Chapter 11 Liz
Eleven
Liz
The airport parking lot is half ice, half slush, and my breath curls in the air when I step out of the rideshare.
I planned for an easy morning—coffee, a quiet drive, no surprises—and a checklist kind of day that ends with a window seat, a view of clouds, and, at the other end, a mai tai on the beach.
I board on time, which feels like a small victory. I slide into my seat, pull out my planner, and tell myself everything’s running exactly as scheduled.
Then the captain’s voice crackles over the speaker, calm and cheerful. “We’re just waiting for de-icing before we can take off.”
Of course, we are.
Outside, a bright orange truck rolls up and starts spraying the wings with some mysterious green slush that looks like it belongs in a science experiment. I watch the liquid streak down the metal and remind myself to be grateful. Safety first. Delays mean I’ll live to complain about them later.
Still, my jaw tightens as I check my watch. Every minute we sit here cuts into my layover in Vancouver. I’ve got an hour and a half between flights—if everything runs perfectly—and I still have to go through U.S. Customs and Immigration. It’s going to be tight.
I take a deep breath and paste on my patient face. The man across the aisle opens a breakfast burrito that smells of onions and regret. The universe has a sense of humor.
I knew it was cold, but apparently, the weather has decided to compete with Antarctica this morning.
I pull out my phone. The connection in Vancouver is looking borderline impossible.
I’m going to have to sprint through customs and security like it’s an Olympic event? not exactly how I like to start a twelve-hour travel day.
Across the aisle, a kid kicks his carry-on as if it owes him money. His mother scrolls on her phone, unbothered. A man behind me coughs. For some reason, the air smells faintly of cigarettes and fried food.
I open my laptop because that’s what I do when I’m nervous. Numbers and spreadsheets feel controllable. But the Wi-Fi panel spins, refuses to connect, and then drops me completely. Perfect. I close the lid before I throw it.
Finally, we take off, and the flight is short and bumpy. I stare out the window and pretend not to care that the man beside me smells like garlic. I’ve read that traveling calmly reduces jet lag. Whoever wrote that never sat in row fourteen of a prop plane that feels held together with duct tape.
When the wheels finally touch down, I have thirty-five minutes before boarding for Hawaii begins. I’m half out of my seat the second the seatbelt light dings off. A man in front of me blocks the aisle to check his phone. I count to ten. It doesn’t help.
By the time I hit the terminal, I’m running.
My boots slap the tile, bag bouncing, heart thudding.
I dodge a group of teenagers in matching sweatshirts and a woman with a dog in a carrier.
Customs takes forever. The officer looks at my passport, looks at me, and then looks again, as if we’re in a bad spy movie.
I smile like a normal person who isn’t panicking about missing a flight.
Finally, I’m done. I sprint past duty-free in a blur. Naturally, my gate is at the end of the longest concourse. I reach it just as the display flickers.
Air Canada Flight to Lihue—delayed four hours.
I stop so fast the man behind me nearly crashes into me. Sweat slides down my back, and my hair’s sticking to my neck. I feel ridiculous, like a marathon runner who trained for months only to find the finish line has moved elsewhere.
I drop into the nearest seat and laugh under my breath because it’s either that or cry. I smooth my blazer, pull in some air, and try to look composed as I open my phone again. Four hours to kill.
The Vancouver airport is a maze of polished floors and glass walls that makes everything echo.
I drag my carry-on down the U.S. concourse, looking for somewhere that isn’t crowded or loud.
The whole building smells like coffee and jet fuel, which would be fine if it didn’t remind me that I’m still stuck on the ground.
I pass sushi, burgers, overpriced smoothies, and a store selling neck pillows with Hello Kitty faces.
None of it feels right. My stomach grumbles anyway.
I settle for a sandwich that tastes like Styrofoam and a cup of coffee so cold it should come with ice.
But I do find a seat near a window. Outside, rain smears across the glass in long streaks.
Planes taxi in slow motion, lights blinking like they’re taunting me.
I try to check my email, but the Wi-Fi cuts in and out. The universe clearly wants me to experience growth, build some character.
Fine. I’ll grow.
I pull out my conference folder instead—perfectly organized, color-coded tabs and all. Focus will make the time pass more quickly, I tell myself. It doesn’t.
The family across from me has a full-blown argument about whether the mom should’ve packed extra snacks. The kid cries. The dad looks ready to abandon his luggage and start over somewhere new. I give him a sympathetic nod.
By hour three, I’m wandering again. I buy a magazine I don’t want and a bottle of water I don’t need. I consider splurging on one of those massage chairs, but the idea of being that person in public is too much for me.
When the loudspeaker finally announces boarding, I could cry with relief. I gather my things, straighten my blazer, and join the line. My boarding group is somewhere near the back, which feels symbolic. And then I see him.
Alaric Dempsey, standing in the first-class line like a travel brochure come to life. He’s in dark jeans and a gray sweater that looks expensive, hair a little messy in a way that seems intentional. He glances over, spots me, and that familiar half-smile curves his mouth.
Of course.
He steps out of the line and closes the distance between us. “Why aren’t you flying first class?” he asks. “Hospital policy covers it for international flights.”
I blink. “When Misty booked my ticket, they must’ve been out of first-class seats.”
His brow lifts. “You didn’t check?”
I bristle. “I trust the system.” This is a lie. I just didn’t want to be the person who complained about seating arrangements.
He nods toward the boarding door. “I was in the lounge. They would’ve fixed it for you.”
I stare at him. “The lounge?” My voice jumps higher than I mean it to. “You’ve been in there for a day and a half?”
Confusion flickers across his face, then clears. “No. I came in early to see Trey, Leah, and the twins.”
That brings a smile to my face. Trey is Alaric’s best friend back in Vancouver. He was one of the few people who didn’t treat me like collateral damage when Alaric left. “You saw them?”
“Yeah.” A small smile touches his mouth. “The twins are so big now. I forgot how loud their house can get.”
Something in my chest shifts, but I cover it with a tight nod. “Good for them.”
“Yeah,” he says again, and the warmth in his voice makes me look away.
A boarding announcement crackles over the speaker.
Alaric’s group is called first, naturally.
He gives me a polite nod and steps back to his line.
I watch him hand over his ticket and disappear through the door, already planning the six hours I’ll spend breathing recycled air in the back of the plane while he sips Champagne up front.
Perfect.
The economy line moves slower than molasses. The flight attendants look exhausted already, which doesn’t inspire confidence. I shuffle forward inch by inch, pretending I don’t care that first class boarded fifteen minutes ago and probably has hot towels by now.
At the door, the flight attendant smiles apologetically. “We’re out of overhead space,” she says. “We’ll need to check your carry-on.”
Of course. I surrender the bag, as if I’m handing over a child and tell myself to stay calm. It’s fine. Totally fine. The bag will be waiting for me in Hawaii, safe and intact. Probably.
I edge down the narrow aisle to the last row. The middle seat. My personal circle of hell. The man in front of me reclines before I even sit down. My knees hit the seatback, and I bite my tongue to keep from swearing.
To my left is a woman with a floral neck pillow and a stack of romance novels. To my right, her husband, who looks like he hasn’t smiled since the early nineties. They lean forward to talk over me, passing mints back and forth like I’m invisible.
“Would you two like to sit together?” I offer.
She shakes her head. “He likes the aisle. I like the window.”
Naturally.
I wedge myself between them, plug in my headphones, and close my eyes. The air-conditioning rattles. The couple starts arguing about their son’s wedding seating chart. I try deep breathing, but all I can smell is tuna from somewhere nearby.
When we finally take off, I want to rip my hair out, but instead, I remind myself that I’m heading to Hawaii and the hospital is paying for it.
Turbulence hits just after we level off. The seatbelt sign dings back on. A baby starts crying three rows ahead.
I glance toward the front curtain, picturing Alaric in first class. He’s probably sipping something sparkling and chatting with the flight attendants, not being slowly crushed by a reclining seatback.
It doesn’t matter. I’m independent. Capable. Completely comfortable back here in exile.
Another jolt shakes the plane. The man beside me groans and grabs the armrest—my armrest. Our elbows clash and I lose.
Six hours stretch like taffy. I drift in and out of half-sleep, waking every time someone bumps me. My neck aches. My phone battery dies. The flight attendants run out of snack boxes before they reach our row. The woman beside me tuts like she’s been personally betrayed.