“Um…yes?” I reply awkwardly. He doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would offer a forced “Happy birthday!” to a woman he (a) does not know, and (b) likely considers to be part of the reason he hates his job. Or at least, I assume he hates his job, by the way the scowl has completely transformed his face.
Still, I don’t want to test him. I don’t need another reminder that in only a few short hours I’ll be leaving my twenties behind.
“You don’t know?” He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowing. I gulp.
“Yes. I do. I mean, it is. Sorry, I just—I forgot what day it is,” I lie.
Real smooth, Chloe.
“Mhmm.”
Without another word, the agent shoves the documents back at me and calls for the next person in line. For a moment I just stand there, bewildered, before snapping out of it, gathering my scattered belongings, and croaking out a nervous “Thank you!” as I scurry away, glad to finally be on the other side ofthatparticular version of hell.
I mean, really, why aren’t passports virtual yet? I can get everything on my phone these days. Hell, I even pay for most things with my watch.
But put that stupid little book in my hands and I’m pretty much guaranteed to lose track of it immediately.
Ugh, I’m such a mess.
Which is honestly the biggest reason why I’m not thrilled about today being my birthday. It’s not that turning thirty is that big of a deal. It’s not. In fact, Ienjoygetting older. Not everyone is so lucky…
And anyway, it’s not the age that bothers me; it’s the fact that I had a ten-year plan—and I’m no closer to achieving the bulk of it than I was when I made it nine years ago. I’m not shooting documentaries or working on projects that excite me; instead, I’m still just taking whatever scraps I can get in an industry that’s not built for women like me.
Shaking off the shroud of failure that blanketed my mood during the conversation with the security agent, I breathe a sigh of relief as I walk toward the security scanners. I shed my bag and shoes and place them in a bin to pass through the scanner, then collect them after I’ve crossed through thefull-body metal detector. Finally, shoes on and bag secured, off I go in search of the flat white I so desperately need to survive this flight.
As I round the corner and veer into the terminal traffic, I feel my phone vibrate again. I fumble to pull it out, still not feeling totally put together. There’s no need to guess who’s responsible for this telephonic assault. No one—and I mean,no one—in my life would risk calling me repeatedly at such an hour without expecting an earful.
No one except my sister, Kyla.
Because she knows I’ll always answer.
Especially since I’m leaving her alone, truly alone, for the first time since Dad died a year ago.
Her contact photo pops up on the screen—a broad, inebriated grin spread lazily across her freckled face as she flashes a peace sign for the camera. It’s so totally the opposite of who she is in real life, and a stark contrast to the deer-in-headlights expression she’s usually sporting: cute, but fucking terrified.
It usually makes me smile to see my sister so at ease. Except right now, the sight of her calling for the seventh time in less than an hour has me heated. Reluctantly, I swipe to answer, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder as I hop on an escalator.
“What? I’m trying toleave the country,” I gripe as I clutch the rail. My nails dig into the thick rubber, keeping me steady as an intrusive thought about being sucked into the top of the escalator by its sharp mechanical teeth plays out in my brain.
Although, it’s possible that scenario might be more enjoyable than flying at the ass-crack of dawn.
“Good morning to you, too,” she says sarcastically. “Have you boarded yet? Doesn’t your flight leave in, like, ten minutes?”
“I’m attempting to get to the gate. Which is why I haven’t answered your eleven trillion calls.”
“Oh…sorry,” she mumbles. “Since I didn’t get a chance to see you before you left, I just wanted to remind you that as soon as your per diem lands in your bank account, to?—”
“Transfer it. Yes. I know. We’ve covered this. Multiple times.” Gritting my teeth, I try not to sound too annoyed. Can’t she be a normal Gen Z and just text me? A muffled sniffle comes through the other end of the line, and then it hits me: She’s been crying.Shit.
I take a deep breath and soften my tone, hoping it might help soothe her nerves long enough to go back to bed and catch a few more hours of sleep. “I haven’t seen it land in my account yet, but sometimes it takes a bit.”
“Alright,” she murmurs softly, and I bite the inside of my cheek.
“Anyway, I can’t send all of it. I need some of that cash for food if I’m in port.”
“Food can’t possibly cost a hundred bucks a day,” Kyla scoffs.
I snort and roll my eyes.
