PRESENT DAY
AIRPORTS WERE CREATED BY THE devil to test humanity.
Truly, I cannot think of a more dehumanizing experience. Doesn’t even matter if you’re arriving or departing—you’re herded into lines like the vile cattle you are, crammed into holding pens disguised as gates, and forced to beg for scraps of seating and water that doesn’t cost twenty-six dollars.
All this is to say: I’m ready to murder someone by the time a staticky voice over the PA announces that after an unfortunateforty-two-minutedelay, our bags are finally being unloaded from the plane. So please be patient, folks. The conveyer belt will belch out those bags any minute now. We promise.
It’s official. I live in Logan Airport now. I’m never leaving.
When I was a kid, my dad told me this airport was named after him. Even worse, he kept the lie going for so long that I used this fraudulent information as a “fun fact” about myself during a sixth-grade presentation. “Logan Airport is named after my dad, the famous hockey player,” I bragged to the class, at which point myteacher chided, “This is untrue. We don’t tell lies in this classroom, Blake,” and I went home crying.
Speaking of my father, he calls while I’m waiting at baggage claim with the rest of the cattle.
“Hey, Dad.” I scan the carousel, which is finally spitting out the first few bags. I flew business class, so my suitcase should be coming out first. Theoretically. This airport has already fucked me once tonight.
“Hey, sweet pea. You still at the airport?”
“Yep.” I already texted him the second we landed, but I knew that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy him. He needs to hear my voice. Otherwise he assumes the plane crashed in the Atlantic and my “just landed!” message was a prescheduled text or a glitch in the phone matrix.
Did I mention my father is a wee bit overprotective?
“I wish you let me pick you up,” Dad grumbles.
“My car’s at the airport. Long-term parking, remember?”
A man steps forward and jostles me hard as he tries to find his bag. I glare at his back because he’s, like, eight feet tall, and now I can’t see the carousel at all.
“Do you want to come home for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Maybe,” I say absently. “I’ll see what Isaac’s thinking.”
There’s a pause.
There’s always a pause.
That’s what happens when your father can’t stand your boyfriend.
“I mean, if he’s busy,youcan still come,” Dad says in a hopeful tone.
“Don’t sound too excited about the prospect of me coming alone.”
“Look, kiddo, it’s not that I don’t like him—”
“You hate him,” I cut in.
“I don’t hate him. I just don’t like him.”
I choke on my laughter and sidestep the giant in front of me. Peering at the emerging suitcases and duffels, I finally catch a glimpse of red. I always tie a bright hair scrunchie around the handle of my black suitcase.
“Dad, I see my bag. I’m hanging up now.”
I disconnect before he can argue and elbow my way through the waiting travelers. I might be small, but dating a football player has taught me some tricks. I don’t even apologize to the guy who squawks in outrage when my arm connects with his ribs. His fault for not moving when I said, “’Scuse me.”
I grab my suitcase, and from there it’s a short trip to the parking level. Five minutes later, I’m leaving the airport garage behind the wheel of my Land Rover. Well, Isaac’s. He has two cars, so he lets me drive the SUV while he always takes the Porsche.
My father, of course, thinks Isaac’s passion for cars is super fucked up and a sign of psychopathy. This coming from a mechanic’s son who can rebuild an engine without batting an eye. Because whenhe’sinto cars, it’s a totally normal, healthy hobby.
But when Isaac Grant likes cars? I’m about to be the subject of a true-crime documentary.
