Chapter 5
HOLLY
In the week since I committed to this trip, I’ve cycled through every emotion possible. But one emotion has eluded me so far: excited anticipation. And as I wait for my luggage to roll through the baggage claim conveyor belt of dread, I’m once again wondering what possessed me to agree to come.
Zoe, that’s what.
Zoe and guilt.
Zoe and the determination to fulfill her dying wish.
At last, my bag wobbles around the bend and I yank it off, smacking myself in the shin. That’s going to bruise.
I have ten minutes before I’m to meet Mr. Whitmore at the ticketing counter.
I made the argument that it would be more efficient for me to just meet Anna in Mexico instead of coming to LAX and having to go through the whole check-in process again.
But he hit back with Zoe’s intricately organized plans.
Even I can’t put up much of a fuss against that.
Seeing Mr. Whitmore standing where he said he’d be and holding the promised envelope unties one of the knots between my shoulder blades. On-time flight, on-time meeting, luggage arrived, so far so good. I’ve yet to encounter Anna.
“Holly, thank you for agreeing to this trip,” Mr. Whitmore greets me, shaking my hand.
“I think I’m the one who should be thanking you.” I’m suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for this last opportunity to do something for Zoe. And yes, a smidge of excited anticipation.
“Come, I’ll help with your bag. You should get checked in and through security.” Mr. Whitmore hands me the envelope and reaches for the handle of my suitcase.
As I follow him and my suitcase, it dawns on me—he was only holding my envelope. That means Anna is already here. And not only is she already here, but she also has Zoe’s urn.
“Mr. Whitmore.” I pick up my pace to catch up.
“Charles, please.” He doesn’t slow down, and before I have a chance to ask the question singeing my vocal cords, he’s walking straight to the counter in the priority line. My face flushes at the glares from the people standing in the long queue on the other side of the vinyl mouse maze.
“Charles,” I try again. “Um, Zoe’s…”
“Ma’am, I need your passport please,” the ticket agent breaks in.
Mr. Whitmore steps back as I get checked in and hands over my suitcase to the agent. I send up a little prayer to the suitcase gods to see it safely to my destination.
“Holly, I need to get back to the office. Thank you again. We’ll see you in two weeks.” And before I have a chance to ask my question, he’s striding away.
Why would he have given Anna the urn? Was this part of Zoe’s plan or was it a first-come-first-served decision? Either way, it gives me a kick of heartburn that propels me toward the security line. The less time I leave Anna alone with the urn, the less trouble she can get into.
There’s still an hour before the flight boards but the waiting area is unnervingly sparse and even more unnervingly devoid of Anna.
I find an open seat where I can keep an eye on the gate.
My breath hitches as I catch sight of three women walking away from a flight that’s deboarding at the adjacent gate.
I blink and it’s the three of us, returning from Paris.
Paris, the City of Light. Or is it the City of Love?
Either way, we’d fallen in love with the city, and we’d come home lit up with possibilities for the future.
I tear my eyes from them and focus on my scarf, untying then retying it. Zoe gave it to me four years ago for Christmas. It’s gloriously light and soft and doubles between scarf and shawl. “Twinsies,” Zoe said, weaving her hands into the identical scarf around her neck.
I glance up but the women have disappeared. I find myself looking around the waiting room with a mixture of need and dread.
Where are you, Zoe?
And where is Anna?
My phone buzzes with an incoming text, distracting me from the escalating anxiety attack that is Anna.
Jack: Just checking in. You hanging in there?
I smile and the tension in my spine eases a fraction as I type a reply: So far so okay.
Haven’t seen Anna yet though. I know she’s here, I know she has Zoe, and I know she can’t resist a trip, but I also know that she has the attention span of an overcaffeinated chipmunk.
For all I know, she’s at one of the airport bars flirting with a pilot.
She’s perfectly capable of ending up in Fiji with him and forgetting Zoe on the barstool.
Jack: She’ll be there.
Me: What makes you so sure?
Jack: Zoe.
Me: But this is Anna we’re talking about.
Jack: Give her a chance.
I change the subject: How’s Quinny?
Jack: Good. I only had to use one roll of duct tape to get him to camp.
Me: Ha ha.
Jack: He’s fine. I promised him ice cream this afternoon.
Me: JACK!
Jack: Yeah, yeah. It won’t be every day. Scouts honor.
Me: Do you have his bag ready for swim practice?
Jack: Yes
Me: He eats half a peanut butter sandwich before practice. Not a full one. And no jam.
Jack: I’ve got this.
Me: I know. But I miss him already.
Jack: I know.
Me: And I miss you, too.
Jack: I know that, too.
Me: Oh, I left a load of laundry in the dryer. Quinn’s favorite sweatshirt is in there. He’ll want that on Friday when they do show and tell.
Jack: I’ve got this.
Me: And don’t forget to send in the field trip permission form tomorrow.
Jack: Hols… I’ve got this. Focus on your trip.
Me: I know. But I miss you guys.
Jack: We miss you too. Now leave me alone so I can miss you for real.
I tap on the eye-roll emoji and hit send.
I’ve never been away from Quinn for this long. Three days was my max when I went to visit Zoe. And on several of those trips, I ended up taking him with me because I couldn’t face being away from him.
I lift the end of the scarf and hold it to my face. Eyes closed, I take a deep breath and wait for Zoe to give me a sign.
“Holly Sterling, please check in with the gate agent. Holly Sterling, check in with the gate agent.” I startle, hearing my name over the PA system, practically choking myself with the scarf as I scramble to collect my pounding heart. You could have been more discreet, Z.
Clutching my bag and the straps of my carry-on, I march to the gate attendant. “I’m Holly Sterling.”
“Ah, Ms. Sterling. Here’s your new boarding pass. You’ve been upgraded.”
I stare at the rectangular ticket she’s placed on the counter in front of me. “I didn’t put in for an upgrade.”
“Courtesy of Ms. Fisk,” she says, nodding in a direction to my left. My head whips around like a doll in a horror movie. How could I have missed that spectacle? In true Anna fashion, there’s the hum of celebrity-under-wraps.
Through gritted teeth I say, “Ms. Fisk shouldn’t have done that.” I slide the boarding pass back to her. “We’re supposed to sit where we were originally assigned.” That’s where Zoe wanted us and that’s how we’re doing this trip.
“But you’ve been upgraded to first class.” She blinks at me as though I’m three fries short of a Happy Meal.
“But I don’t want to be in first class.”
“I’m sorry?” By the look on her face, I may be the only person in history to say those words.
I give the boarding pass another small nudge. “I prefer my original seat, thank you.” Anna can sit in first class with her glass of champagne and without a care that she’s already messing with Zoe’s carefully orchestrated plans.
“That seat has already been reassigned.”
The attendant and I stare each other down. I lose.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, snatching up the boarding pass.
It’s not her fault though. It’s her fault.
I spin around to glare at where Anna is sitting.
Then I stride over to where Ms. Fisk is seated by the windows, brilliantly overdone in a large floppy hat and a white off-the-shoulder dress printed with giant lemons.
Two lemons perfectly align with the swell of her boobs.
“I knew you wouldn’t be able to control yourself,” I huff, stopping before her, my lips pursed as if I’ve swallowed more lemons than on that dress of hers.
“Ummm… I’m sorry?” Anna looks around, totally clueless as to what she’s done.
Crossing my arms, I lower my voice. “Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?
We haven’t even started this trip and you’re already messing with the plans.
” Even as I say it, I know I’m overreacting.
There’s so much riding on this trip, so many variables out of my control, and so much to lose if this doesn’t go well.
Anna’s face falls like a scolded puppy. Even the brim of her ridiculous hat appears to droop. “I just thought we’d be more comfortable in first class. I have so many miles to use that it’s really not a big deal.”
“You thought wrong,” I say. “I knew this was a bad idea,” I mutter to myself but not quietly enough, because I see the flash of panic on Anna’s face, as bright as her red lipstick.
I should just walk away. I should trade this stupid upgrade for a one-way ticket back to San Francisco.
“Holly, wait. It’ll be good, you’ll see,” Anna blurts, shifting as though about to stand and I take a step back.
The moment she shifts, I see it on the seat next to her and my breath escapes me like a pierced balloon.
Zoe’s urn.
Zoe.
No, not Zoe.
Zoe would be sitting cross-legged on the seat, in stylish slim jeans and crisp white tee, a chic black blazer casually draped over her carry-on.
She’d be laughing at something, a natural, from-down-deep laugh that would have everyone in the waiting room smiling, her signature gold hoop earrings dancing as she shakes her head at whatever nonsense has her cackling. That’s Zoe. Not…
I sink onto the seat on the other side of the urn, my fingers tracing a vein in the polished wood as my heart pounds against my rib cage.
“Oh, Zoe.”
Under the giant brim of the hat, Anna’s face softens. “Oh, Holly.”
The echo of the words I’d just exhaled sends a chill down my spine.
If this had been any other trip, Zoe would be adding an “Oh, Anna,” and the three of us would laugh as though it’s the funniest thing ever.
Because somehow when we were together, everything seemed funny, everything seemed possible.
We had the whole world ahead of us, and together we were invincible.
I blink back the sting of tears, feeling the texture of Zoe’s urn under my fingertips. Not so invincible after all.
“Ground rules,” I say, pulling my eyes from the urn. I force myself to meet Anna’s gaze for the first time in years. “We’re doing this Zoe’s way. No surprises, no oopsies, no changes. And for god’s sake, be careful with her. Got it?”
Anna nods, the hat flapping around her face comically. Despite myself, there’s a moment of softening. “She’s like a golden retriever puppy,” Zoe had once said. “All exuberance and eagerness. It’s impossible to be mad at her.”
“I promise. We do this Zoe’s way,” Anna says, hugging the urn tighter.
Impossible to stay mad at her. At least until she pees all over your life.