With three heaves and two bags. Do the math.
And sadly, never on the man next to me.
I, on the other hand, wasn’t as lucky. Not that I took a direct hit, but I did get a misting.
It’s like being caught in the splash zone of the worst theme park ride ever.
His mom mouthed I’m so sorry at least ten times, and his dad looked like he aged a decade before we even hit Denver airspace.
I secure my ball cap, grab my backpack, and wipe my sunglasses with my shirt before sliding them into place.
Eww. What is that god-awful smell?
I take a cautious whiff.
Bleh. Who thought it was a good idea to give chocolate milk to an airsick kid?
Oh, right. The genius next to me.
I glare in his direction and try to pull myself together as any remaining desire for children vacates my system like yuppies fleeing Fyre Festival.
Then it promptly returns when the little boy melts me with a quiet, “Sorry.”
I rub his thick mop of hair as his mom scoops him up. “You feel better, okay?”
“Okay,” he promises.
I step off the plane, only to be blinded by a wall of flashing lights and camera lenses. Panic spikes as a full swarm of reporters closes in, microphones and cell phones thrust forward.
How on earth do they know I’m here?
Shouts of “Ava!” and “Over here!” have me ducking my head and quickening my pace. Then someone calls, “Where is she?”
I slow. Breathe. And make my way through the crowd.
Thank God. No one recognizes me.
Apparently, kid puke and a ball cap are the best disguises ever.
I move quickly along, and someone shouts, “Any comment about the Maddox-Blakely love child?”
I spin on instinct, ready to comment, because the irony is killing me. Pierce had a vasectomy years ago, yet still used condoms the first and last time we had sex. Because, and I quote, “You can never be too sure, babe.”
But the pap isn’t asking me. He’s aiming the question at a woman who barely resembles me, aside from the dark hair and being roughly my height.
I snap to my senses and keep moving.
And that’s when I see him.
A guy in a suit holding a laminated sign with my name, shouting, “AVAAAA ALVAREZZZ,” like he’s working a cattle auction.
Which means he’s my ride.
I try to think as he draws the attention of pretty much everyone at the terminal.
Okay. Breathe.
No need to panic. I have options.
