My brother dropped me off curbside at Los Angeles International Airport and yelled, “Run!” Our timing getting to LAX was thwarted by the kind of notorious L.A. traffic that airline change fees and crushed dreams are made of. Departure to Newark, N.J., was at 8:05 a.m.
It was 7:25 a.m.
I raced through the terminal and up the escalator, two steps at a time, with a carry-on and boots that were not made for running. The line to get through security was a mile long.
“Am I going to make it?” I deliriously asked the TSA agent as I handed him my boarding pass, shaking from the mad dash.
Without a word, he whisked me past a serpentine of travelers and straight to the metal detector. I was baffled. Maybe he was psychic. I thanked him profusely and kept running.
I couldn’t miss this flight.
My mother insisted I fly “home” to New Jersey for my birthday — her treat. I was deep into a drifting divorce, disillusioned, depressed and avoiding the other “D” word … dating. I also was hiding from the unwelcome advances once the word got out. I felt perpetual dread and I felt wobbly. “Snap out of it,” Cher kept telling me in my mind.
By the time I got to Gate 40, I was giddy from shock and out of breath. I looked around and exhaled.
To my left was a tall, bald man wearing glasses and a tweed blazer. He looked familiar. “Who is that?” I whispered to the also tall, handsome man to my right, holding a coffee cup and wondering if I was talking to him.
He looked at me quizzically and squinted: “Isn’t that the guy who wrote ‘L.A. Confidential’?”
Bingo. Impressive. But neither one of us could remember his name. It was fun trying.
Suddenly, I felt compelled to tell this lovely man how close I came to missing the flight, how much traffic there was, how fast I ran, in boots with a heel, and how I imagined he‘d probably experienced the same exact thing minus the boots.
No. He had gotten there hours before, breezed through security and was on his third cup of coffee.
Boarding started. It felt like we both wished there were more time. “It was nice talking with you. Have a great trip,” I said and meant it.
“You too,” he said, smiling back.
Sparks flew.
After the in-flight movie ended, I looked up, and there he was. I waved; I was glad to see him again. I thought he was on his way to the restroom. He wasn’t. He‘d come to find me. It was good I had an aisle seat.
For the next two hours, we dove in, surrounded by strangers.
He’d spent the last few years in L.A. dating around since his divorce. He seemed as universally disillusioned as I was and had told his mom a few days before that he was giving up.
At one point, he knelt down in the aisle to get closer. His salt-and-pepper cool felt warm. He touched my shoulder a few times. I didn’t mind. He was confident, funny and very much a grown man who also seemed impervious to heavy turbulence.
People in the rows nearby could hear everything we were saying. Some were staring. Some climbed over him. Then the beverage cart came butting in. We made plans to have dinner when we returned to L.A. He gave me his card.
“That was incredible,” said the woman next to me, who had pretended to be asleep to give us some privacy. It was incredible. A big cloud lifted. I couldn’t stop smiling.
When I got to baggage claim, there he was again. I told him my mom was coming to pick me up. “Can I meet your mom?”
Her SUV was waiting exactly where we exited. She ran out to hug me and open the liftgate, wondering who this guy was carrying my luggage.
“Mom, this is Mark. We met on the plane,” I said.
“Hi, I’m your daughter’s new boyfriend,” he said as if it were already true.
Without missing a beat, she shot back: “Good, because you’re very handsome.” We said goodbye in a flurry.
“What happened to you on that flight? You’re different. You’re going to marry him,” my mom said emphatically.
I stuttered. I kind of believed her. I was different. Over the next week, we texted and decided on Terroni for dinner, a mutual Italian favorite.
He was waiting for me out front. We spent five hours in a booth drinking, eating and laughing. When we were in the middle of dessert, fireworks went off from the Christmas tree lighting nearby at the Grove. Everyone ran outside. He sat next to me when we came back in for the first kiss. We closed the place down. We didn’t want the night to end.
He made me an engagement ring out of a plastic swizzle stick a few nights later at a sushi bar. We didn’t feel like we were moving too fast. We felt like we couldn’t move fast enough.
With that, I had to move my divorce from stalled to finalized. Quick.
Both of our marriages had come to screeching halts very unexpectedly. He had years of healing under his belt. I was still in the thick of it. I was stuck in quicksand, and he helped pull me out. His patience was steady as I cut cords and untangled myself.
We had planned to get married at a rooftop L.A. restaurant, with skyline views past the smog, to symbolize how we met and fell in love. Exactly two weeks beforehand, however, my mother was rushed to the ER with critical embolisms. We flew a red-eye back East with my brother and his wife.
Miraculously, my mom recovered but couldn’t fly. We canceled the wedding. She was adamant that we still get married on the day we planned: July 8. It was July 7.
Because my brother was going to marry us anyway, we thought: Why not get married on the plane? Flying back to L.A. from New Jersey, the same way we met but in reverse?
And we did. Flying over Tulsa, Okla.
United Airlines published an in-flight magazine story about our on-the-fly midair ceremony with the headline, “On This Flight, I Thee Wed.” Ring-size steel hose clamps from the hardware store served as stand-in wedding bands. A flight attendant crafted a bouquet out of tissues.
“Do you believe in life after love?” I do now, Cher. I finally snapped out of it.
The author is a creative writer and producer who is directing the music-based documentary “Play That, Teo.” She’s a recovering stand-up comic, proudly from New Jersey and now residing in Los Angeles. She’s on Instagram: @olanadigirolamo
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
