I grab my rucksack, pull out my sunglasses to get some relief from the sun pouring through the window, throw on my baseball cap, and do a quick scan of the room and head to the door. I rush down the hallway and furiously stab the elevator button.
Come on. Come on.
When the elevator finally arrives, it’s full, but I don’t care. I push my way in, much to everyone’s dismay, and let out a deep exhale.
Why would Alexander leave without saying goodbye?
We were supposed to fly at similar times.
The doors open on the ground floor and I burst out, turning left and almost running through the hotel, swerving past people and out of the back exit to the taxi rank.
The exit is completely quiet aside from someone walking their dog.
There’s no screaming fans.
I open the door to the taxi, lift my suitcase in, and fling my backpack on the seat, closing the door behind me
“Where to mate?” the taxi driver asks.
“Heathrow. Terminal Five.” I reach for the seatbelt.
Forty minutes later, I’m standing at the check in desk, taking deep breaths. The drive was both slow and painful with this hangover. The drive was made even worse when I realized the taxi’s USB port was broken, leaving me unable to charge my phone and none the wiser about what happened. The only plus was that I didn’t puke.
“The flight will be departing from gate B46, and you have access to the BA lounge, which is located at either end on the other side of security.” The check-in lady passes back my passport with my ticket as my luggage disappears down the conveyor belt.
“Great.” I grab the passport, tapping it twice on the counter before hotfooting it through to security. I’m eager to get to the lounge to charge my phone.
Thankfully, the security line isn’t long, and after a brief stop to scan my ticket at the BA lounge entrance, I’m at the bar. I pour myself a Bloody Mary to take the edge off my hangover and head over to one of the seats.
I rummage through my bag, pulling out a pack of ibuprofen and the USB cable, and grab my phone to plug it in, then pop two pills and wash them down with the drink.
I tap my foot impatiently, waiting for the phone to start.
Fear creeps into my thoughts while I wait.
Did I say something that caused Alexander to leave without saying goodbye?
Did I do something to piss him off?
I’m sure I remember everything that happened last night, but what if I did?
Then my fear switches up a gear, turning into anger.
What if this is what Alexander does? What if he just hooks up with a guy and then ghosts them, everywhere he goes, disappearing without a trace. I tighten my hands around the arms of the chair.
But, if that were the case, it doesn’t make sense that he was talking about going out on a proper date when we got back to LA. I reach for my drink, taking another sip to distract myself from the fact that my will to live is charging faster than my phone.
The Tabasco sauce hits the back of my throat, its peppery taste offsetting the copious amounts of vodka I free poured into the glass. It overwhelms my tastebuds, but simultaneously soothes my head and stomach. Maybe it’s psychosomatic, but whatever it is, it’s doing the trick.
My phone finally comes to life, and I drop my glass on the table, retrieving it and waiting for the Apple sign to disappear and the home screen to load. Hopefully there will be a message from Alexander that clarifies what the hell is going on.
That he’s okay.
That we’re okay.
Messages start to pop up. There’s a dozen missed calls from my sister and three voice messages, and over fifty WhatsApp messages. But nothing from Alexander.
I reach for my chest, rubbing it to settle my worry. After what happened at the start of the week, my mind instantly fears the worst.
