“Text me your flight info so I can pick you up at the airport.”
“I will.”
“Bye.”
I turn my phone over on my lap, the tough task done.
I’m lucky to have Priya and family here for me. But if the last few days have taught me anything, it’s that I’m still really, really mad at my parents. Not an anger that I think about daily, or one that drives me to tears or yelling anymore. But one that apparently dictates a lot of the decisions that I make.
I mean, I knew it affected me a little bit. The steady stream of casual dating did clue me in. But I thought Iwantedto date casually because I wanted to save myself the annoyance of other people’s nonsense.
I didn’t know I wasincapableof forming those attachments. But I know now.
Unfortunately, knowing is only half the battle.
The heaviness in my stomach preventing me from eating the twelve-dollar croissant sitting on my lap proves that I am not in control of these emotions.
Maybe I imagined that I wouldn’t want a partner like Priya and Chachi and even my mom have. Or maybe I thought I would let my issues go once I met the “right person.”
But here I am. In love with Beau and in pain because I’m worried about there being a bigger pain in the future if he asks me to give up my entire life and move to South Carolina, or the pain if he just decides he’s over it and leaves me.
My parents have a lot to answer for. And I’ve never confronted them about it. Which isn’t fair to me. Why should I have to carry this burden without having my say to the people causing it?
Because usually I didn’t want to ruin the few times a year I do see them. But what’s the point in that?
Nothing is getting dealt with.
And the timing will never get any more perfect than it is now. I still have time off work because I’m supposed to be with Beau, and I’m literally at an airport.
And I haveresolve.
I need an airline help desk. Now.
Too many layovers and two days later, I’m still determined. I’m also very smelly, very cold, and very tired. And still very sad. But I washed my face somewhere over Eastern Europe and haven’t cried since, so at least my eyes aren’t puffy and red anymore.
The airport help desk had been more than happy to help me when they found out that price was not an issue. And Priya said a succinct “Finally” when I told her why she wouldn’t need to pick me up at the airport and how I was out of breath because I was running to catch a flight whose doors were almost closed.
But last-minute plane tickets mean middle seats. So I also have pain in my neck.
I did get an unexpected stop in England, where I had some English breakfast tea (although who knew what mealtime it was, running through as many time zones as I did) and some whiskey. Because it must have been five o’clock in one of the time zones I passed.
And I diligently avoided the texts from Beau asking me if I got back safe to New York.
Now that I’ve landed in New Delhi on a Monday morning, I call my parents’ assistant, and after she gets over her surprise and promises not to tell my parents anything, she sends a car for me.
While I’m waiting for the transportation, I continue to ignore the texts from Beau, which haven’t magically gone away as I passed through all those time zones.
The car arrives and the driver takes me through New Delhi traffic during rush hour, weaving around rickshaws, cars, and pedestrians, none of whom have any respect for the nonexistent lanes in the road.
We pass an inflatable brown Santa, Christmas having reached all corners of the world now. It gives me a slight injection of holiday magic, if not cheer, before my big confrontation.
I enter the building and get through security with little effort. The perks of always keeping my badge in my wallet, even on vacation. And having standing access to all Loot buildings.
The guard leaves little to the imagination about how he feels about my general appearance and smell as he waves me through. Thanks, guy. I’m going through some things.
One elevator trip later, I walk to my parents’ joint office. Which is as far as I get before I get scared and freeze, hand raised to knock on the door. Viti, my parents’ assistant, catches me before they do, coming up behind me.
“Why do you smell of body odor and sadness?” Her accented voice washes over me, too similar to my mom’s for comfort at this time.
