2. Newark International Airport, USA
2
NEWARK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, USA
Now
T he flight to Paris was delayed. Alex hadn’t gotten the text alert until she was nearly at the airport, so she was spending her evening wandering around the liminal space of the empty terminal. It was an annoyance, but it did make her long layover in Paris feel like more of a gift than a burden. Now, she could just enjoy herself instead of biting her freshly gelled nails, panicking about how she would get to Marseille once she landed.
At the perfume counter with a lone saleswoman, Alex let her spray a few different scents onto tiny strips of paper for her to sample. There was a language to scents that she’d always appreciated—things were woody, or floral, or gourmand , whatever that meant — and nodding along as someone explained them always felt like an elegant activity. This kind of financially neutral indulgence had become a game for Alex, finding ways to extract joy or adventure from her surroundings without spending any money.
Airports used to be one of the most dangerous places for Alex’s bank account. The excitement of travel, paired with the casino-like isolation from the outside world, seemed to justify any and all spending, no matter how frivolous. This very terminal was the site of a particularly memorable spree: one in which she’d charged $300 to her card in a single night before heading to Mexico for spring break. Later, when she finally performed a forensic analysis of the debt she’d racked up, she marveled at the sheer insanity of her purchases: several overpriced drinks, a designer eyeshadow palette, two baskets of chicken tenders (?), three magazines, and countless mystery items she had lost the receipts for.
Now, she poked around the duty-free stands to keep her hands busy, but her mind pulled back to Danial like a faulty shopping cart. Their group chat had been aflutter all week with travel plans and arrival times, so she knew he was flying from New York to Paris with Sophie. And she also knew—or at least, suspected—the two of them would spend the flight sprawled in their luxurious lie-flat seats, sipping free champagne and laughing about something Alex could never relate to. She wouldn’t even be surprised if they had started dating: Sophie was a junior executive for a French fashion brand, and everything about her was beautiful and effortless. If she wanted Danial, she could undoubtedly have him.
Stop obsessing, Alex thought so hard she nearly spoke it out loud, he is not your problem anymore.
From inside her bag, she felt a gentle buzz against her body. It was her mother again, texting her affirmations and wishes for a safe flight. A member of their family flying was a rare enough occurrence that it warranted a ritual, one wherein the flyer told the others how much they loved them, that they’d lived a good life, that they were grateful. It was morbid in some ways, and probably a little woo-woo, but it had become Alex’s preflight security blanket. She wandered over to one of the few open airport bars to properly respond. There was only one other patron, so she took the best seat in the house: the very corner of the bar, overlooking the terminal, with plenty of space to spread out her belongings.
“What can I get you?” The bartender asked, setting down a glass of ice water for her. He was a handsome twenty-something with messy blond hair that looked almost boy band-adjacent. Alex immediately perked up.
“Shirley Temple, please.” As she ordered, she cracked open the spine on her first vacation read, a romance between two childhood friends who reconnect after thirty years and two divorces.
“A Shirley Temple.” He laughed, grabbing a glass. “I like it.”
“Me too.” She smiled. “And actually, could I have extra cherries, please?”
She fished her phone from her bag, sliding open her mother’s string of messages. It was always nice to speak to her when she could take her time and manage her tone, as opposed to the unannounced video calls Elena preferred.
“Extra cherries, coming right up.” The bartender reached under the counter for a jar of surprisingly fancy Amarena cherries. “Are you on the flight to Paris?”
“Yeah, and I’m starting to worry it’s not going to take off at all.” Alex took a long sip of her water, typing back her I love you s. She was an excellent daughter via text.
“It’ll take off. This happens all the time when it’s raining, but you’ll get to Paris. Cheers.”
He set a cocktail napkin down in front of her with a flourish, placing her drink on top of it.
“Cheers.” She smiled, setting down her phone and taking a deep sip through twin black straws. “This is a really good Shirley Temple.”
“Thanks—we order our cherries from Italy.” He walked over to the sink, rinsing off the spoon he’d used to fish them out. “The manager is Italian. He loves them. They kind of taste like almonds, right?”
“They do.”
Alex was good at low-stakes flirting, likely a byproduct of her work in communications. Actual, real-deal relationships terrified her, and she wasn’t overly charming on dates, but in these micro-moments that were at no risk of evolving into something serious, she excelled. Sometimes, she would even make up fantastical backstories for herself, knowing she would never see the person again.
“What are you doing in Paris?” he asked, refilling her water.
“Just passing through the airport—I have a connecting flight to Marseille.”
“Okay.” He smiled. “So what are you doing in Marseille?”
“I’m actually going on… a boat trip.” She hesitated before allowing herself the thrill of continuing. “A yacht trip. All around the Mediterranean, then to a wedding. It’s actually kind of crazy.”
“A yacht trip ?” he asked, placing his hands on the bar and leaning forward slightly. “What does that mean, exactly?”
“Well, a yacht is just a big boat, and you can rent them for whatever you want. They come with their own crew and everything.” She grabbed her phone, scrolling to pull up some photos of the yacht in question from the group chat. “So people rent them to go on vacations, and my best friend is renting one for a little bachelor trip before his wedding in Cyprus. Here, this is us.” It was hard not to be a little pedantic when talking about something so obscenely luxurious.
“Holy shit.” The words sounded knocked out of him, and he took her phone to bring the photos in for closer inspection. “That is a ship.”
His eyes flicked upward to meet hers, and she instinctively blushed, as much from the flirtatious atmosphere as from the details of her travels. It was the first time she was describing this trip to a stranger in honest terms, let alone showing them photos. She had been intentionally vague with her colleagues and friends back home, but in the safe space of an airport bar, she felt comfortable sharing the extravagant details, this alternate reality she got to enter every so often through Paul.
She smiled, leaning back in her chair and taking a sip from her drink. “It’s apparently on the larger side, about 170 feet.”
“Well.” The bartender handed her phone back. “That sounds pretty cool. I think you got a message, by the way.”
She looked down, tapping open her emails. An update from the airline: her flight had been delayed another three hours, basically guaranteeing she would miss her connecting flight to Marseille. Holding her breath, she navigated to the French railway website she’d bookmarked—her Plan B—and absorbed the day’s train schedule like several slaps to the face: SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT .
She knew she had to text the group to develop a Plan C, but the familiar feeling of being a burden—the poor one who couldn’t just make solutions appear out of thin air—gave her pause. Alex had never coveted designer bags or five-star hotels, but she envied the ease with which her college friends could turn logistical nightmares into minor inconveniences. It was like the rich lived in an alternate universe, where they could resolve a setback that would financially devastate her with just a few irritating minutes on the phone—and even that task could be outsourced.
She considered messaging Paul separately, but it was the middle of the night for him, and she would likely need to crowdsource solutions from those who were still Stateside.
“Everything okay?” The bartender asked.
“What?” She looked up from her phone, her previously aspirational demeanor suddenly evaporated. “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. I just have to figure something out real quick.”
She toggled over to their WhatsApp group—the deeply millennial “ I’m on a Boat,” complete with a profile picture of T-Pain—to deliver the news:
Alex: Hey guys, travel update:
My flight to Paris is officially delayed enough that there’s no way I’m making my connection, and all of the trains are sold out from what I can find online. I’m currently checking my options, but it’s not looking good. Can someone please remind me when the boat is leaving?
Within seconds, Paul was typing a response.
Paul: Nooooooo
Alex: Why are you up at 2:30 AM lol
Paul: It’s Spain baby, we just got to the clurb
Guy: No one tell him we’re leaving for Marseille at ten sharp tomorrow
Paul: Shh
Anyway Lex, don’t worry about it, we’re not setting sail without you
Guy: If you can’t find a new connection, Dan is driving down from Paris with Sophie tomorrow afternoon, I’m sure you can ride with them. I think his flight takes off at midnight
Paul: DANNY WHEN DOES YOUR FLIGHT TAKE OFF. IF YOU SEE THIS CONFIRM ALEX CAN RIDE WITH YOU PLEASE
Bee: Can you guys please take this to a separate chat
I’m trying to sleep
Paul: Turn your phone on silent bitch this is a crisis
DANNY. ANSWER ME
Alex: It’s really okay guys, I can figure out a way down
Danial: Hi Alex
I’d be happy to drive you
Alex’s heart sank through her stomach, landing somewhere at the very bottom of her.
Alex: Hi Danial
Thanks, I’ll let you know when my flight lands
Paul: Look at you two being so diplomatic
How Soviet peace treaty
Mr. Azad, tear down this wall!!!
Guy: I’m taking his phone away
Paul: REMEMBER ME FONDLY
Alex: I’ll see everyone tomorrow, Xx
She set down her phone, a tingling panic beginning to move through her at the prospect of tomorrow’s trip. Those were the first words she’d directed at Danial in ten years, and she was already reconsidering them. “Thanks” and not “Thank you?” Should she have been more formal with him, as he was with her? Her goal for the trip was an impenetrable coolness, and her messages in the group chat already felt too vulnerable.
“Did you work it out?” The bartender asked, interrupting her spiral. He was eager to return to their earlier dynamic, but she couldn’t fathom being charming.
“It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” She breathed steadily, attempting to reassure herself as much as to answer his question, before taking another sip of her now watered-down Shirley Temple.
“Here, let me make you a fresh one—on me.”
“Oh—” she moved her hand to wave him away, but he was already hard at work.
The truth was, she didn’t want another drink, mostly because she needed to start her panicked preparation for this unexpected turn of events. Her “seeing Danial for the first time” outfit was already checked with the rest of the luggage, most likely lingering somewhere on the tarmac. She had planned to change at the Marseille airport, freshen herself up, and arrive at the docks in a taxi as if she had been swept there by a magic carpet. Now, there was no way her current outfit—jeans and a fitted tee shirt—would do, and the boutiques in the airport terminal were about to close.
“Could you actually watch my stuff for a few minutes?” she asked the bartender as he diligently worked on her fresh drink.
“Sure, is everything okay?”
“It’s fine, don’t worry about me!” She said, already dashing toward the meager clothing options the airport had on offer.
A familiar feeling rose in her throat, one she had worked so hard to leave behind in college. It was as if her skin itself were ill-fitting, a full-body itch of inadequacy. Her hands trembled as she scanned the racks of an overpriced retailer, looking for a chic and breezy skirt-and-top combo that would comfortably fit in her purse.
She briefly imagined herself in each ensemble as she pushed options to the side, wondering what they might look like from his eyes. Being in proximity to wealth at Columbia taught her about clothes: even if she couldn’t afford high-end brands, she knew which fabrics and cuts to wear and which to avoid. To this day, she still erred toward natural fabrics and looser fits—they were higher quality and harder to identify. The sound of the hangers sliding along the metal bar felt oddly soothing, a rhythmic manifestation of her stress. She reminded herself of her go-to mantra when the anxiety started to consume her:
Breathe in, breathe out. That’s all you have to do.
From her pocket, she heard the distinct chime of a work email. She slipped out her phone and clicked the screen in one fluid motion. It was Clara again, scrambling with a request for the video script they were working on for Carter Stephens—the one Alex had promised to send before she left. The subject line was the only thing she could see, but in all caps, it conveyed the message:
NEED SEGMENT ON HORACE CAPITAL PARTNERS – PLEASE SEND ASAP