"You don't have to wait with me."
"Where else would I be?"
He takes the handle of my wobbly suitcase before I can protest, hooks it neatly to his own, and starts pulling both with one hand. The two carry-ons end up slung over his shoulder like they weigh nothing.
I blink.
He’s just standing there. In a commercial check-in line. For a flight he’s not even on. Six-foot-four of professional athlete in a linen shirt, calmly hauling my luggage through the terminal while families with strollers shuffle past and couples in matching souvenir T-shirts argue about boarding groups.
My suitcase wobbles along next to his like it’s trying to start a fight.
He doesn’t even glance down.
Just adjusts the carry-ons on his shoulder and keeps moving.
I reach for the handle anyway. “West—”
“I’ve got it.”
And apparently he does.
Nobody looks at him twice.
Actually, everyonelooks at him twice. A woman in a sarong nearly walks into a stanchion.
I check in. BermudAir Flight 501 to Boston Logan. Departs 5:05 PM. Gate 3. Boarding at 4:45.
The boarding pass prints. Thin paper. Flimsy. The most important document I've ever hated holding.
We walk toward security together. My eyes drift to the departures board—habit, anxiety, the need to track things when emotions won't cooperate.
I see it.
Private Charter—Teterboro, NJ—5:30 PM
My feet stop moving.
"West."
"Mm?"
"Your flight says 5:30."
He keeps walking. Doesn't look at the board. "Yeah."
"I thought your family was leaving at four. Your mom said at breakfast that—"
"I moved it."
People flow around me.
Hewhat?
"You moved it?"
"It's a charter. That's the point." He says this like it's obvious. Like rearranging a private jet is the same as changing a restaurant reservation.
"By ninety minutes?"
