Dropping the linen napkin beside my plate, I rose and picked up my canvas tote bag. “Oh, wipe that stupid smile off your face. You noticed nothing.”
* * *
Forty-five minutes later, we walked out of the hotel’s main entrance. Behind us, a bellboy pushed a luggage cart overstuffed with designer suitcases. Leaning against the trunk of a taxi, Andrew waited for us, his arms folded over his chest. As we approached him, he took off his sunglasses and watched us wide-eyed.
“That’s not all yours?” Andrew asked.
I stopped next to him, my small, blue and white polka dot Tumi suitcase by my side. Andrew said he would need us in Colombia for two days, so I chose minimum make-up, one extra pair of shoes, two pairs of panties, and two dresses. I only ever packed dresses for a beach getaway, in different sizes. Smaller and fitted for the beginning of vacation, and larger and more forgiving towards the end in anticipation of overeating and drinking.
“Thisis mine.” I tapped my heel on my carry-on bag. “Thoseare William’s.”
“We’re only going for one night.” Andrew’s surprised expression was adorable.
“You should have seen how much luggage he brought when we went on a two-week Mediterranean cruise. The ship barely stayed afloat.”
“Reporting for duty,” William chirped as he joined us by the car.
“You can’t take all that.” Andrew pointed at the cart. “The plane we’re taking barely has enough space for us. Pack only what is necessary for today and tomorrow.”
“It’s all necessary,” William said. “I can’t go without any of it.”
“Then you have to stay behind.” Andrew placed his sunglasses back on his face and turned to me. “Are you ready?”
“I’m not going without him.” I planted my fists on my hips.
Andrew groaned. “William, please pick only two bags.” He slid into the front passenger seat. “Twosmallbags.”
* * *
An hour later, smothered by heat and the reek of burnt jet fuel, three of us—and four of William’s suitcases—stood on the tarmac in front of something that couldn’t possibly have been considered a plane. The twin-propeller, six-seater aircraft resembled a mechanical Frankenstein pieced together with parts probably found at an airplane graveyard, the weathered paint struggling to do its chore to cover up the assembly job.
flab·ber·gasted | 'flab?r?gast?d |
ADJECTIVE: My current state with my mouth agape, rooted to the spot.
ORIGIN: Right now, in front of our next ride.
“What’s that?” William dabbed his forehead with a Kleenex.
“The finest plane I could find on short notice,” Andrew answered, his voice lacking its earlier confidence.
William scoffed. “I’d hate to see the worst.”
I faced Andrew and pulled off my sunglasses. “We’re flying in that to Colombia?”
“Apparently so.” Andrew’s expression held equal halves of shock and terror.
I wasn’t sure if I was happy or petrified that he was just as surprised as I was.
“I thought you were super rich or something,” William said.
I wasn’t a woman with high expectations, and any luxury I had in my life had been earned by hard work. By me. But if I had to be honest—and I wouldn’t ever admit it out loud—since it seemed Dr. Andrew Jones had no issues throwing big wads of cash at us, I was expecting a private jet, a nice one, like the ones I saw in movies or on Instagram.
Under the false pretenses of a usable plane, this tin can probably had engines held together with duct tape. A short, tubby, middle-aged man with triple thick glasses on his nose, walked up to the plane.Dear god, please don’t let that be our pilot.But my prayer went unanswered as the man opened the door and climbed into the front seat.
I shook my head slightly, then more vigorously. “No. No. No.”
No way we were getting in that.
