Chapter 14
fourteen
It’s pretty much the middle of the night when Lola approaches the departure lane at Denver International Airport. I feel bad she had to get up so early to drop me off.
“Make sure you do something that scares you every day. Text me details, and I’ll add check marks to the Fuck-It Tally,” she says through a wide yawn. She’s been yawning the whole way here.
A copycat yawn escapes me. “I think keeping track is a moot point. Most things I do from the moment I wake up until my head hits the pillow scare me now. It’s all uncharted territory.”
“Too many generalities in that statement. I need specifics for the board.”
I let my head drop back against the headrest and roll it to meet her eyes as she pulls up curbside under the Southwest sign. “I’m flying. In a goddamn airplane. Today. That scares the hell out of me.”
She shakes her head. “That doesn’t count. It’s for work, not pleasure.”
I know I’m tired, but it’s hard to parse the logic, and I blink a few times before I counter, “That makes no sense, panic attacks are real whether there’s a job on the other end of the line or Disney World.”
“That’s what Xanax is for.” She reaches into her cup holder, fingers around, and then drops two tablets into my hand.
I’m still lost, and though I would normally turn them down, I don’t have it in me to argue this early and accept them. “Gracias.”
She reaches across the console and pulls me in for a hug. “De nada. Send me photos and gossip. I need to know if the brothers are still hot.”
I hug her back and kiss her cheek before letting her go. “I’m going out on a limb and going to say yes, they are.”
She sighs and shakes her head. “Ever and Jesse. Your luck has turned around.”
Reaching into the backseat, I grab the strap on my backpack and pull it through to my lap as I open the door. “Something to look forward to if I survive the flight.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. I bought you a going-away gift.” She slips her hand into the door pocket and presents me with a fistful of satin and lace. “Promise me you’ll burn your granny panties first chance you get.”
Eyeing the lingerie warily, I say, “Granny panties are comfy.”
“That may be, but I promise these will make you feel like a goddess. Even if no one else knows you’re wearing them, it will be your little secret.” She winks. “There’s power in that.”
I take them and stuff them in the front pocket of my backpack, and then I thank her sincerely because I know she means well.
She blows me a kiss. “Love you.”
I step out, hoist my camera bag on one shoulder and my bursting-at-the-seams backpack on the other, and then bend down so I can meet eyes with her before I shut the door. “Love you more, Lo.”
Walking toward the terminal doors, I must look like I’m lost and/or sleepwalking because a man in a boldly colored uniform that screams, I work here and can help, asks, “Do you need some help?”
I nod slowly.
He eyes my bags and lobs an easy question. “Are you checking either of your bags or are they carry-ons?”
“Carry-on,” I answer. I went with Good Guy’s suggestion, and I’m feeling pretty good about it.
“Do you need to check in for your flight, or did you already do that online?” How is this man so awake and efficient at this ungodly hour?
Hannah texted me last night to wish me ‘safe travels’ and after my eyes glazed fixating on the word safe, I snapped out of it and admitted that I was a newbie to air travel.
I left out the scared shitless part because I don’t need to burden the woman with my neurosis.
She told me to download the airline app to make check-in easier.
“I checked in online. I have my boarding pass.” I hold up my cell phone proudly, like it’s proof I’ve haven’t failed this mission yet.
He extends his arm and points toward the sliding doors and says, “Enter through these doors, take an immediate right, and look for signs directing you toward security. Shortest line is usually on the skybridge.”
“Thanks. Skybridge, got it.” Do I? I’m slightly more awake now, but when I enter the fray inside, anxiety will likely force this little piece of valuable information out of my mind.
The inside of the building is brightly lit and bustling, like everyone is unaware they’re supposed to be sleeping.
I manage to follow the signs to security, but as I near lines that look like half the population of Denver must be in them, I stop a DIA employee.
She’s wearing neon pink Nikes that match the sequins on the front of her T-shirt.
The smile on her face and the badge on her vest read, How can I help?
“I’m a little lost, can you please tell me where I can find the—” The word escapes me, but I remember vaguely the image that appeared in my mind when I heard it, and for some reason I bust into an impromptu game of charades like I’m in a foreign country and don’t speak the language.
I flatten my right hand midair and arc my left hand over it.
Then I stop, because I’ve lost my damn mind.
Unless this woman is the reigning world champ of pantomime—
Mid-thought, she stuns me by asking, “Skybridge security?”
I shake my head minutely in amazement and whisper, mostly to myself, “Holy shit, how did you do that?” because that was one step shy of sorcery.
She cups a hand to the side of her mouth like she’s sharing a secret, and whispers back, “Mind reader.” Then she laughs, probably because my mouth is gaping a bit, and winks and says, “Or maybe it only feels like it because I’ve been doing this job so long.”
I nod resolutely, “I’m going with mind reader,” and thank her after she gives me directions.
Skybridge security is, as the name unironically suggests, on a skybridge leading to terminal A.
The line is short, as promised, and I feel like I’ve passed a test and somehow managed to slip unseen into a super-secret, exclusive airport club.
While I’m standing in line, I pop one of the Xanax Lola gave me because the internal whooshing sound filling my ears is blood rush. My heartbeat is mutinous.
The Xanax is fast acting.
The security line, though short, is not.
There’s a tug of war going on inside my skull between the worry and the meds.
By the time I get to the gate, the meds are winning, and I wonder why I was so opposed to them before. I have my pick of seats in the waiting area and take one next to a window. “It’s like a mass grave coffin with wheels, wings, and windows,” I mutter to myself as I gaze out at my nemesis.
The guy across from me laughs under his breath, eyes still downcast on the book open in his lap. “Statistically, you’re probably more likely to die taking a selfie than in a plane crash.”
I attempt to smile because I know he’s trying to ease my fears, but I can’t be sure the muscles in my face are cooperating. “It’s too early for math. Or hope. I don’t take selfies.”
He laughs again and his eyes lift in my direction. They’re the lightest shade of green I’ve ever seen. “Damn, we might all be screwed then. You’ve skewed the odds.”
My attempt at a smile relaxes into something that feels genuine, maybe it’s his humor or maybe it’s the Xanax currently saturating my bloodstream. “You’re welcome,” I tell him.
He smiles wide and then returns to his book. I’m grateful. Short bursts of interaction face-to-face are great, but when they devolve into small talk, I tend to short-circuit.
There’s a dim glow on the horizon. It’s blossoming second by second like sunrise isn’t happening in real time but is time-lapse footage instead. It pairs nicely with the sleepy fog in my head, and before I know it, instructions from the terminal speakers are rousing me from a catnap.
“Easy there.” He’s laughing again, the guy across from me with the sparkling eyes.
The tightness in my muscles and my ramrod straight posture tell me I did that overly dramatic, startled awake thing I’m prone to. It’s Lola’s fault, scaring me awake when we shared a bedroom as kids was a morbid form of entertainment for her.
He swipes at the side of his mouth discreetly with his fingertips.
Slouching, I tilt my head in confusion.
Repeating the motion, he adds, “Little something right here.”
Pulling down the cuff of my hoodie over the heel of my hand, I brush away the drool pooling. “Have we been summoned to the pearly gates?”
He nods solemnly. “If by pearly gates you mean boarding gate, yes. What group are you in?”
I stare at him like he’s speaking Mandarin.
The grin returns. “It’s on your boarding pass.”
I open the app on my phone and scan. “B39.” I look up hopefully.
He nods and stands, his body unfolding to a staggering height as he slings the strap of the bag in the seat next to him over his shoulder. “Group A is boarding now. That’s me.”
“B is next.” It’s a quiet pep talk. Realizing I sound crazed, I look up and tap my temple. “Xanax is in charge right now.” My head is swimming in a muddy, yet satisfied, haze of incomprehension.
He’s scribbling something on a piece of paper cradled in his palm.
“Try gummies next time. That’s what I do.
” He winks, which usually makes me cringe, but for some reason doesn’t now.
Maybe it’s his innocent grin? He hands me the scrap of paper before joining the passengers lined up like cattle in chutes.
It’s a Dazbog Coffee receipt. He had an iced white chocolate chai and a banana nut muffin for breakfast. Lola says you can’t trust anyone who chooses tea over coffee at a coffee shop. The message scrawled on the back reads:
Would love to talk more. I’ll save the seat next to me.
Maybe take a few selfies before we take off to level the playing field.
Devon
Blinking a few times, I read it again. He’s at the end of the line slowly advancing on the mouth of the beast, but his back is to me, so I assess. He’s the opposite of Chance—late-twenties, athletic build, dark unkempt hair beneath his baseball hat, comfortable clothes, casual stance.
I snap a quick photo of him and his note and text them to Lola.