we talked about how we would explore Houston next time, take a walk at Memorial Park, go to a Tex-Mex restaurant, explore NASA, stop by the symphony, or wander the Lone Star Flight Museum. We juggled our work schedules and my parenting plan, finding precious days to be together each month.
Soon Dan met my kids over pizza and Uno, and we took them to Memorial Park to play Frisbee and picnicked with meals from Whataburger. As the city opened back up, we took them to the Downtown Aquarium and the zoo. When it was just us, we walked beside the Buffalo Bayou and on the trails of the Houston Arboretum, we had chicken wings at Karbach brewery, and we sat on my balcony talking about the future.
There was something so romantic about kissing passionately while other passengers hustle around with luggage, while we stood there in our own world. When I’d drop Dan off at the terminal, his embrace and smell of cologne would stay with me long after I drove away.
However meticulous I was — because of traffic on I-10, I-610, I-69, and I-45 — I was never at the airport early. I was always rushing to the gate and texting Dan “I hope I make it.”
I didn’t have time to notice the impressive airport art displays or the space-cow sculpture or even get a snack or magazine. I felt like I was living a scene in a movie, feeling anxious and bubbly, dashing to a destination to meet my love.
In Chicago, Dan met me at the gate, and we walked hand in hand through the airport to his car. Through the fall leaves, then through the snow. Soon it was melting.
For a surprise, Dan arranged his work schedule so he could be the pilot flying me back to Houston from O’Hare. It was so romantic to walk onto the plane and see him there and then walk off together hand in hand. I was blushing when he gave me a special welcome during announcements. Later, I had an hourglass engraved with the flight number.
For about a year, our lives were brought together by trips to and from IAH and ORD.
After all this back and forth, Dan decided to leave the Windy City so we could be together. We now live together in Houston. Although both of us miss the northeast, Houston — and its airport — has become a special part of our story.
Now, when Dan’s suitcase is by the door, I look at the hourglass. It feels like a second chance and a new beginning all at the same time.
