Nine
I drag my suitcase up to the check-in desk, chugging my coffee like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the living.
Which, honestly? It might be.
Harper was right. I do look like a corpse. Actually, a corpse might look more alive at this point.
The airline agent, a woman in her mid-forties with kind eyes and the expression of someone who has seen some shit, takes one look at me, tilts her head, and softens.
“Oh, honey,”
she says gently. “Are you traveling for a funeral?”
I blink, completely blanking for a second.
She thinks I’m going to a funeral.
Because of my face.
Because I look like grief itself.
Because I am giving off such intense recently bereaved energy that this woman, who checks in hundreds of passengers every day, took one look at me and thought: Damn. That girl has lost someone.
I can’t take it. So, instead of politely correcting her, I do the worst possible thing.
I start talking.
“Oh, no, not a funeral,”
I blurt, waving my free hand. “Just my brother’s wedding.”
The agent blinks. “Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.”
I nod gravely. “The real tragedy is that my ex is the best man. Who, by the way, is engaged now. And my family, being the wonderfully supportive people they are, assumed I was coming alone. It would’ve been fine if they hadn’t been so patronizing about it. So, I might have panicked and told them I have a boyfriend.”
She stares at me.
Other passengers line up behind me, but I’m past the point of no return.
“Now I have to show up without said boyfriend,”
I continue. “Which means I have to pretend I just had a devastating breakup.”
She keeps blinking. I take her silence as encouragement.
“I’m thinking I'll say I outgrew him. That I needed more. That I wanted to focus on myself.”
I lean forward, dropping my voice. “I’m even planning on using the phrase personal growth unironically.”
She winces. “Oof.”
“Exactly. But I still have to sit through this entire wedding pretending I’m completely fine. Which I am. Mostly. I’m just… having a day. And right now, my only coping mechanisms are caffeine and, uh, an ill-advised decision I really, really don’t want to talk about.”
Her eyebrows rise. “Oh.”
“Yep.”
Nathan flashes through my mind, and a blush heats my cheeks. “It was… so good. Like ruin-my-life good. Which is exactly why it’s a complication I don’t have time for. I'm hungover, overwhelmed, and now have to endure six hours on a flight.”
The agent tilts her head, studying me like an abandoned puppy. “Wow.”
I nod again. “I know.”
She presses her lips together, tapping rapidly at her keyboard. “Okay, listen. You’re a mess.”
I blink. “Rude.”
She shrugs. “A very pretty mess, but still a mess.”
I groan, dropping my head onto the counter. “I’m aware.”
She keeps typing. “And I can’t, in good conscience, let you board like this.”
I straighten, suddenly worried. “Am I being denied boarding for looking emotionally unstable?”
She swivels her screen toward me.
My mouth falls open.
Staring back at me is a new seat assignment.
First class.
I suck in a sharp breath, my exhausted brain short-circuiting. “Wait. What? Are you serious?”
She raises a brow, expression deadpan. “Look at you. You need this. And possibly therapy, but we don’t offer that at check-in.”
“I definitely need this,”
I whisper, almost afraid she'll change her mind.
Clara—according to her nametag—prints my ticket, sliding it across the counter with the elegance of an angel sent specifically to fix my life.
“Go forth,”
she says dramatically. “Drink complimentary champagne. Lie to your family with conviction. Be the badass you were born to be.”
I snatch the ticket like it's a lifeline, clutching it to my chest. “I’ll name my firstborn after you.”
Clara grins. “Honestly, I prefer wine over children, but you do you.”