Then—
I really need to calm down.
The unfairness of life took away my chance to reach the altar, and here’s some guy who was lucky enough to sayI do, but apparently had his fingers crossed behind his back during that part of his vows. My rage was misguided, but I couldn’t help it. I knew it the second I slipped from my barstool after catching him looking at me for the tenth time. The anger had been building in my chest as I ate my chicken sandwich, getting hotter and hotter. Something inside me snapped, and instead of ignoring the married guy who was looking for who the hell knows what, I stomped over and told him off.
Loudly. And with passion.
At first I’d felt flattered that the hot guy across the bar was checking me out. I’d noticed him as soon as he sat down and ordered a beer. Long before he looked my way. It wasn’t until we made eye contact that I saw the gold band shining on a very important finger.
Non-starter, of course. But not for him, apparently.
And then he had the gall to look shocked, like he’d forgotten he was wearing a ring.
Prick.
It’s over now. Maybe my outrage at his behavior has scared him straight. Maybe his days of flirting with women other than his wife are behind him.
But probably not.
I kept my gaze averted while we deplaned, and now I’m studiously looking at my white converse while we wait at the baggage claim. I have no idea if he’s here, but I don’t want to look around and find out.
The bell above our carousel rings and the belt begins to move. Out pops black bag after black bag. My bag is maroon. I chose the color so it would be easy to spot.
It’s not more than a few minutes before I see it. The bag makes its way toward me and I lean over to grab it, but it’s heavier than I’m used to. Straining my arms, I pull and get one corner off the belt and onto the side of the carousel.
But that’s the thing with conveyor belts. They keep moving.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, stepping in front of the couple beside me and trying to heave my bag up and over the side.
It doesn’t want to move.
“Sorry,” I apologize to two more people as I step in front of them.
I’m still struggling to lift the suitcase when a hand reaches out, closing over mine, and pulls the giant overstuffed suitcase off the belt, dropping it onto the ground.
My gaze lifts and my mouth opens to thank the person who helped me, but the words die on my lips.
Flight guy.
“Don’t start,” he says, holding up his hands and taking a step back. His eyes meet mine briefly before he spins and walks away, a backpack hanging from one shoulder and a suitcase wheeling along behind him.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath. Just because he did something nice doesn’t make him a nice person.
My phone buzzes from inside my purse.
I pull it out and see a message from my grandma.
I’m parked on the curb. The attendant is giving me the stink-eye. Will you be out soon?
Grabbing the handle of my bag, I lug it behind me out to the curb where I find my grandma in her old green Jeep. She climbs from the car when she sees me, and as soon as I’m close enough, I let go of my bag and fling myself into her open arms.
She smells like cinnamon, and her bosom is big and pillowy and the comfort I feel takes me back to childhood, to skinned knees and tears being shed over youthful injustices.
My tears now? Adult injustice.
“Grandma,” I whisper, but she shushes me, and the sound of the air rushing between her teeth lessens some of the pain in my heart.
“I know, Addy. You don’t have to say any more.”
