Chapter 11 Liz #2
By the time the pilot announces our descent, I feel like I’ve aged ten years. My hair is flat, my clothes are wrinkled, and my patience evaporated somewhere over the Pacific. When the wheels hit the runway, a ripple of applause breaks out. I almost join in.
The woman next to me beams. “Wasn’t that smooth?”
“It was something,” I say.
The curtain to first class opens just long enough for me to see Alaric stand and stretch, calm and unbothered, like someone who’s had the kind of flight I only dream about. Of course, he looks refreshed.
When the plane stops, people leap up, as if the floor is lava. I stay seated. There’s nowhere to go. It takes fifteen minutes before the line moves, and by then, my spine feels permanently curved.
But the airport in Kauai feels like another world.
It’s open to the air, just covered overhead.
Warmth presses against my skin the moment I step off the plane.
The scent of salt and flowers hits next, sweet and heavy, almost dizzying after the canned air of the cabin.
My shoulders drop. Everyone around me is thrilled to be here.
They smile, they stretch, and they take selfies under the Aloha Hawaii sign.
I feel like I’ve been run over by the beverage cart.
I follow the crowd to baggage claim, and the carousel jolts to life, its silver belt groaning under oversized suitcases and surfboard bags. I tug my jacket tighter and stand back, pretending I’m calm even though sweat sticks my shirt to my spine.
Then he appears again.
Alaric leans against a column near the carousel, phone in hand, looking like the travel gods made sure he didn’t get a single wrinkle.
His sweater is gone, his T-shirt looks freshly pressed, and somehow, he already appears tan.
He glances up, catches my eye, and nods.
I nod back, aiming for polite neutrality while my brain grumbles.
The first bag off is his. Then a parade of other suitcases ride past, none of them mine.
The crowd thins. Finally, I spot my bag.
Or what’s left of it. The zipper is split wide open and half my clothes hang out like laundry on display.
My toiletry bag has burst open, and Bob has rolled out of its velvet pouch.
It sits right on top like a shiny red beacon of humiliation.
Someone snickers. Then another. The sound spreads like static.
Heat floods my face. I step forward, hoping I can grab it before anyone gets a better look, but Alaric is faster. He lifts the bag off the carousel without a word. His expression gives away nothing, which somehow makes it worse.
“I can—” I start, reaching for it.
He shakes his head once. “I’ve got it.”
My throat tightens. “You really don’t have to—”
“I know,” he says. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
He tucks the broken side against his leg, shielding it from view. No one would notice now unless they looked closely. He doesn’t say a word about the toy, thank God.
The carousel groans to a stop. My dignity is somewhere underneath it.
“I’ll grab a cab,” I say, needing distance, but he’s already shaking his head.
“Come on. We’re going to the same hotel. We’ll share one.”
I’m too tired to argue properly. “Fine. But I’m paying for it.”
He doesn’t respond, just starts walking, my bag held effortlessly in one hand. I hurry to keep up, half mortified, half grateful.
The humid air intensifies around us as we step outside. A line of taxis waits at the curb, engines idling. Alaric opens a door for me, and for a second, I consider refusing on principle. Then my body reminds me I’ve been awake for nearly twenty hours, and pride can wait.
I sink into the seat, eyes closing as the driver loads our bags. Alaric slides in beside me. The door shuts with a solid thud, sealing us into quiet.
We glide past palm trees and dark stores glowing under streetlights. Soft Hawaiian music plays on the radio. I try to let the rhythm calm the buzzing in my brain, but my body won’t stop replaying the day. The delay. The sprint. The flight. The humiliation.
Alaric scrolls his phone, thumb moving slow and steady. I steal a glance. His jaw is relaxed. He looks like someone who could fall asleep anywhere, no matter the chaos.
“How was your flight?” he asks after a while.
I snort. “Transformative.”
He smiles faintly. “That bad?”
“Let’s just say I learned new limits of human patience.”
He doesn’t push, and I’m grateful. Silence settles again. Outside, waves crash against the dark shoreline. I lean my head back and let my eyes drift closed, breathing in warm air and ocean.
When the cab finally turns in to the long, curving drive of the Grand Hyatt Kauai Resort and Spa, I sit up. The place looks like a postcard—torches flickering, fountains sparkling, palm trees swaying. I should feel lucky. Right now, I just want a shower, a mai tai, and a bed.
Alaric pays the driver before I can protest. I make a weak grab for my wallet. “You didn’t have to—”
“You can buy the first round of drinks later.”
“Assuming I’m awake then.”
Inside, the lobby glows soft and gold, the scent of plumeria drifting through the air. I step up to the counter, determined to handle this myself.
“Hi. Elizabeth Ward. Checking in.”
The clerk smiles and starts typing. “Of course. Just a moment.” The pause is too long. The smile fades. “I’m not finding a reservation under that name.”
My stomach dips. “Can you check again? Maybe under Liz Ward or Paradise General? Or maybe it’s still under my boss’s name—Roger Hudson?”
He tries again, frowning. “I’m sorry. Nothing’s coming up. Do you have a confirmation number?”
I pull out my travel folder, flipping through the neatly organized pockets. Flight info. Conference schedule. Emergency contacts. Everything except a confirmation number. Misty’s handwriting stares up at me from the page with the hotel address.
“There has to be something,” I say, keeping my voice even. “Can you check for any available rooms?”
He winces. “We’re sold out for the conference.”
Of course, they are.
Behind me, Alaric steps forward. “She’s with me.” His voice is calm, steady, annoyingly confident.
The clerk’s entire posture changes. “Dr. Dempsey, welcome. We have you in an ocean-view room.”
I turn to him. “You don’t have to—”
“You need a place to sleep,” he says with a shrug. “I have a sofa.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I’ll find something else.”
He shakes his head. “You won’t. It’s late. You’re exhausted. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”
The clerk slides him a set of key cards, clearly entertained. I grab my broken suitcase, wishing I could sink through the polished floor.
We walk toward the elevators. His stride is long, unbothered. Mine is three steps for every one of his. The air feels thick, full of things I don’t want to name.
At the elevator, I finally say, “You must love this.”
He presses the button, glancing at me. “Love what?”
“I’m still a mess.”
He shakes his head as the doors open. Inside, soft music hums through hidden speakers. Our reflections stare back from the mirrored wall—him, relaxed and put together; me with frizzy hair, a wrinkled blouse, and raccoon eyes.
I look like I’ve survived a natural disaster.