I woke up the next morning before my alarm, showered, and made it to the airport with hours to kill before my flight. The air outside was already dripping with humidity, which was great for my vocal cords but kinda miserable for the rest of me.
I turned in my rental car, hefted my bag and my guitar on my shoulders, jammed my baseball hat down over my eyes, and started a deep, intellectual debate with Oak via text as I entered the elevator that went something like:
Oak: I can see the headlines now. Why’s Jayd flying into Denver? Is he meeting a BOY there? Is it the BOY from the PICTURES?
Oak: You’re basically asking the paparazzi to crawl up your ass if you fly commercial right now.
Me: I’ll ignore them.
Oak: Sure you will. You’re so good at ignoring people who ask insensitive questions.
Me: I am!
Oak: You stick your nose in the air, and pull out the freezy-eyes, and try to turn them to ice on the spot.
Me: I do what I have to. Gotta go grab breakfast now, Mom. Text you when I land.
The elevator doors started to close when someone yelled, “Hey, hold the door?”
Instinctively, I reached out a hand to prop it open, and a really extraordinary number of children—all of different sizes yet somehow wearing the same color shirts, like the world’s shortest basketball team—streamed in, followed by a couple of parental units toting a baby carriage and a luggage cart.
“Say good morning to the nice man, children!” the mother-type person singsonged… and like something out of a creepy nightmare, her many spawn opened their mouths simultaneously and chorused, “Good morning, sir!”
I repressed a shudder.
The second the doors closed, an overpowering perfume smell seared my nostrils, and I coughed a little.
One of the shorter spawn blinked up at me with wide eyes. “Baby Jebediah puked in the car. Scrambled eggs.”
“Ambrose!” the mother chided. “The nice man doesn’t need to hear this.” To me, she mouthed, “Sorry.”
I smiled wanly.
Baby Jebediah began to cry.
“Augusta spilled Mommy’s whole perfume bottle down the front of her, trying to cover up the smell,” the tiny informant whispered. “The rental car man said it smelled like a whorehouse. What’s a whorehouse?”
The mother gave me a panicked look.
Please don’t let them be going to Denver, I begged the Universe.I’ll do a good deed, I promise.
The doors mercifully opened, and I lifted my guitar over my head to protect it from the stampede of mini marauders who made a run for the baggage drop-off. Then I stepped off also, sighing in relief from my close call with extremely bad luck…
And in the second I took to catch my breath, I spottedhimstanding head and shoulders above the crowd on the far side of the check-in desk.
Rafe Motherfucking Goodman, at Sarasota Bradenton International Airport, rolling a little suitcase like he was jetting off for the weekend? What the actual fuck? Where did Mr. I-Don’t-Traipse-at-Your-Convenience think he was going?
Gone was his laid-back beach-vibe outfit from the day before. Instead, he wore fitted jeans and heavy boots similar to my own, along with a vintage Eagles T-shirt that molded to his body like a second skin and left zero doubt exactly how many muscles he was packing.
Fortunately for me, everything above the neck spoiled the effect, because the man looked objectively awful, like he’d been rode hard and put away wet… or like he’d stuck around for a few more beers after I’d left him at Mitchell’s. His dark hair was a tousled mess, and his unshaven face had a pale, greenish cast to it, like he might pull a Jebediah at any moment.
I didnotfeel bad for him, let the record show.
If Mr. Responsibility couldn’t help me help Aimee, but he could head out of town on a trip, I wasnotgoing to suggest my foolproof hangover cure of a breakfast biscuit and wrist acupressure, damn it.
As I watched, he darted a glance at the line for the check-in machine, covered his mouth with his hand, and made a break for the men’s room. I narrowed my eyes and stalked after him, ready to say all the angry things I’d tried to hold back the previous afternoon.
By the time I made my way through the crowd to the bathroom, though, Rafe had already ducked into a stall and was very audibly losing his breakfast.
