A freak snowstorm leaves Nick stranded at the airport, two hours after he'd been told his plane would be delayed by forty-five minutes.
He's pissed.
He'd been left at Schmidt's apartment all night, subject to the arctic chill which had been the result of him not having the faintest idea as to how the stupidly perplexing thermostat worked. He had then been forced to get up at the ungodly hour of five-thirty to make his flight home without enough time for breakfast. Meanwhile, this money rack of an airport only seems to supply overpriced foods that Nick can't afford, yet continue to taunt him with aromas of freshly baked pastries and bacon-egg sandwiches
All he wants is to back home in his own bed, and forget about the entire experience. Since the moment he'd arrived, he'd felt dreadfully irrelevant. Not unwanted as such, but as though he'd merely existed rather than mattered. His already pessimistic state of mind couldn't have helped him. Constantly wearing a sullen expression isn't exactly going to draw many people to you.
Nonetheless, he won't have to be so burdened by the wedding once he's back in LA. That's where his life is, and that's the place that matters the most for him right now. Sure, the usually vibrant and exhilarating city is now contaminated by painful memories of the loft and Caroline, but at least he's familiar with it enough to comfort him.
Unfortunately he's still stuck in this foreign setting, feeling as hopeless as he had when he'd arrived. And to make matters worse, when he goes to check the arrivals board for any sign of his plane landing, those always dreaded bright red letters flash up on screen to further his dejection.
7:45 Los Angeles BA727 ... Cancelled.
"Son of a bitch."
He glances around, seeking out the nearest place to cuss out some poor, unsuspecting counter agent. After all, he isn't here to make friends, he's here to get the hell back home.
"Hey." He calls out, approaching one of desks without a long ass queue. "What's the big idea?"
A man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, is the target and is slightly taken aback. "Excuse me sir?"
"Is that board right? Is the seven forty-five to LA cancelled?"
He offers Nick a curt nod. "Unfortunately, yes. Due to the amount of snow and ice on the runway, all flights have been cancelled until further notice."
Nick scoffs. "You have got to be kidding me. So what, you expect me to hang around this dump all night?"
"That is entirely up to you. If you'd like, we can give you some recommendations for accommodation until your flight is rescheduled."
Slightly aggravated at the courteousness of this guy, Nick shrugs him off and heads in the direction of a row of empty seats. Does he feel a little bad for being such an arrogant asshole? Sure. But then again, his life sucks, so he has the right to be.
Whatever.
He groans and considers where to go from here. If he'd been smart enough, he'd have kept the key he foolishly handed back into Schmidt's apartment manager before he left. His only option now is to hope the weather clears up enough for him to be able to spend the day wandering round the city with the last ten dollars he's got. With his waterproof jacket and worn down sneakers, he isn't exactly dressed to suit the conditions outdoors, but at this rate he's got nothing left to lose. Not to mention that it's still early, meaning that if the icy pavements aren't enough to keep people inside, then the time certainly will. And so he digresses, walking through the airport for the second time that morning, pulling his tiny, compact suitcase behind him as he heads for the exit and back onto the wintry streets of Seattle.
She's bored to death. So bored that she's been Googling how to carve soap figurines: for beginners.
It's agonizing. She'd woken up at five in the morning, jolted from her slumber thanks to yet another 'Nick' dream. Apparently the sleeping pills she'd taken in an attempt to knock her subconscious out had proved to be futile and now, in her cognizant state, post-dream images are beginning to bombard her left right and centre.
She's taken to keeping a rubber band on her wrist as a way of keeping her thoughts Nick-free. Unfortunately, all it has done so far is given her a rather nasty red mark on the circumference of her skin.
She lies on her couch, staring up at the ceiling. A text from Alan had just come through informing her that he'd be gone a few extra days due to the snow and Jess has been left with the fear of him not returning for Christmas. The isolation has gotten to be a bit much, what with all of her friends either pre-occupied with holiday preparations or out of the state. She has spent an unhealthy amount of time watching all of the Real Housewives series. Her nails have been subject to new coats of multi coloured nail polish every two to three hours, filling the place with a strong odour of ammonia.
Fed up, she weighs out her options. A midday catch-up over coffee with some work colleagues is off the table, as is a lengthy phone conversation with Cece about fabric softeners and which ones are best for delicates. She'd go to the movies if there were something worth watching there, but this time of year is just wrong in terms of good cinematic pieces. It's as though the universe wants her to be an antisocial recluse. But this isn't her. She isn't made to not do anything for such a long period of time. Jessica Day is supposed to be consistently on the go, not curled up on a couch that she's beginning to leave the imprint of her butt in. All she knows is, she isn't happy being cooped up indoors. And there's only one way to change that.
Subsequently, she brings herself to get changed into her winter clothes: two cardigans, a pair of her darkest jeans, winter boots, mittens with a matching cream-coloured scarf and the navy peacoat she'd kept in the back of her closet all year, waiting forever to see the light of day. She adjusts her bag-strap across her torso and strides out the door, with a newfound confidence to live once again.
It's cold. The soles of his feet are already damp. It's too damn early and he hates the world. He'd wasted his last money on a cab to be planted in the middle of a city he'd now begun to despise with ever fibre in his being. Coffee is overpriced even by his standards, he's hungry. It's no different than the airport, just without the comforting prospect of eventually getting to leave.
There aren't many places one can go when penniless besides a restaurant bathroom that you coyly slip into when no one's looking. Maybe a slip a loose breadstick from an empty table into your pocket to clear yourself of suspicion.
He wanders around mindlessly, hands shoved deep into his pockets with his head down. The festive cheer that all these storefronts are showcasing only irritate him further.
Green is the colour of mucus and bile. Who decided to make it a 'fun, festive' colour? An idiot. That's who. A mindless drone who was looking at the world with a pair of damn rose coloured glasses and thought that green just emulated jolliness. Idiot.
He turns onto a corner, and is brought face-to-face with a large grey and red-brick building with extravagant wooden doors and tall stone-white columns on either side of the steps. He nears it a little, recognising immediately that it isn't a town hall like he'd initially begun to believe, but rather the city library.
"Huh," he thinks aloud, "libraries are free. And quiet."
He nods in approval and makes his way up the steps, pushing one of the doors slightly open and slips in. Immediately, his senses are struck with a musty aroma, a combination of dusty book pages and floor polish. It's a decently sized setting with a small entrance area leading on to an array of shelves, organised into a long line stretching across the length of the place with bits of space in between.
As of now, the idea of him reading and finishing any books at this point is half-hearted and unlikely. At most he'll be drawn in by an interesting blurb and get bored after two chapters. Even so, he ventures off into the maze of literature with a newfound respect for places like this, even shooting the librarian an acknowledging smile as he does so.
Overwhelmed by choice, he eventually chooses to browse through 'Classic fiction,' scanning over the initials of authors whom he may find desirable. In the 'L' section, his attention is caught by a worn out copy of Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird. Nostalgia from his eighth grade English class takes on as he pulls it from the shelf and flicks through the yellowed and dog-eared pages of the American classic. He'd loved the book in school, probably more than he cares to admit, but that doesn't stop him from wanting to re-read it all over again. Content with his choice, he moves toward the nearest seating arrangement, his eyes fixated on the first page.
In the midst of literary distraction, he ends up bumping against what he thinks is a bookcase, only to look up and realise that he isn't alone in early-morning library-endeavors. He mutters a quick apology and continues on to his seat, only to be called upon by a recognisable, husky voice behind him.
"Nick?"
He turns, swallowing thickly. "Jess."
