“Harper,” I warn, gripping the steering wheel like it might launch me into space.
“What? I’m just saying. You’ve still got it, Tupperware temptress.”
______________
The arrivals area is a circus. Luggage carts zipping. Children screaming. A man in a full unicorn onesie holding a “WelcomeBack, Carl!” sign. Harper’s got her phone out, narrating the entire thing like she’s a travel influencer with a very niche audience.
“We are live at Terminal 2.” Harper’s doing her best impression of a mock-documentary voice, angling her phone toward me as I double-check the arrivals screen for the third time. “Mom’s having what can only be described as an emotional stroke. Will the grief ladies be normal humans or hyper-organized mourning club cult leaders? Stay tuned.”
“Can you not?” I swipe at her phone, which she dodges with ease; years of practice in her teenage years have paid off.
“I’m trying to help you go viral. This is wholesome content.”
“I’m already spiraling. Please don’t livestream it.”
Before she can respond, we hear it: Viv’s voice, unmistakable, slicing through the baggage claim din like a hot knife through butter.
“BIRDIE!”
I spin in time to see Viv barreling toward us with a leopard-print duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a yoga mat strapped to the other. She’s wearing neon leggings, a tank top that reads “Sage Against the Machine,” and big sunglasses, despite being indoors. Marin trails behind her beige pantsuit, in stark contrast to Viv, as she tries to keep her rolling suitcase from toppling over, looking like someone who has survived the emotional equivalent of turbulence and a crying baby in 15A.
“Oh my god,” Harper whispers. “You didn’t say they were walking personality quizzes.”
Viv hugs me like we’ve known each other for decades and she’s missed me every day. It’s slightly suffocating and wildly comforting.
“Birdie, you look even more vibrant in person. Grief looks good on you. Is that weird to say?”
“Yep. But I would expect nothing else.” I’m laughing and hugging her.
Viv pulls back, assessing Harper with a keen eye. “You must be the daughter. The one with the astrology tattoo and thesuspiciously incredible hair. Do you bleach or is that natural?” Viv reaches out a hand toward her hair. “Natural. You lucky girl!”
Harper blinks. “Are you a psychic?”
“No, I internet stalk. You should consider bangs.”
Marin finally catches up, slightly out of breath.
“Hi.” She gives a small, shy wave before lowering her voice and looking around. “I brought wine in my checked luggage. Don’t tell TSA.”
“I love her,” Harper proclaims.
We stand there for a moment, in the chaotic swirl of the airport, four women staring at each other, unsure of what comes next.
“Okay.” I clap my hands. “Let’s go get your bags and get out of here before Viv starts offering to cleanse people’s auras.”
“Too late.” Viv’s already eyeing a stressed-out businessman rubbing his temples.
Marin nods toward the exit. “Do we get snacks? I feel like snacks should be part of this reunion.”
“Snacks are a cornerstone of healing,” Viv adds.
Harper’s already walking ahead. “We’ve got gluten-free pretzels and way too much nacho cheese. Buckle up.”
As we herd ourselves toward the parking garage, Marin’s suitcase tips again, her knitted handbag fringe getting caught in the wheels. Viv offers to help an elderly woman who’s hobbling along by showing her a few yoga poses to loosen her hips. Harper keeps muttering observations into her phone, like she’s workshopping a Netflix special.
And me? I take a deep breath. Somehow, for the first time in a while, the chaos feels good.
Like home.
