“Thanks. Skybridge, got it.” Do I? I’m slightly more awake now, but when I enter the fray inside, anxiety will likely force this little piece of valuable information out of my mind.
The inside of the building is brightly lit and bustling, like everyone is unaware they’re supposed to be sleeping. I manage to follow the signs to security, but as I near lines that look likehalf the population of Denver must be in them, I stop a DIA employee. She’s wearing neon pink Nikes that match the sequins on the front of her T-shirt. The smile on her face and the badge on her vest read, How can I help?
“I’m a little lost, can you please tell me where I can find the—” The word escapes me, but I remember vaguely the image that appeared in my mind when I heard it, and for some reason I bust into an impromptu game of charades like I’m in a foreign country and don’t speak the language. I flatten my right hand midair and arc my left hand over it. Then I stop, because I’ve lost my damn mind. Unless this woman is the reigning world champ of pantomime?—
Mid-thought, she stuns me by asking, “Skybridge security?”
I shake my head minutely in amazement and whisper, mostly to myself, “Holy shit, how did you do that?” because that was one step shy of sorcery.
She cups a hand to the side of her mouth like she’s sharing a secret, and whispers back, “Mind reader.” Then she laughs, probably because my mouth is gaping a bit, and winks and says, “Or maybe it only feels like it because I’ve been doing this job so long.”
I nod resolutely, “I’m going with mind reader,” and thank her after she gives me directions.
Skybridge security is, as the name unironically suggests, on a skybridge leading to terminal A. The line is short, as promised, and I feel like I’ve passed a test and somehow managed to slip unseen into a super-secret, exclusive airport club. While I’m standing in line, I pop one of the Xanax Lola gave me because the internal whooshing sound filling my ears is blood rush. My heartbeat is mutinous.
The Xanax is fast acting.
The security line, though short, is not.
There’s a tug of war going on inside my skull between the worry and the meds.
By the time I get to the gate, the meds are winning, and I wonder why I was so opposed to them before. I have my pick of seats in the waiting area and take one next to a window. “It’s like a mass grave coffin with wheels, wings, and windows,” I mutter to myself as I gaze out at my nemesis.
The guy across from me laughs under his breath, eyes still downcast on the book open in his lap. “Statistically, you’re probably more likely to die taking a selfie than in a plane crash.”
I attempt to smile because I know he’s trying to ease my fears, but I can’t be sure the muscles in my face are cooperating. “It’s too early for math. Or hope. I don’t take selfies.”
He laughs again and his eyes lift in my direction. They’re the lightest shade of green I’ve ever seen. “Damn, we might all be screwed then. You’ve skewed the odds.”
My attempt at a smile relaxes into something that feels genuine, maybe it’s his humor or maybe it’s the Xanax currently saturating my bloodstream. “You’re welcome,” I tell him.
He smiles wide and then returns to his book. I’m grateful. Short bursts of interaction face-to-face are great, but when they devolve into small talk, I tend to short-circuit.
There’s a dim glow on the horizon. It’s blossoming second by second like sunrise isn’t happening in real time but is time-lapse footage instead. It pairs nicely with the sleepy fog in my head, and before I know it, instructions from the terminal speakers are rousing me from a catnap.
“Easy there.” He’s laughing again, the guy across from me with the sparkling eyes.
The tightness in my muscles and my ramrod straight posture tell me I did that overly dramatic, startled awake thing I’m prone to. It’s Lola’s fault, scaring me awake when we shared a bedroom as kids was a morbid form of entertainment for her.
He swipes at the side of his mouth discreetly with his fingertips.
Slouching, I tilt my head in confusion.
Repeating the motion, he adds, “Little something right here.”
Pulling down the cuff of my hoodie over the heel of my hand, I brush away the drool pooling. “Have we been summoned to the pearly gates?”
He nods solemnly. “If by pearly gates you mean boarding gate, yes. What group are you in?”
I stare at him like he’s speaking Mandarin.
The grin returns. “It’s on your boarding pass.”
I open the app on my phone and scan. “B39.” I look up hopefully.
He nods and stands, his body unfolding to a staggering height as he slings the strap of the bag in the seat next to him over his shoulder. “Group A is boarding now. That’s me.”
“B is next.” It’s a quiet pep talk. Realizing I sound crazed, I look up and tap my temple. “Xanax is in charge right now.” My head is swimming in a muddy, yet satisfied, haze of incomprehension.
