I gasp and reach for him. “Are you all right?”
He rubs the spot that took the blow and ignores my question. “We don’t have to do what, exactly?” he says.
In a crouch, he shuffles three steps, and I move forward so that he can fit in the aisle behind me.
I try not to stutter. “Pretend that this was anything more than two strangers sharing a seat on an airplane. You can go your way, and I’ll go mine. We don’t have to do the whole drawn-out goodbye.”
I make my point by silently turning away from him and traversing the long stretch of sage-green carpet to the front of the plane. My sweater and jeans plaster to my skin on the muggy jet bridge. Either Boise is humid today or I could benefit from slowing my Olympic speed walk. It’s a welcome relief when a blast of air greets me at the terminal gate.
Why I peek at him one last time after my ridiculous speech is beyond me. I’m not the least bit surprised to find he’s not looking back. My lips still press into a fine line.
Take your own advice, Hailey. He likes danger and you prefer to ride a bike with a helmet. And what kind of person doesn’t eat the M&Ms in their trail mix anyway?
You have nothing in common with him.
I duck away as quickly as possible, saving myself from further humiliation. The signs blur until I slow at the sight of a royal blue one marking the restrooms. I slink inside and close the nearest stall to relieve my bladder.
“You’re going to be fine. This was the right decision,” I mutter to the empty stalls. I do my business and button my jeans, then jimmy the lock back open. If those same stalls could respond, they’d sayNot with the way that veil of toilet paper clings to the bottom of your velvet Mary Janes.
The flapping of my foot does nothing to dispel it either. I have to reach down and peel the soggy end from my rubber sole. It dangles between my fingertips like a wet noodle until I can feed it into the nearest garbage can. Turning to the sinks, I scrub my hands until they’re raw and grimace at my reflection.
“You’re not going to regret a thing,” I add to my earlier pep talk. Only this time, I sound far less confident.
With a swipe of drugstore lip gloss and the flick of my fingertips, my lips and bangs no longer look disturbed from that flight. I round my shoulders—confidence—and part from the bathroommirror.
Compared to what Salt Lake has to offer, Boise is the hyphen of airports. Blink and you’ll miss baggage claim.
Four dozen people circle the luggage carousel, the red indicator light still dim in the center. With nothing to occupy my attention but the people around me, I spot Reed from several yards away.
I groan.
I forgot I might see him here too.
His back is to another guy, but judging by the slight curl to their sandy-brown hair, I’d say they’re related. Was it his dad he was avoiding? The man is sporting a dress coat and slacks. He could take a business meeting any second with the way he’s glued to his phone.
Reed’s lighthearted smile has given way to anxious pacing, and for the first time, I feel bad for him. Maybe we have more in common than I thought.
A red flash of light draws my attention back to the carousel. It begins spinning in a counterclockwise rotation, feeding an endless stream of luggage down a ramp. My hard-shelled suitcase is the third one to drop, but it travels in the opposite direction. I spend the next thirty seconds debating whether or not it’s worth chasing before finally giving in.
When I sweep my bag from the belt and straighten, Reed is a few feet from me, drinking me in.
What do you say to someone you’ll probably never see again? I decide on, “It was nice meeting you.”
A grin splits across his face as he watches me walk away.
There’s a bus waiting for me on the other side of those automatic doors, and I can’t miss it.
The doors slide open.
“Remember me, Red,” he shouts in my direction.
There it is. That nickname again. I feel it warming me from the inside out.
I turn around to face him one last time, the corner of my lips cracking into a subtle smirk and shaking my head.
He winks back at me, sending goose bumps skittering down my spine.
The automatic doors shut between us. A final reminder that I’ll never get to ask him about that nickname. Or the hundred other unanswered questions my brain baits me with. I have somewhere else I need to be.
