Opening up about my stalled film career and the documentary project I can’t seem to finish? Hard pass.
Especially without any caffeine in my system.
“Well, um—you know, whatever. It’s fine. Free travel!” I try to sound bright and airy, but it comes out a littlestrangled.
At that moment, the Starbucks I’ve been desperately searching for comes into view—and it’s directly across from my gate. Finally,somethingis going my way.
A second later, it’s clear I celebrated too soon. I halt abruptly when I notice the complete and utter chaos spilling out of the crowded waiting area.
Multiple crying babies are being rocked and bounced by tired parents. Stressed flight attendants are bickering at the counter. The pilot waiting in line looks to be approximately fifteen years old. And a big guy in a flamboyant cowboy hat is both howling with laughter and swaying slightly—either from lack of sleep or an overindulgence in airport beers.
I groan.
“Hey, Kyla? I’m just getting to my gate, and it’s a circus. I’ll text you when I land safely, okay? Love you!” I end the call before she can argue and pocket my phone, making my way to the mobile order pick-up counter.
I’m not sure if caffeine alone will be enough to get me through this eight-hour flight, but at least it’ll soften the blow to my mental health. And maybe it will help soothe the worry about Kyla that’s still lurking in the back of my mind, too.
I frown when I realize there are no drinks waiting at the pick-up counter. Weird…I put the order in before I went through security. It should definitely be ready by now.
I flag down a frazzled barista, his shirt half-untucked and his wavy hair unruly, as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly. The barista shoots me an expectant glare.
“Hey, um, I’m looking for an order for?—”
“Our system is down,” he snaps, pointing at a sign taped to the counter, its message printed in size ten font. I squint down at the text, feeling old all of a sudden.
How am I supposed to read that?
As if gifted with mind-reading abilities in addition to his near-perfect impression of Agent Perma-Scowl, the baristarolls his eyes and mutters, “We aren’t taking mobile orders. Cash only.”
Annoyance flares in my chest, but I tamp it down.
“Oh…because it says the order went through already. It was a free birthday drink?” I pull out my phone to bring up the app and flip the screen toward him, as if that’s all he needs to see to make this right. He doesn’t even spare my phone a glance.
“I don’t know what to tell you,ma’am. You’ll have to line up and pay cash.”
There was that damn word again.
Ma’am.
Does no one understand the implications of calling a young woman “ma’am” these days?
And anyway, thirty isn’tma’am-worthy.
Is it?
Before I can squeak out a reply, the barista is gone. My stomach turns over as I realize I’m going to have to endure this transatlantic flight without anydrinkablecoffee. There’s no way I have time to wait in line, and even if I did, I don’t think I have enough cash on me to pay for it.
Damnit, I was really relying on that free birthday drink. And now I’ve already redeemed the offer with nothing to show for it.
Also—rudethat he didn’t even wish me a happy birthday.
Not that I wanted him to. But still.
I gaze longingly at a woman sipping her latte and sigh. It’s not even so much about the caffeine as it is the fact that I hate flying.
I know it’s a necessary evil when it comes to travel, but every flight I’ve ever taken has filled me with a sense of dread I can’t shake. Not just because of the cramped, uncomfortable seats, the forced proximity to strangers, or the weird sensation of being completely still and yet traveling at a speed my braincan’t even comprehend—though all those thingsarehorrible in their own regard.
It’s just that, even with an elementary grasp of physics and how planes work, I’m still convinced they can basically fall right out of the sky.
