1
MACEY
The Chicago airport was chaos. Rolling suitcases, last-minute gate changes, and people walking at the speed of molasses directly in front of me. I dodged a man who had come to a complete stop in the middle of the walkway, causing me to spill the remainder of my cold coffee onto my shoes.
One day, I’d experience air travel without feeling like a contestant onSurvivor.At least I’d be home soon enough, where I could stretch out on my couch and eat snacks that weren’t individually wrapped in crinkly plastic.
If you had asked me where I’d visit on my first trip to California, I would have answered Los Angeles, San Francisco, or even Disneyland. Not Fort Bragg. Honestly, I had never heard of the city until two weeks ago, when an email from their public relations team appeared in my work inbox.
Such was the life of a travel writer—I didn’t get to pick my press trips. Hopefully, in the future, I’d have the ability to be selective. For now, I was a bottom-tier blogger, meaning I didn’t often get invitations to events like the Whale Fest in Fort Bragg. And when I did receive one, it was either unpaid or theyexpected me to cover the costs of travel. In this economy? Definitely not.
There were worse places I could have been sent on a press trip. For example, a remote island without any cell service. In front of the Eiffel Tower, forced to watch couples younger than me get engaged. Antarctica in the middle of a penguin march. Say what you will, but I didn’t believe those birds were as nice as they looked.
My hand tightened around the strap of my backpack as I followed the signs for baggage claim, but then, I spottedher.
A woman, gliding toward the airport lounge.
Full-on gliding. Not weaving around suitcases or getting shoulder-checked by an overly ambitious businessman. She wore a crisp white blouse, perfectly tailored trousers, and heels that looked both expensive and non-lethal—a rare combination. Her hair was styled in some effortlessly chic way that made me hyper-aware of the fact that a few minutes ago, I had used the airport hand dryer to fix my bangs.
The woman stepped up to the lounge entrance, nodded at the attendant like they were old friends, and disappeared inside, swallowed by a world of complimentary drinks and whisper-quiet luxury. I imagined her settling into a plush armchair, ordering an espresso martini without hesitation, and opening a hardcover book. After all, a woman with a hardcover book at the airport had her life together.
One day, that would be me. One day, I’d strut into an airport lounge with the confidence of someone who wasn’t actively sweating under the weight of her own luggage. I’d skip the espresso martini and chug a Diet Coke out of habit, but best believe I’d try every available snack.
That would signify my career as a successful travel blogger. I’d own my own blog. Cover events bigger than whale migration.Have my people call other people’s people. Minions would clammer to do my dirty laundry.
For now, though, I was here—Chicago O’Hare, in all its unhinged glory—standing next to a guy loudly FaceTiming his mother about how TSA took his snow globe.
I snapped a quick selfie and sent it to the group chat that had blown up while I was in the air.
The Burrow Bitches
Kira: Yay you’re home!
Ariadne: Let’s have dinner soon so you can tell us about the trip!
Britney: did you tell the whales I love them?
My three best friends never failed to make me smile, even when I was a sweaty, disgusting mess who had just spent the weekend chasing whales and topped it off with a whale-themed 5K. At least I enjoyed running.
My phone vibrated with an incoming call from Kira, my roommate and oldest friend.
“Hi.” I tucked my phone between my cheek and shoulder, fishing through my purse for some gum. “I’m still at the airport, but I’m bringing home a Biscoff cookie and a bag of pretzels.”
Kira cheered. “I’m honored that you saved me your elite airline snacks.”
“Just call me your economy sugar momma.”
“We’ll workshop the name,” said Kira. “Do you need me to come get you from the airport?”
“How?” I laughed. “Neither of us has cars.”
Who needed a car in Chicago when you had two working feet, a CTA pass, and the sheer determination to power-walk faster than traffic?
“Well, no, but I could show up in an Uber and pretend to pick you up that way.”
While I was new to out-of-state assignments, she had yet to offer to meet me at the airport.
“What’s really going on, Kira?”
