Ryan scribbled his signature quickly with a borrowed pen while Mike used his arm and hands to block people from getting too close. I noticed he avoided the men with professional prints and signed his autograph for the fans instead. He posed and smiled for almost twenty photos.

I removed my backpack from the trunk of the car, slung it over my shoulder, and readied my small carry-on suitcase. The paparazzi swarmed like angry bees, fighting amongst themselves for better position to take pictures. Mike finally handed Ryan his messenger bag and duffel bag and then asked the crowd to back up.

I felt so helpless. These ‘people’ for lack of a better term had us surrounded. I grabbed the back of Ryan’s jacket, fearing I might get left behind in the mayhem.

Ryan felt his jacket tug and glanced back at me to confirm I was the one doing the tugging. I tried not to look at the photographers, even though I knew my picture was being taken over and over again.

Ryan grabbed my hand and we hurried into the terminal. Mike was by his side; Ryan had me in tow. Airport security had us surrounded now.

Never in my life had such a simple task like getting on a plane been so frightening!

“Ryan! So is it official? Are you and Ms. Mitchell an exclusive item?” some paparazzo asked. Ryan didn’t answer.

“Is it true that you and Taryn are living together?” another photographer asked while running along side of us.

Ryan still didn’t answer. He had that familiar look on his face; the one he wore when he was sick of all this shit but tried to look indifferent.

“Come on guys. That’s enough,” Mike said to the paparazzi who were walking backwards, taking our picture and filming us.

“Mr. Christensen, this way,” an airport security officer called out. We followed him through a separate opening in the barriers so we could get in line to go through the airport security scanners. We were ushered to a small counter where Ryan showed our boarding passes to the waiting TS a agent who verified that we had seats on an outbound flight.

“Go first, Honey,” Ryan whispered and nudged me ahead. He was looking down at the ground most of the time. I glanced briefly over his shoulder and noticed that the paparazzi were filming us removing our coats and shoes. Fortunately Mike was blocking them from getting too much footage of Ryan.

I grabbed a gray plastic tray and tossed my coat and shoes into the bin. I pushed my backpack and small suitcase down the rollers until it met the rubber belt that fed into the scanner. Ryan was still checking his pockets for loose change. I smiled at him; he always had random amounts of money stuffed in his pockets.

I waited for Ryan and Mike to clear through the metal detector. Airport security escorted us, and instead of leading us towards the gate, we were ushered through a plain white security door.

“Where are we going?” I whispered to Ryan.

“We’re early. We’re going to the VIP lounge.”

I had never been in a VIP lounge before. It was beautiful! The large room had a high ceiling and was segregated into smaller sections, divided by walls and full length semi-sheer curtains. The walls were tiled in dark gray slate with stainless steel accents. Each wall had four flat screen TVs mounted across it, all broadcasting a different news channel.

In front of every TV was a cozy decorative chair and table for travelers to sit and relax. There was even a side room with free beverages and a small food buffet.

Ryan pulled out his phone and turned it on, scanning through his messages and calendar. I, however, was still in a slight daze from getting into the airport. This chaos was obviously old-hat for Ryan.

I can’t tell you how many times I flew in and out of this airport and never knew that such a room existed. I stood by the large glass window, watching the planes take off and land, trying to get my heart rate to stabilize.

Ryan came over and stood behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. “How are you doing?” he whispered.

I looked up at him and nodded. “I’m doing fine.” I tried to sound convincing, but deep down I was still rattled.

“Ten more minutes and we’ll head out for our flight,” Ryan said, opening his bag to retrieve my Mitchell’s Pub baseball hat. It made me smile when he winked and put the cap on his head.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been avoiding those Autographers lately,” I said, questioning him.

Ryan nodded. “They make money off of my signature. I’m sick of it.”

A man in a suit, wearing a TSA security ID badge, came into the lounge for us. We were escorted down a long hallway and through another plain white door that dumped us near our gate.

All the other passengers on our flight to Newark were already boarded onto the plane. Ryan, Mike, and I took our seats up in first class. I made Ryan sit in the window seat. People were already stretching their necks to see.

The flight to Newark airport was quick and after we landed the airline staff assisted us in exiting the plane.

Airport security had us surrounded as we walked to our next gate. Mike escorted us to our gate, then turned to say goodbye. He was headed to South Carolina to see family.

“Have a good holiday, Mike!” Ryan patted him on the arm and shook his hand.

“You too, Ryan. Taryn.” Mike gave me a hug.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mike! Thank you for everything!” I hugged him warmly.

“I’ll see you in a week.” Mike tapped Ryan on the shoulder. “Don’t eat too much turkey!”

TSA agents and airport security walked us to our departing flight bound for Pittsburgh. Three young girls ran after us begging for Ryan’s attention. Ryan graciously stopped to take a picture with them... forever smiling… forever pleasing his fans.

When we landed, we were again escorted by airport security who walked us towards the exit. As we hurried through the terminal, people were pulling out cameras and cell phones to capture the sight of Ryan Christensen walking through the airport.

I felt Ryan’s hand squeeze mine tighter when we caught sight of his mom and dad standing there waiting for us. All four of us were smiling, happy to see each other again. Sure enough, a few paparazzi were waiting outside the airport doors.

The afternoon sun was starting to dip in the sky as we approached Ryan’s hometown. He pointed out 12th Street, showing me the infamous hill where he took the maiden voyage in the laundry basket.

Ryan edged closer to the car door; his hand was reaching for the door handle. I could see the excitement in his eyes and the overwhelming anticipation he was feeling for being home.

I tried to visualize the neighborhood Ryan grew up in when he talked about it, but no verbal description could compare to seeing it with my own eyes. The tree-lined street was beautifully tinted with autumn’s different colored leaves, many of which were already in piles on the ground.