Chapter 27
Mia hasn’t been able to replace her car yet, and the guys from the tow truck company said they would recommend a rocket-driven three-wheeler over the one-way ticket to the afterlife she was driving before, so I order a taxi.
Abuela packed me a lunch that will likely sustain me through my first week back home.
After endless hugs, a few tears, and promises to see each other soon, I get into the cab.
Abuelo has his arm wrapped around Abuela and they both wave vigorously when the driver hits the gas pedal and takes off.
Mia tries to be subtle as she wipes her eyes and, for the third time this afternoon, she shouts out, Have a safe trip!
The driver accelerates and it’s not long before we’re cruising through the area that’s become so familiar to me. The drive to the airport is a lot smoother than it was when Mia picked me up three months ago. The fact that my seat has a seatbelt this time, is making me feel much more relaxed.
I take in the landscape as it zips by—the familiar olive groves, the green mountainsides with white villas, and the bright blue water of the sea. I let out a deep sigh. I’m going to miss this. I’m going to miss him.
When the taxi pulls up to the airport, the driver lifts my suitcase out of the trunk with a groan and places it on the ground in front of me.
Good luck checking in, he says, massaging his lower back.
Thank you. I pay him and turn to walk into the departures terminal, past the car rental companies where customer service employees are busy convincing their customers to go with the most expensive insurance options.
I make my way through the terminal, slaloming around people and their suitcases, then join the line at the check-in desk.
Slow, but steady, the queue shuffles toward the desk.
Children all around me are whining about wanting to go home while their parents look like they could use an extra week of vacation.
When the woman ahead of me reaches the front of the line, she hoists her huge, bright pink suitcase onto the scale and glances over to read its weight on the little screen: 31 kilos.
The flight attendant shifts his eyes from the woman to the suitcase and back. I’m afraid you’ll need to pay the overweight baggage fee, or remove something from your luggage, ma’am, he says, as politely as possible.
A collective sigh rises up from the line behind me when the woman zips open her suitcase and starts to shove things into her carry-on bag.
Ugh, you always make such a big deal out of this, she huffs as she pulls a bright pink I Love Ibiza sweater on over her head.
It’s all just going to be on the same plane anyway.
.. She trades her flip-flops for a robust looking pair of hiking boots, then ties her laces.
Okay, that bottle of sangria can probably go.
She puts the massive bottle on the counter as the flight attendant tosses me an apologetic look.
Hmmm... These cookies can probably fit into my carry-on.
My flight leaves in forty-five minutes, lady. Could you get a move on? an irritated man shouts from behind me.
Boo-hoo. Take a chill pill, the woman mumbles, squeezing a collection of souvenirs into her carry-on case. Right. That should do it. She gets up and gives the flight attendant a triumphant stare.
With a steely glare in his eye, the man behind the desk presses the button to re-weigh the suitcase, bringing the display number down to twenty-eight kilos.
Three more to go, ma’am, he says, doing his best to keep his tone even.
Perhaps it would be best to stand aside and let some other folks come through first. Or you could pay for the extra weight. It’s up to you.
The woman mumbles something incoherent before reluctantly sliding her luggage off to the side.
I step forward and place my bag onto the now-empty scale.
Thank you, I say, dropping my eyes to his name tag, Elias?
Wide-eyed, I look up at the man. He even looks a little like Elias: dark, tousled hair and brown eyes.
He’s a little stockier, though, and his energy is different.
He slowly raises his eyebrows and taps the silver tag with his index finger.
No, it’s Elijah, he corrects me, shaking his head as he prints a luggage tag for my suitcase.
I take another look at his name tag. Elijah.
I blink my eyes a few times. Dammit, Martens, focus.
You’re acting like a rejected tween. And you didn’t even get rejected.
Not really. It was just a mature decision: you’re going home and Elias lives in Ibiza.
He’s just a guy. There are about eight million of those in the Netherlands.
Odds are there’s at least one other one in that pool that you’ll hit it off with who doesn’t live twelve hundred miles away.
I fidget with my blue stone pendant as I watch the man attach the label to my suitcase. But what if he’s not just a guy? What if he’s my guy? Isn’t it kind of bizarre that he’s the same boy I met on the beach all those years ago?
The flight attendant snaps his fingers in front of my face, startling me out of my thought spiral.
I said, ‘next,’ he says in an irritated tone, looking past me at the next person in line.
Oh. Right. Sorry.
My suitcase disappears down a tunnel shielded by a curtain of thick plastic strips.
I turn on my heels and take my carry-on bag to what’s hopefully this trip’s final obstacle: the airport security screening.
I can’t explain why, but this part never fails to make me intensely nervous.
Hippie-Market brownie aside, I’ve never used drugs before, but for some reason I’m suddenly concerned there could be a kilo of cocaine inexplicably tucked away in my luggage.
And—oh crap—how long does cannabis continue to show up in urine samples?
What if they pull me out of the line to pee in a cup? What if I don’t pass the test?
A man wearing a shirt with security printed on it in giant letters keeps glancing over at me, which isn’t exactly helping with my anxiety.
While I’m busy dealing with this internal crisis, the couple in front of me is being pretty explicit about how in love they are.
Between elaborate, germ-swapping kisses, the girl nestles her head comfortably onto the guy’s shoulder.
Couples in love are pretty much the last thing I want to see right now.
My thoughts drift back to last night, remembering how pissed-off Andrés was when Elias showed me that new loan agreement, the way Elias looked at me. ..
As the line of people shuffles along, the plastic bins for our bags and personal items are quickly being used up, then restocked by security staff. I put my bag on the conveyor belt and pull my phone from my pocket when I suddenly hear a man’s voice shouting loudly behind me.
Eva!
I freeze. My heartbeat quickens as I slowly turn around. Is this really happening? Could this be my movie moment? The big airport reveal that makes an appearance in nearly every romantic movie?
Eva! Come here! The plane’s about to leave! A father is trying to catch his daughter, who’s running around the terminal holding a stuffie in her tiny hands, screaming at the top of her lungs. Damn it, Eva! he yells again. Come. Here.
I feel the corners of my mouth slowly shift down again. No big, romantic airport moment for Eva Martens. Which is honestly for the best. We had an excellent reason for splitting up. Long-distance relationships never work out in the long run... Right?
Letting out a deep sigh, I go through the metal detector, immediately setting it off because I forgot to take off my necklace.
You’re looking a little nervous there, ma’am, the security guy says in a deep voice. It’s the guy who was eyeing me up before. Is this your bag? He’s holding up my overnight bag.
Um, yes, I reply, making every effort to put my best I-swear-I’m-not-transporting-any-cocaine-or-weapons look on my face.
The man keeps looking at me with a stern expression, clearly not buying my innocent-little-me act. Can you open this for me?
Oh, of course. I zip open the bag and... Crap.
We’re both staring at the grotesque package I put together, wrapped in the sparkly green paper Mia used to decorate the memory album of my months in Ibiza. With a huge pink bow to top it off.
Crossing his arms, the man nods at the colossal eyesore. Can you open that, too?
Crap. Crappity, crap, crap.
I bite my lip as I look back at the people waiting behind me. The woman who was holding up the check-in line earlier—now looking a bit like the Michelin Man since she’s wearing almost all her clothes—sighs dramatically. She uses one of her sleeves to mop up the sweat gushing from her forehead.
I really don’t think that’s a good idea, I mutter, but the man isn’t about to give in and keeps staring at me with an expression that won’t take no for an answer. I let out a long exhale. Fine.
I’m aiming for subtlety when I gently pull at the ribbon, but the paper is under quite a lot of internal pressure. As soon as I’ve created a small opening, the panties-bomb goes off instantly. My dirty underwear—little lace numbers and comfy briefs alike—go absolutely everywhere.
A blush of deep humiliation appears on my cheeks as I scramble to pick everything up again.
The security agent blinks a few times, clearing his throat. Ahem, next! he yells as loud as he can.
Looking up, I notice his cheeks are pretty flushed, too.
For better or for worse, I shove everything back into the glittery green paper, tie it all up with the pink ribbon, and rush to the gate as quickly as possible.
I take a seat in a plastic chair, then pull my book out of my bag so I can hide from all the people casting amused glances my way.
Smuggling cocaine might actually have been a better idea than this.