“I said I’m sorry,” Carly said to the man on the floor. “It was an accident. It could have happened to anyone.” But of course, it had happened to her. Carly Montgomery, disaster on wheels. In this case, literally.
In response, he simply scoffed, and Carly’s neck prickled with irritation. He sat up slowly, more slowly than he needed to, in her opinion, and rubbed his knees.
“I really am sorry,” she tried again through gritted teeth. “Let me help you with your stuff.” Her knees cracked again as she got to her feet, and she walked over to his satchel. When she turned around she saw he was getting up too, and she watched as he rose tentatively and brushed the front of his sweatpants. The fall had messed up his hair, but only a little. Dimly, Carly wondered how he managed to get off a plane as perfectly coiffed as he was. She was pretty sure she looked like she’d just crawled out of a dumpster. Still, he looked disoriented, as if he were unsure his joints would hold his weight as he walked. Guilt swirled in Carly’s stomach as he took a few careful steps and crouched to collect his passport.
She made her way back to the man, who was tucking the passport safely into his pocket. When she reached him, she looked up into his face, met his eyes, and quickly averted her gaze again. God, it was like staring directly at the sun. If she was going to look at him again she’d need a paper plate with a hole in it.
“Here’s your bag,” she said to the zipper of his hoodie, and she held out the satchel. “Sorry, again. I hope you’re not too bruised.”
He reached out to take it, and her eyes followed his fingers again as they wrapped around the fabric strap, brushing briefly against her skin. She sucked in a quick, sharp breath at the contact, and at the rush of sudden heat that sparked where their hands met.
A second later, he yanked the bag out of her hand, and the strap caught a little on one of her fingers.
“Ow,” she said, shaking her fingers out. She lifted her chin, and paper plate be damned, she met his eyes accusingly. Up this close, she could see that they weren’t only blue but flecked with silver and ringed with dark, stormy gray. Thin lines had set in around them, and they only deepened as he glared down at her.
He slung the bag over his shoulder, moving with more confidence now, and Carly was relieved to see that she hadn’t hurt him. But then he spoke again.
“Sorry, I hope you’re not too bruised.”
Carly felt her jaw drop, and for a moment she was speechless. It was a rare feeling for her, and not one she enjoyed. What was this guy’s problem? At most, he’d have some bruises on the backs of his legs and where his knees hit the floor. And possibly one on his ego, which certainly seemed large enough to withstand the hit. She hadn’t broken any of his bones or, she hoped, any of his possessions. But here he was acting like she’d run him down with an eighteen-wheeler. Deliberately.
“Oh, what, like you’ve never made a mistake in your life?” she said sarcastically. He glowered down at her imperiously, and she scowled back. “Tell me, you uptight asshole, is it hard being so perfect?”
“I’m not perfect,” he growled. His voice was deep and a little hoarse, with an accent that sounded Australian but might have been British. “But my mistakes generally don’t endanger other people’s lives or limbs.”
Carly rolled her eyes. Amazing how she could fly to the other side of the world and still find the most entitled asshole in a five-hundred-mile radius. She was like a bright, flashing beacon for shitty men. And she’d had enough. She’d tried to be nice to this man, tried to smooth things over. She was doing her best. And if he wasn’t going to accept her apology, then he could, with all due respect, shove that apology up his very nice ass.
“You could just say, ‘It was an accident,’ you know! You could just say, ‘Shit happens!’ Because shit does, in fact, happen! Some of us are mere mortals who occasionally make mistakes!” She was aware that she was shouting, and that her voice was loud enough now to carry through the hall to the other passengers and the airport staff. But as usual, she couldn’t seem to stop herself. He had toknow.“I didn’t realize the cart was busted, and I’m doing my best to apologize, so you don’t have to be such adickabout it!”
His eyes widened, and for a moment she thought she saw regret flicker in his obscenely blue eyes, but Carly was past caring. She was exhausted, and she hadn’t seen her best friend in almost a year, and she truly could not bear to spend another moment of this endless day in an airport. She seized her backpack, threw it over her shoulder, and stalked away. But after a few paces, she stopped. She turned around and went back to the man, who was watching her with his mouth slightly open.
“Oh, and I really am sorry,” she hissed one last time. “Sorry I didn’t hit you harder.”
She gave him one last scowl for good measure, turned on her heel, and hurried toward the baggage carousel. Heart racing, she stood tapping her sneaker on the floor and casting around for her silver gray suitcase. Mercifully, she saw the conveyor belt spit it out after a moment, and ignoring the shocked stares of her fellow passengers, she pulled it off the belt and hauled it toward the exit in one smooth motion, feeling her curly ponytail bouncing aggressively behind her. A second later, she had walked under the large G’DAYMATE! sign that hung over the sliding exit door and out into the bright Sydney sunlight.
As soon as Carly walked into the arrivals hall, she spotted Heather amid a crowd of families holding flowers and balloons. She was hard to miss when she was holding a sign that read CARLYMONTGOMERY, WORLD’SBESTMAID OFHONOR. Even better than a plaque. Carly shrieked and launched herself into Heather’s arms and hugged her as tight as she could.
“You’re getting married!” Carly squealed. “And you brought coffee! I’ve never loved you more.”
Heather laughed, handing over the to-go coffee cup, and Carly took a grateful swig before giving Marcus a quick hug. He took Carly’s suitcase, and together the three of them walked out of the airport and into the damp heat of a summer morning in Sydney.
“Show me the rock again,” Carly said, and Heather dutifully extended her left hand. Carly had seen the cluster of three enormous lab-made diamonds over FaceTime, but she needed to see it up close. She shook her head. “Phew. How do you even do port de bras with that thing on? It’s huge.”
Heather lifted her arms into high fifth as she walked. “I had to do some extra weights work with my left arm, but it was worth it,” she smirked. “Obviously I’m not wearing it on stage.”
“Because you’d blind the conductor,” Carly teased. “Or take your partner’s eye out.”
“Obviouslyyou’renot wearingthoseon stage,” Heather gestured at Carly’s hands, and Carly lifted her fingers to her face and wiggled all ten neon-pink nails.
“I’ve been wearing the loudest, brightest color I could find since the day theNutcrackerrun ended,” she smiled. It was her ritual: the company didn’t permit anything other than natural hair or nail colors on stage, so once the season ended, she’d paint her nails or dye her hair, something bright and forbidden that she’d have to undo before the next season began. A few years ago, she’d given herself green highlights, which had looked appalling with her red hair. These hot pink nails would have been visible even from the nosebleeds. They were perfect.
It was a forty-five minute drive in morning traffic from the airport to Freshwater, the beachside suburb where Marcus grew up, and where Heather and Marcus had been living in his childhood home for the last two years.
“You must have gotten up early,” Carly said, through another yawn. Heather swiveled around from the front seat with a bright smile. “Worth it,” she said firmly, her brown eyes sparkling under her high, messy bun. Her skin glowed like she’d been doing some serious pre-wedding skincare. Or, she was just really happy. “It’s so good to have you here.”
“I’m excited to be reunited with the infamous Carly,” Marcus said, catching Carly’s eye in the rearview mirror and grinning mischievously. In his accent, it sounded likeCahhly, like he was from Boston, or pre-gentrified Brooklyn. She met his green eyes and smiled back.
“Who says I’m infamous?”
