Chapter 11 Wednesday #2
I let out an audible sigh, closing my eyes and pressing play on Matthew’s playlist. We’ve been exchanging playlists for a while now.
The last one I sent him clocked in at just under seven hours.
It was an expertly curated collection of my top fifty favorite Broadway hits, accompanied by thirty voice memos of in-depth analysis of each, converted into audio files.
He said his favorite was “Without You” from Rent, which made my stomach do a weird flip because I’ve always found it to be one of the greatest love songs ever written.
Matthew’s taste is much more indie than my go-to catalog of show tunes and boy bands, but most of his favorite songs include some form of yearning, which is why I like them.
My mind wanders while I listen to a medley of the 1975, the Smiths, and the Kooks, and before I know it, I’m caught up in a fantasy of leaning on Matthew’s shoulder while he strokes my hair and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
Not helpful.
I squash the thought.
This most recent playlist is five hours and thirty-two minutes long—almost the exact length of my cross-country flight.
It could very well be a coincidence, but knowing Matthew, I don’t think it is.
My chest tightens with guilt. He is so thoughtful, and in return, all I’ve done is lie to him.
I don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of this perfect mix of songs.
He’d be better off sending them to someone else.
Someone who hasn’t canceled on him. Twice. And then lied about the reason. Twice.
I can’t bring myself to listen to anything else, though, so I let the soft crooning of Matthew’s favorite bands lull me into a dreamless sleep.
—
The list catches my eye while I pack my belongings into my Teacher Phoebe tote and get ready to deboard the plane.
It’s sandwiched in between the newest addition to my barf-bag collection and my heatable eye mask, and I spot the task I could easily complete now: Find the cutest guy on the plane to help me with my luggage.
Luckily, my spot in 35B serves as the perfect vantage point for scanning potential candidates.
The ginger in the window seat of row twenty-nine would have been a perfectly acceptable candidate had he not stood up the second the fasten seatbelts light turned off. There’s nowhere to go! I wanted to yell. So, not him.
I stay vigilant and watch as others stand to reach for their carry-ons in the overhead compartments.
I find who I’m searching for in 27A.
There he is.
I decide to look past the aviator sunglasses he’s wearing while in an indoor setting and instead focus on the crisp white T-shirt that hugs his back in all the right places, his perfect set of white teeth, and his head of swoopy, dirty-blond hair.
He’s more conventionally attractive than I’d typically go for, more Ryan Gosling–esque than my preferred boy-next-door type, but for the purpose of this task, he’ll more than do.
I keep a respectable distance as we follow the signs to baggage claim. More than once I wonder, Could 27A actually be Ryan Gosling? LAX to JFK flights are notorious for celebrity sightings, and it’s entirely possible that Ryan has business to attend to in New York.
I turn off airplane mode, anxious to tell the group about my celebrity sighting. My stomach sinks when I see a text from Matthew.
Matthew:
Aw, man
I can’t say I’m not disappointed
But I get it, I know how much those kids need you!
Why is he so nice to me? I want to tell him to block my number. That nothing will ever come of this. To stop trying. Instead, I send him an invitation to a new game of Words With Friends, because selfishly, I’m not ready to let whatever this is go.
I open the group chat, ignoring the collective line of questioning in regard to a date with Matthew this weekend.
Phoebe:
Ryan Gosling is on my flight
Nora:
No he’s not babe
Phoebe:
He was right in front of me
In 27A
Nora:
Ryan Gosling wouldn’t be caught dead in 27A
Alex responds with the selfie I took last summer with David Spade, when I spotted him at the Silverlake Flea Market. Our hands touched while we both scanned through a rack of vintage T-shirts, and he was surprisingly eager to chat.
“How have you been?” he had asked, and I remember being pleasantly surprised by how friendly he was. I asked him for a photo, which seemed to catch him off guard, and eagerly texted it to the group. “David Spade sighting at the flea!!”
Alex called me right away.
“Phoebe,” he said. “That’s Carrie, from my gay poker league. You’ve met her.”
All this to say that sometimes I can get a little confused when it comes to celebrity sightings.
I situate myself next to 27A once the carousel starts to move, anxious to open a line of communication.
“Excuse me?” He turns and looks down at me with piercing blue eyes, his aviators now dangling haphazardly from his V-neck. “Would you mind helping me with my bag when it comes out? It’s kind of heavy.” I smile sweetly.
He nods and smiles at me with his blindingly white teeth.
“Totally. What’s it look like?”
I describe the oversized purple L.L.Bean suitcase to him.
I don’t feel nervous while we wait for our bags and make small talk.
Maybe the list really is helping. Or maybe I just don’t care enough about 27A, whose name, I’ve learned, is actually Bryan.
Which is exactly what Ryan Gosling would say if he were trying to stay incognito.
I find that interesting, to say the least.
“There it is!” I point out my bag, inching closer toward us on the carousel.
“Got it,” he says while reaching down to grab the handle. He hoists the bag halfway off the conveyor belt before releasing it with an oof. “Jesus fuck!” Bryan yelps as he cradles his left shoulder.
My suitcase drops back onto the belt with a loud thud, and I watch as it continues on in the other direction. The commotion attracts a small crowd.
My eyes go wide. “Are you okay?”
His blue eyes turn to ice as they narrow in on me.
“You didn’t tell me it was five hundred fucking pounds!” He groans as he continues to hold his shoulder with his opposite hand. “What did you put in there, boulders?”
I can feel a wave of heat creeping up my neck and spreading across my cheeks.
“I-I’m so sorry.”
I do a quick mental inventory of the contents of my luggage: clothes for the week, one bridesmaid dress, a few options for the rehearsal dinner, four pairs of heels, my salon-size bottles of curly hair shampoo and conditioner, my air purifier, a few hardcovers, a hair dryer, and…oh no.
Did I forget socks?
Bryan whines, “I think you dislocated my shoulder.”
I didn’t do anything, I want to retort, but several onlookers have formed a small crowd. An older man in a Cornell quarter zip makes his way toward us.
“I’m a doctor,” he asserts. “Let me take a look. Can you extend your arm?”
Bryan winces as he tries to move his arm. “It really hurts,” he whimpers, sounding almost identical to a child with a scraped knee.
This man couldn’t be further from Ryan Gosling.
The doctor takes a second to poke and prod at his shoulder before announcing, “It’s dislocated.”
I spot the purple outline of my bag making the loop back around.
I slowly back away, unnoticed, and manage to hoist my bag to the floor while keeping my shoulders in their sockets.
As fast as its jammed wheels will let me, I roll my bag in the direction of the cellphone lot, where Jamie waits, trying my best to blink away the image of Bryan’s icy blue eyes and bulging muscles that are, clearly, just for show.
—
“One, two, three, LIFT.” Jamie and I heave my bag into the trunk of our mom’s Lexus with a collective grunt.
“You’re lucky that guy only dislocated something. You could have killed him.”
Clad in a Manhasset Central Basketball T-shirt, athletic shorts, and Uggs, she looks fifteen again. I have to remind myself that I’m here for this child’s wedding.
“Sorry, Mom,” I tease her as I slide into the passenger seat and shut the door. And then, after thinking about it for a moment, I add, “Maybe I should leave my air purifier home next time.”
“You don’t say.”
She tries to turn up the music the second we get into the car, but I insist on five minutes of silence while she navigates the JFK arrivals area.
“Oh please, it’s not that bad,” she claims, but I can barely hear her over the sound of horns blaring.
I use the time it takes to exit the airport to study her.
Even in her T-shirt and messy bun, she glows.
Despite her being clearly exhausted from wedding prep, her signature smile never falters.
Being around Jamie always reminds me to breathe.
She’s always radiated calm, and that hasn’t changed in the months leading up to the wedding.
Whatever the opposite of a bridezilla is—that’s Jamie.
“Do you want lasagna or flatbread for the vegetarian meal option?”
“Whichever!”
“Do you want to do a cabin in the Berkshires or an all-inclusive in Cabo for the bachelorette weekend?”
“Both sound fun!”
“Flowers or candles for the centerpieces?”
“You pick.”
For a moment, I wondered if she even wanted to get married. Could my perpetually unflappable sister be getting cold feet?
“Do you even care about the wedding?” I had asked her one night after she approved Ethan’s mom’s request to perform a twenty-minute Barry Manilow medley at the reception.
“The only thing I really care about is getting to say I do.” She shrugged, and suddenly, Jamie’s lack of interest in wedding planning became the most romantic thing I’d ever heard.
I explode with questions once we make it onto the freeway.
“Well, how are you feeling? Are you nervous?”
“Nervous?” She chuckles. “What do I have to be nervous about?”
What do I have to be nervous about? Eight words arranged in a combination I’ve never considered.