Chapter 1

A collective groan went up as soon as the monitors started flashing.

"May I have your attention please," the voice over the PA said. Although she sounded cheery, everyone could hear the underlying dismay. As if she knew that she and every other ticket agent was about to be swamped with complaints, even though there was nothing anyone could do about it. "Due to the inclement weather, all further incoming and outbound flights have been cancelled. The Federal Aviation Administration has grounded all planes not in the air and diverted all incoming flights to other airports. We apologise for the inconvenience. Please check with your airline to make alternate travel arrangements."

I had been watching The Weather Channel all evening and had been getting updates via cell phone. Although I was hoping for a miracle, my flight had already been delayed twice, so the cancellation was no surprise. I resigned myself to this immediate fate. I called my folks and told them it would be at least another day before I could get home.

On a long shot, I checked with the hotel in the airport and found that all the rooms were booked. I closed my phone and sat down in one of the row seats, knowing that it was probably going to double as my bed for the night. There was really no sense in checking with the ticket agents; right about now, they didn't know what their schedule was going to be for tomorrow, so there was no point in trying to get a seat on a plane that was probably going to be grounded anyway.

I put my earbuds in and turned on my iPod. I hummed along with the tune. It was 1989, my thoughts were short my hair was long...

After a moment, someone's shadow fell over me. Absently, I looked up and dialed down the volume.

... She was 17 and she was far from in between...

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?" a pretty Asian woman asked.

"It is now," I smiled and did what I could to make room for her.

She plopped down next to me with an exasperated sigh. The first thing that struck me about her was how tired she looked. Like she had been running and running and running all day without a break. I took a second to surreptitiously look her over as she rubbed her temples and took a deep breath or two.

Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail. She was dressed stylishly and appeared to be on a business trip. After a second of trying to will the tension away, she stowed her carry-on bag under her seat. She saw me looking at her; I smiled sheepishly.

"Long day?" I asked conversationally.

"If you only knew the half of it," she replied wearily.

Our eyes met. It took us both a second, but the flash of recognition hit us both at the same time. I popped the earbuds out.

"Kevin?" she said tentatively. "Kevin Westcott?"

Unconsciously, my face broke into a wide smile.

"Melanie Nakamura!" I said warmly.

"Oh, my god!" she reached out and gave me a tentative—but friendly—hug. "What are the odds?"

I've always considered myself a child of the 80s, even though we graduated in '91. It's funny how we think of our formative years, isn't it?

When I look back now, I wonder how on earth I ever could have thought my hair and clothes were cool. It was the time of jelly shoes and parachute pants. Michael Jackson was still black, hip hop was called "rap" and every girl I went to school with had a crush on some combination of 1) Kirk Cameron, 2) Nick Rhodes, and 3) Michael J. Fox. Hair bands were the rage and Flavor Flav was part of something that actually had something to say; he wasn't the pathetic caricature/attention whore he is now. And everybody knew how to Wang Chung tonight.

Back then, I was one of the first straight boys in my high school to have a pierced ear. I was unashamed to blare "Ice Ice Baby" through the speakers of my dad's Chevy Celebrity station wagon and I thought Guns N'Roses was the greatest band to ever walk the face of the earth (that's the Axl/Slash/Duff/Izzy/Steven lineup, not the pretenders touring under the name now). I played snare drum in the marching band, was on the yearbook staff and carried the stigma of being in the "gifted classes".

Of course, Melanie did, too. But she was so much cooler than I was. Maybe it was because in our high school, she was one of the handful of Asian kids. We were bused across town as part of court-ordered desegregation, and most of us saw race in terms of black and white. Melanie was the classic stereotypical Asian kid. Overachiever. Thin. Karate black belt. Genetically good at math. Exotically pretty. Uncharacteristically strong for her size.

Her parents were both college professors. For the most part, they were very traditional and raised their kids as such. The one exception was giving Melanie and her brother American names, ostensibly to help them fit in. She graduated second in our class behind Ajay Patel, and I always believed she felt that she should have been first. She had good grades because her parents simply expected it. She was self-motivated, fiercely competitive and never did anything in a half-assed way.

What I always appreciated about Melanie was even though she was smarter than just about everyone in the school, she never flaunted it. She didn't gloat or look down on people. Our high school had all of the usual cliques: the jocks, the losers, the motorheads, the rednecks, the gangsta wannabes, the white-kids-who-wanted-to-be-black, the band geeks, the cheerleaders, the oreos, the dorks, the "alternative" kids (before they were known as "goths"), the skaters, the pretty people, the kung-fu mafia, the stoners, and so on.

Melanie usually ran with the "popular" kids, but wasn't above speaking to us AP nerds and founding members of the Computer Club; she wasn't one of the "mean girls" (back in the day, we called them "Heathers"; go rent the movie). She seemed to move easily through the cliques, never really belonging to just one and was always friendly to everyone who didn't try to cop a quick feel or make fun of her almond-shaped eyes. I don't think she ever really noticed me as anything more than a "friend", but I'd like to think that when she and I were paired up in a group project, she didn't have to do all the work.

After our prom, we ended up at the same party. There was some drinking involved and we were both pretty tipsy.

I don't know how it happened, but we soon ended up in an empty bedroom. Our teenage hormones took over and I couldn't believe my luck!

Melanie Nakamura was making out with me! And not only that, she was frisky when she was drunk!

Let me state right now that I'm a breast guy. I love tits. Juggs. Melons. Tanks. Ta-ta's. Hooters. Whatever your euphemism of choice is, if it's on a girl's chest and has a nipple on the end, I love it. Big, small, pointy, round, heavy ... I don't care.

In your mind, picture the perfect set of breasts. Who they're attached to probably has something to do with your age. For some, they probably belong to Marilyn Monroe or Jayne Mansfield. For others, maybe Selma Hayek or Jessica Alba. For me, my first loves were Erin Grey (aka Colonel Wilma Deering) and Lynda Carter.

But then Melanie Nakamura hit puberty.

Her breasts were never big, but size isn't everything. Melanie's tits were always perky and firm. Maybe it was the way she wore her clothes. She didn't hide behind baggy shirts, but nor were her tops too tight. They were fitted in a way that highlighted her assets but left just enough to the imagination to still be enticing. She was the object of much of my "special time" from when I was twelve until ... well, until we met again in that airport, almost eighteen years after prom.