16. Flights, Not Feelings
FLIGHTS, NOT FEELINGS
My stomach rumbles as the numbers continue to increase, which I take as a promising sign. I forced down the oatmeal Isabella made before we hustled out the door to head to O’Hare, but my appetite has remained unpredictable lately. Today, of all days, I doubted I’d be eating much.
I’m a nervous flier.
And I’m nervous about where I’m flying to.
“Carina? Carina Carson?”
I look toward the sound of my name automatically, appraising the man who’s paused with his rolling suitcase. Chicago is a large city, and airports are full of people from different places.
Isabella has stopped, too, shooting me a curious glance. She knows everyone in my life—with one glaring exception, who I would instantly recognize anywhere.
“Harrison,” the man says, pointing to himself. “I used to go by Harry. Harry Pearson? From high school?”
“Oh. Right. Uh, hi.” If I squint, I can see some similarities to the teenager who ruled Albright Academy.
Harry—Harrison—is shorter than I recall.
He has a patchy beard, which I privately decide he’d be better off shaving.
A shiny gold wedding band sits on his left hand.
He’s not unattractive; he’s just not very memorable either.
That assessment has more to do with me than him.
I took one look at Lev Sokolov, and he became the standard I compare other men to.
I’m awaiting—and dreading—the day that’s no longer the case.
My former classmate seems to be experiencing the opposite reaction to my apathy—obvious interest in his expression as he looks me up and down.
“How’ve you been?” Without waiting for a reply, he glances at Isabella. “Is this your mom?”
Isabella says she will meet me at the gate, then continues that way.
Harrison appears taken aback by the sudden Italian. I doubt I ever spoke it during the few occasions we hung out together, aware it’d be seen as a rarity among my non-bilingual peers. And prompt unwanted questions about my family.
“My aunt,” I say, answering his second question.
That’s the story we’ve always stuck to—my father died, and my mother didn’t want me, so his sister stepped up as my guardian. Not even inaccurate if you swap the parental roles.
“Did you move back to Chicago?” I ask, trying to be polite.
He shakes his head. “I wish. Just visiting on some business. I miss this city.”
“Why’d you leave?”
Just before the start of our senior year, Harry moved abruptly. I was relieved since he’d spent junior year ensuring the entire school knew we’d hooked up in his expensive sports car after homecoming, but the public sentiment was disappointment because of his general popularity.
I’m not asking because I care. I’m asking because he disappeared a few days after I had sex for the second time, and I’ve always wondered if that was a coincidence or if Lev had had something to do with it.
“My dad sold the airline,” he tells me. “One of the conditions of the sale was the headquarters moved to Atlanta. It sucked, starting over senior year, but I didn’t have any say.”
“Do you remember who bought the airline?”
Harrison gives me a strange look. “No.”
A woman passing us turns her head to stare at Harrison longer. He winks at her.
Definitely me, I decide, eyeing his wedding band. Other women seem to find him plenty attractive.
“So, where you headed?” Harrison asks.
“Italy.” I keep my reply short, uninterested in prolonging this conversation.
Isabella is a stickler for punctuality, so I have plenty of time before our flight departs, but casually chatting with the guy who said nothing while I was repeatedly called a slut isn’t on my priority list.
“Visiting family?”
“Yes.”
He nods, seeming to get the hint I’m eager for this reunion to be over. “I saw you and really wanted to say, I’m sorry about high school. I was a real shit back then.”
I think of the wink. Only back then? I want to snark.
But I don’t.
Because I haven’t thought of Harry Pearson since well before graduation. Because I’ve experienced real heartbreak since, and my main concern in high school was that a well-meaning parent might mention the bullying to Isabella and I’d be subjected to a lecture about the sin of sex before marriage.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“I only told everyone because all the guys wanted to get with you. I didn’t know Samantha and the other girls would be such bitches about it.”
“It’s fine,” I repeat. “My flight is boarding soon,” I add. “I should go.”
“Yeah, of course. It was good to see you.”
My, “You too,” is automatic, not heartfelt.
By the time I reach the right gate, Isabella has found a section of open seats.
“Who was that?” she asks as I take the chair beside her.
“A guy I went to Albright with,” I reply. “Hadn’t seen him since high school.”
“A friend?”
“Not really.”
Isabella drops the subject, tapping the crossword puzzle open on her lap with a pencil. “Group of crows,” she says. “Six letters.”
I think. “Murder.”
She shakes her head. “English is strange.”
My stomach grumbles again. “I’m going to get some food. Do you want anything?”
Isabella shakes her head, patting her purse. “I packed snacks.”
“Okay. I’ll be back soon.”
She nods. I stand and head for the concourse.