Hayes almost looked amused when he put his arm around her and said, “I think you can throw the schedule out, Alice.”
Now, three hours later, on a tiny commuter flight, “What can I get you, shug?” rang out, making me jump. The flight attendant in her blue Delta uniform was wearing tons of makeup, and she looked tired. I guessed she could have said the same about me.
“Alcohol,” I replied.
She raised her eyebrow. “Uh oh.” She scooped ice into a plastic cup and poured vodka over the top of it. “That bad, huh?”
I nodded as she splashed Dasani Lime over the vodka.
“I’m going on my honeymoon.”
She looked around and, obviously not identifying anyone who could be my brand-new husband, said simply, “This one is on the house.”
I took a swig that burned as it went down as she handed me a pack of cookies and moved down the aisle.
The few sips of vodka must have done the trick because the next thing I heard was the captain’s voice over the loudspeaker:Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for landing.
I blinked a few times, and it all came flooding back. Today was supposed to be the happiest day of my life. I was supposed to be married. But just a few hours ago, I had changed out of mywedding gown in the airport bathroom and given Sarah my dress. As she’d left the airport lobby, she turned to me and said, “You deserve to find the love of your life, Julia. You deserve someone who sends you flowers and writes you love letters.” I hugged her, my tears wetting her shoulder. As she walked away, still in her bridesmaid’s dress, I felt fiercely alone. I almost didn’t get on the plane. But somewhere deep inside I knew I should. Tears pricked my eyes.
I probably could have slept all the way to St. Thomas had it not been for the plane change in Charlotte. Charlotte. Chrissy Matthews. I was furious all over again. How could Hayes have done this to me? Just like that, my tears dried, and righteous indignation took their seat at the table.
I deplaned and waited around in the Jetway for my valet-tagged bag. I could see my nondescript black suitcase out the small window of the door as a man in an orange vest unloaded it. I grabbed it practically as it touched the floor and was off, suddenly needing some air. I also realized I was positively starving.
Even still, as I walked, I savored the light in the airport atrium. The elegant glass wall rolled and arched into the ceiling, creating a moment of modern splendor in an unlikely place. I wondered how many passengers bustled through this airport every day, never noticing the beauty surrounding them, never considering the hours of brainstorming and drafting, planning and constructing, that went into something like this. I wondered how many people spent their lives missing what was right in front of them.
The line at Chick-fil-A was punishing, but IneededChick-fil-A. The buttery bun, the two pickles, the crisp, never soggy chicken skin—nothing else would do. As I stood in what was more a massive conglomeration of people than a line, considering the number one with half unsweet tea, half lemonade I’d order, the weddingthat wasn’t—and my mother’s furious voice over Babs’s Bluetooth when she told her we had fled—felt so far away. No, not far away. Impossible.
With only three people in front of me, I unzipped the top pocket of my suitcase and reached in. When I didn’t feel my wallet, I rummaged around, grabbing what I thought was a rolled-up T-shirt and instead yanking out a pair of men’s boxers for the entire line to see. But they weren’t Hayes’s brand. And IknewI had put my wallet there.
My heart racing, I unzipped the main compartment of the bag enough so I could see inside. I gasped. I could make out a rolled-up needlepoint belt, a pair of loafers, and a dopp kit, none of which belonged to me. And, ew, I had just touched astranger’sunderwear!
As panicked as I was, I briefly considered staying to get my Chick-fil-A, but remembering I didn’t have any money, I turned to race back to the gate. My heart pounded as I formulated a plan. Fortunately, I had zipped my license into the inside pocket of the jacket I was wearing, so Icouldget my furious parents to wire me money to get home if I needed it. But how did one even get wired money? It was a phrase that had no actual application to my life. Were there money-wiring places? And, if so, would there be one in an airport? And, furthermore, after I had run out on my wedding, would my parents even send me money?
Before I could catastrophize further, I realized that I was only in Charlotte. Sarah could come pick me up in like two hours if, worst-case scenario, my bag reallywasgone.
As I raced down the hallway, swerving among the throngs of people, I made a mental list: My glasses were in that bag. My expensive new bikini. My computer with the CAD files of my final project drawings from architecture school. Well, I certainly never wanted toseethoseagain. If they were lost, that would be the silver lining. But I wanted everything else back. And maybe, just maybe, the person who took my bag had realized the mistake.
I was like the desperate lover in a Hallmark movie: out of breath, chest burning and hair disheveled. And I realized two things as I reached my last gate. One, if I was this winded from what couldn’t have been more than a half-mile run, I needed to seriously examine my fitness level. Two, my bag! The handle was up and a man was leaning casually against it in front of the gate agent’s counter. Well, he was pretending to, at least. If he had actually leaned on it, the four spinner wheels that worked so incredibly well would most certainly have slid out from underneath him. He grinned at me. That was when I noticed something I hadn’t noticed about a man—at least a man who wasn’t Hayes—in a long, long time: He was kind of cute. Actually, he was more than kind of cute. He was seriously, amazingly cute, with a head of short, dark hair. His shirttail hung loosely over a pair of jeans that were fitted but not so tight that they looked forced.
“My bag!” I exclaimed, so relieved I could have melted into a puddle on the floor. As I reached the man and unzipped the top pocket, I pulled out my wallet and hugged it.
“I figured you’d come back for the bomb you have in there,” he said, grinning.
I gasped. “You can’t saybombin an airport,” I whispered.
“You’re right,” he whispered back. “And I’m glad you came back, because I have a kilo of cocaine in my bag.”
Now I rolled my eyes. “Can you even fit a kilo of cocaine in a carry-on bag?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always been a little sketchy on the finer points of pounds versus kilograms.”
I nodded. “Same.”
I finally remembered that we weren’t out for drinks. He had my bag and I had a plane to catch for, depressingly, my honeymoon.
My suitcase buddy exhaled deeply. “I was almost hoping my bag was lost.”
I needed to go but now I was intrigued. “Why in the world would you want your bag to be lost?”
