Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The drive to LAX was a nonstop lecture on the dangers of Colorado, interspersed with thinly veiled suggestions that I might want to consider a more stable career path.
The unspoken subtext hung in the air thicker than LA smog.
If this trip failed, it wouldn’t just be professional embarrassment.
It would be confirmation that all their multitudes of parental investments had been a waste.
Proof that I should have listened to them from the beginning.
“I put in some vitamin C packets and Pepto-Bismol,” said Mom, peeking back at me through the rear-view mirror. “You know how sensitive your tummy is.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“You know they have mountains there Samantha,” said Dad. “The roads twist.” He made a twisting motion with his hand, nearly broadsiding a semi trailer truck in the process.
“Remember that summer you visited Aunt Francis in Big Bear?” Mom mimed a violent vomiting episode.
“Yes, Mom.”
“And don’t underestimate the pollen from the trees,” said Dad, checking his side mirror for the seventh time before changing lanes. His blinker had been on for the past ten minutes. “Your allergies.”
They were acting as if I were going backcountry camping in the untamed wilderness.
But I wasn’t going to Colorado to live off the land.
I was going to Colorado to be pampered like a princess and get paid a king’s ransom to do it.
“I’ll grab Benadryl and Dramamine when I get there,” I said. If nothing else, I would sleep well.
“And don’t exert yourself,” said Mom. “The elevation will make you dizzy.”
“No worries there.”
“Do you want your father to stop and buy you a bottle of water? You have to stay hydrated.”
“I’m pretty sure they have water there.”
“And watch out for the meese.” said Dad. “So many meese in Colorado.”
“They’re called moose.”
“One moose, lots of meese,” Mom countered.
“It’s still moose,” I insisted. “Moose is singular and plural.”
“What about goose and geese?” asked Dad.
“That’s different.”
“Why is that different?” Mom asked.
“It just is.”
“What do you know about mooses, anyway?” Mom gave another snort of dismissal.
“Nothing Mom. I don’t know anything about moose.
Or mooses. Or meese. You realize I’m staying at a luxury resort, right?
Not camping in the wilderness.” Unless they had a moose working the reception desk of the full-service spa, I had no intention of putting myself in a situation where I would be anywhere near the things.
After my parents dropped me off at the curb, I raced through Los Angeles International Airport without a minute to spare. I didn’t even have time to stop for coffee.
When I got to the gate, doubled-over, out of breath, waiting for the aneurysm, I didn’t see any people lined up.
I asked the gate attendant if the flight had already finished boarding.
She gave me her corporately trained smile, one that conveyed ‘oh you poor dear’ and ‘you’re fucked’ simultaneously.
“I’m afraid there’s been a slight delay. ”
By slight, she meant four hours. Apparently, some poor seagull kamikazed into an engine intake valve.
The bird had lost, obviously, but the plane didn’t exactly win either.
While I waited, I developed an encyclopedic knowledge of the duty-free shop’s perfume selection and memorized every ceiling tile in Gate B23.
Once on board, first class did its best to compensate.
I’d nursed two perfectly chilled mimosas before we even left California airspace.
By the time I finished the third, watching Bachelorette Season 21 (the one where Brittany dates the secret billionaire disguised as a plumber), my blood alcohol content had reached the sweet spot where my anxiety started to blur.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our descent into Aster Park Regional Airport,” the pilot announced, his voice crackling over the speakers. “Current temperature is 68 degrees, clear skies, and light winds.”
I returned my seat and tray table to their upright and locked positions as the flight attendant, Tiffany, collected my empty mimosa glass. “First time to Aster Park?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, squirming in my seat in a futile attempt to dislodge the silk thong that had spent the last two hours trying to bisect me. “Work trip.”
Tiffany’s face went from cheerful to sympathetic. She gave my shoulder a gentle pat, then leaned over and whispered. “I’ll get you one more mimosa before we land.”
The plane touched down with a bounce that sent my stomach into my throat, then rolled to a stop on what appeared to be a glorified country road. Complete with pot holes. I looked out the window. “Oh boy.”
Aster Park Regional Airport was, and I use this term very loosely, “quaint.” No jetways here, just a patch of tarmac in the middle of an empty field, surrounded by mountains and pine trees.
The moment I stepped onto the portable metal stairs, the Colorado air slapped me across the face, thin, sharp, and crisp.
It smelled clean in a way that made me wonder if we landed on another planet.
Notes of pine, wildflowers, and something earthy.
My lungs, accustomed to the smog of Los Angeles, momentarily forgot how to function.
I clutched the railing as a wave of light-headedness washed over me.
“Is this what oxygen poisoning feels like?” I asked the woman behind me. She made a funny face and frowned.
“Holy sunshine.” I fumbled for my Prada sunglasses, a sample pair for an Instagram reel I’d done when I first started influencing. Even with the tinted lenses, the world was technicolor-bright. The sky above wasn’t just blue, it was aggressively azure, a shade so intense it looked Photoshopped.
Luckily, I didn’t see any moose. No polar bears either.
As I descended the portable stairs, the tiny terminal building appeared to be constructed of rough hewn timber and wishful thinking. It had all the architectural sophistication of a Lincoln Log set.
While my fellow passengers shuffled toward the spot where the crew was unloading luggage, I scanned the nearly empty parking lot for my “luxury transportation.” Marcus promised me that LuxeLife would send a proper car, something sleek and luxurious, with leather seats and a driver.
What I saw instead was the vehicular equivalent of roadkill.
Parked at the edge of the lot was a Jeep that looked like it had gone ten rounds with the Rocky Mountains.
And lost. The once-red paint had faded to the color of a bad sunburn, with patches that suggested a lifelong battle with ultraviolet radiation and acid rain.
The tires were massive, mud-caked monuments, its driver clearly overcompensating for something.
And was that ... duct tape holding part of the bumper on?
I pulled out my phone to text Marcus’s assistant. Instead of 5G, a “No Service” message mocked me, the digital equivalent of flicking me the bird.
“Perfect,” I muttered, shoving my phone back into my pocket. “Just perfect.”
I dragged my suitcase through what an overhead sign generously called a “concourse.” What the Aster Park Regional Airport lacked in size, it made up for in …
let’s call it … “rustic charm.” Vintage ski posters announced events from decades past. Hand-carved wooden bears stood frozen in eternal waves.
Ten different scents of potpourri waged olfactory warfare.
It was like someone had liquefied a Yankee Candle store and crop-dusted the entire building.
Making my way deeper into the terminal, it looked like a taxidermy museum had a one-night stand with a hunting lodge, then birthed a carnival of the macabre.
Every few feet, another dead-eyed woodland creature stared at me from its mounted perch, glass eyes following my progress in anticipation. Anticipating what, I wasn’t sure.
I continued searching for my driver, projecting positivity into the universe.
There’s going to be a sign that says Samantha.
There’s going to be a sign that says Samantha.
There’s going to be a sign that says Samantha.
I didn’t see a sign that said Samantha. Or anyone even close to resembling a chauffeur. In fact, every third person I passed appeared to be auditioning for a lumberjack calendar.
If I had had a small brown terrier with me named Toto, I would have knelt down and whispered, “I have a feeling we’re not in Los Angeles anymore.” Instead, I just adjusted my Prada sunglasses and tried to look like someone who knew what a “switchback” was.
The blessed sight of a coffee shop was like seeing an oasis in the desert. If I had to wait for my chauffeured luxury transportation a little longer, I might as well treat myself to something resembling civilization.
I made my way across the main hallway, narrowly avoiding a family of five, all dressed in matching camouflage. In case of an emergency, they were clearly prepared to disappear into the airport’s wood paneling at a moment’s notice.
Just before the coffee shop, I spotted a newsstand, but instead of US Weekly and Vogue, the magazine rack displayed titles like Trophy Buck Monthly and Wilderness Survival Review.
Behind the counter, a man wearing both camouflage and flannel was arranging an abundant supply of reindeer jerky in flavors ranging from “Original” to “Spicy Maple.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what Aster Park’s parents told their children around Christmas. “Sorry, Suzie, Santa can’t make it this year. Uncle Joey turned all Santa’s reindeer into chemically preserved meat sticks.”