A woman should know what to wear when they go to the airport to (surprise) pick up their best friend with whom they are in love with. I may not be the most fashionable girl, but do you want a piece of advice from someone who's had first-hand experience? Here it is: wear flats.

I paced in the arrival gate of Tom Bradley International for over twelve hours. In three-inch heels. Three-inch heels that, when he gave me our first Christmas together, I loved so much. I only wore them on special occasions. Like this. Three-inch heels that, by the ninth hour I was certain, I hated. With a passion.

In retrospect, it was not a good idea. I should have just gone to work like I did every year. Gone home, showered, and watched a Christmas movie, like I did every year. Then maybe he would have shown at my doorstep with dinner and presents, like he did every year for the past five years. But I didn't.

Because this year, when I turned twenty-six, I made myself a list of 30 things to do before I turn 30. And number one on that list was to tell Oliver that I love him. No beating around the bush. No nonsense. Just I love you.

Still, I couldn't help but plan a romantic gesture. I was going to be here at the arrival gate at four a.m. because for the last two years, he's been getting in around that time.

He was going to see me, be surprised, and say, "What are you doing here?"

To which I was going to respond with, "Waiting for you."

He would take a super quick moment for my response to sink in, because deep down he already knows how I have felt about him all these years. Then he would smile at me. And I would smile back.

We would have huge smiles that said we loved each other.

Then he's going to ask me, "How long?"

And I was going to say, "I think, since you stepped in my apartment five years ago?" pause, and then say, "Oh, do you mean here at the airport? Not long at all." (Even though we both know that it would be a lie, because maybe he took forever at baggage claim.)

He was going to laugh, drop everything he was holding, come to me, and kiss me.

And we'd live happily ever after.

Thinking of this, I should have pressed him for his holiday plans this year. And I should have definitely asked for his flight information. But I didn't.

I didn't because he's been coming to me by Christmas Eve every year for the past five years. And last year, he said that he was going to be with me for next five, and the five after that, and so on. Okay, so we have had a lot drink at that point, but I decided to believe that it was drunken honesty. A drunken promise, but a promise nonetheless.

So there I was, almost to the thirteenth hour of waiting. No reunion with Ollie in sight. No grand romantic gesture. Just me, all by myself with deflated curls, half rubbed off make-up, the stunning maroon dress he gave me for Christmas – year 3, maybe a tear or two in my black leggings, and also dead feet in my three-inch heels.

My cell lit in my hand to notify me I had very low battery. One last glance at the screens told me that no flights from London have arrived, or will arrive in the next half hour, which would probably be my physical limit. I decided to wait in my car, hoping he calls this year. But he never does.

My phone charged to full battery in the car. No call, no text, no email. I wasted maybe an eighth of my tank to keep the heater on. Paid a hefty parking lot fee. The clock on my radio displayed nine p.m. as I exited the structure.

It took me an hour or so to get home. You know how much an hour could do to a woman's head? We're worriers, the lot of us. By the time I paralleled park in front of my apartment building, I had convinced myself that Ollie thought it was a mistake. He didn't mean anything, and now he's off in wherever with whomever because he doesn't actually want to be with me.

I shook the thoughts of losing him even before having him, when I observed my spot. It was weird that I found space right in front because some of my neighbors had their families over for Christmas dinner. I wondered if everyone carpooled, then thought, what would I know about it anyway? By this time, I would normally be watching a cheesy Christmas movie ignoring how, from time to time, Ollie's thumb would caress mine with our hands interlocked. It was like a tradition.

Year 1, I stared at my neighbor's Christmas door decorations for I-don't-know how long. I was wiped from work, greeting everyone a merry Christmas when I wasn't feeling merry myself, but I didn't go inside my apartment right away.

I just turned twenty-one. I was definitely an adult. No one could adopt me even if they wanted to. And no one was there with me. If I wanted Christmas decorations, I would have to get them myself. Put them up, look at them, and take them down by myself.

Before I cried a river at the door, I went in. I showered, brushed my hair, and moisturized. Then I sat on my carpeted floor to watch TV. Five minutes into my teeth chattering, I realized my heater was broken. I grabbed the only two blankets that I owned and wrapped myself with it. I thought about making soup, or tea, or both. But I didn't want to be without the covers.

I was thinking of grabbing some jackets from the closet, but my right leg started to cramp. I tried to stretch it out, bend it back in, roll on it... nothing worked. It was so painful. And I didn't know what else to do.

The dam in my eyes broke. I don't know why I was crying silently when no one was there. No one was ever going to be there.

Then my ringtone interrupted my whimpers, and I answered my cell and put it in speaker phone. I knew I wasn't up for conversation, but I guess I just wanted to hear someone's voice. "Hellowwww...?"

"Tash? Something wrong?" I didn't hear it often, maybe I never really heard it before then, but I think Oliver was really concerned.

"Cramp," I said, before I shut my eyes and stayed still.

"Gross, Tash," he replied with a laugh.

"Notthatkind," I managed to say in a breath.

"Oh. Sucks. I told you to eat your bananas," he teased.

I stayed quiet because he seemed merry, and I didn't want to change that. I was just going to say bye and hang up, then – "where are you?" he asked with that tone in his voice, that hint of concern I detected.

"Apart" – sharp intake of breath – "ment."

"Someone with you?"

"No."

"Be there soon."

"What?"

"Try to straighten your leg, press your feet to a wall, or something."

"Can't."

"Didn't tell you to do it, Tash," he said softly. "Just try, if you can't, you can't. I'll be there soon."

I did my best to scoot towards the wall, but all I could make it to was the TV stand. I probably let out a scream when I succeeded at straightening my leg. And I was sure I saw the TV falling on me when I pressed my feet to the stand.

My head and face hurt a lot. But I noticed that my cramp was gone. I opened my eyes and cursed at the bright light on top of me. I can't afford hospital bills. I tried to get up, but I just ended up rolling to my side and hitting a wall of...

"OLLIE?"

"Hey babe," he greeted me with a smile.

"What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you're alright."

"I meant, in the States, when you're supposed to be in London."

"Making sure you're alright."

Apparently, he had flown in that morning, realized belatedly that he can't surprise me because I have work, spent the rest of the morning shopping for presents and groceries, some of which are perishable so he was already driving to my place when he called. Someone was walking in so he didn't have to be buzzed, and he used the spare key I'd given him when I moved. He went in, saw the TV about to fall on me, and rushed to stop that from happening. He might have dropped some grocery bags on me (hence my face and headache), but I was so happy to be reunited with him after four years that I didn't care. All I could think about was the fact that he was in my apartment on Christmas Eve to make sure I was alright.

And I thought that the best part was his flight is not until the dawn of the 27th, that is, until we started watching a cheesy Christmas movie on my not-broken TV. Somewhere between the third and fourth time the protagonist had to repeat their Christmas Eve, we finished eating the popcorn and Ollie held my hand. He did this every year (minus the TV falling and dropping groceries on me part.)

Except last year, he used his right hand to interlock with my left hand, and wrapped me with his left arm. It was the first time he did that, and I think my heart just stopped beating. I froze in place until his thumb caressed mine like he did every year, and I just knew we were okay.

Though that wasn't the only thing that Ollie changed last year. He also stayed until January 2nd, partly because even if he planned on going back on the 1st, he was too hungover to do so. I don't even know that, or why, he drank so much at the New Year's Eve party we attended. I learned that he was a chatty drunk though. And so romantic.

He told me he missed me. Throughout the year, he'd wish it was Christmas so that he could be with me. And when he was here with me, he'd wish time would stop. He doesn't want to sound ungrateful for his life, for his adoptive parents, but...

He sighed. "I promise, Christmas is our time. We've had five Christmases together, and I'll be with you for next five, and the five after that, and so on." Then he passed out.

Climbing up the steps of to my apartment building, his drunken promise replayed in my head. When I made it to the door, I looked at his picture on my phone, and told him, "Where are you? I'm not alright without you."

There was no response, of course, and I went in. I panicked when it registered that my lights were on, and I never leave them on. It was only a second though, because then I saw Ollie on my couch (his Christmas present – Year 4). I was shocked, how did I miss him at the airport?

Still, I smiled, ran to him, and hugged him. "Ollie!"

"Is it true?" his voice croaked. And I noticed he smelled like last New Year's Eve.

"What's true?"

"You didn't go to work today," he started.

"Yes, I–"

"Because you told them you had a date... with the person you love."

"Well, yes, Ollie, I–"

"Who is he?"

"What?"

"Who is he?"

"Ollie–"

"I promised you Christmastime, Tash. I... last year, I said, I practically said that I wanted to be with you forever. And I spent the year making it so that I could do that. I wanted our forever to start this year. I mean, I wasn't just going to spring this on you. I don't know how you feel, but I thought... I thought that even if you didn't want me, that maybe, Christmastime, it could still be us."

What. In the world. Is. He. Saying.

"Ollie, are you... what are you... what?"

"I love you, Natasha. You must know that. You knew, right? You would have had to have known."

"Oliver, I didn't even know what love was until–"

"Christ. Don't say his name. I don't actually want to know who he is," he cut me off annoyed.

"Ollie," I started laughing.

"Are you for real, Natasha? Laughing at your best friend's pain?"

"Are you for real, Oliver? Jealous of yourself?"

"Myself?"

"I took off work so I could wait at the airport for you. I've been waiting for you at the international arrival gate since four in the morning. I did that because I couldn't wait to tell you that I love you. I wanted to tell you last year, maybe even before that, but how was it going to work? You're there, and I'm here. I can't possibly ask you to give up living with your family, knowing how long you waited to be adopted. And I didn't how I could move to London. Now I've done my research, and though some things are still not crystal clear, I don't care. I just wanted–"

To say that I love him. But I didn't get to, because he kissed me. Just grabbed my face, brought it closer to his, and kissed me.

Apparently, he flew in a week ago. He was in the States for a total of seven days! He fought the urge to contact me as he took care of his transfer to the U.S. branch of his company. Sorted out his apartment (bigger than mine, has an extra bedroom, and an office) that he wanted me to move into. Because he doesn't want to spend another day without me. His family was flying in to celebrate New Year's with us. They know all about me, and they understand. They were going to miss him, but they're happy for us.

"I'm happy for us too, Ollie. But I really wish you told me you flew in a week ago–"

"Then it wouldn't be a surprise, babe."

"Well, babe, I tried to surprise you too, and now my feet are killing me," I whined.

And you know how I advised you to wear flats? Don't. A woman, picking up her best friend from the airport, telling him she loves him, should just wear the heels. Because that best friend, he loves her too, will give his woman a foot massage. A real good, real long, foot massage. Which is what Ollie did.