“If you fly home, passengers sitting in your surrounding rows will have an eighty percent chance of contracting an infection from your germs.” The statistic isn’t stated in Vivienne’s accent or Brittany’s breathy uptalk but more of a no-nonsense tone. It continues. “Though I suspect your primary fear is potential discomfort from ear pressure changes during take-off and landing due to congestion in the eustachian tubes. I recommend postponing your travel.”
I pry my burning eyelids up to find a fourth roommate poking her head in the door. This one wears her light-brown hair cut short, and without makeup her features kind of blend together. I’m guessing she’s younger than me, though she’s acting older. Before I can confirm, she’s gone.
“That was Sparrow.” Brittany waves after her.
Vivienne harrumphs. “She should be named Alexa or Siri, with the way she only pops up to spout information.”
Brittany’s laugh tinkles like wind chimes. “Well, she’s not wrong. Remember when I didn’t call out sick and ruptured an eardrum?” She turns to me, her eyebrow slivers dipping in cute concern. “You don’t want that. It can cause hearing damage. Plus, it hurts.”
How is this my life? I’m overwhelmed by a cast of new faces and names, yet there’s still another half of apartment residents I’ve yet to meet. And while these women are kind enough to try nursing me back to health, the only person I want to spend my free day with is in a different state. Worse, if I try to get to him, my eardrum could burst.
I roll onto my back, throw an arm across my eyes, and give an overdramatic fake cry.
Heels clip-clop. “What’d y’all do to her?”
“Sparrow,” Vivienne deadpans.
“It’s not Sparrow’s fault,” Brittany defends lightly. “It’s just a tough truth to hear.”
I’ve had enough tough truths lately. But whether my eardrum would burst on an airplane or not, I doubt I have the energy to get ready for the airport, let alone travel. And if I somehow made it to San Francisco, I wouldn’t be any fun. Wyatt would be stuck taking care of me on his day off. As much as I’d love to be in his arms right now, I wouldn’t want to get him sick too.
Angel strides to the bedside and holds out a glass filled with transparent orange liquid. “You’ll have to sit up, but I think this will help.”
Vivienne props pillows behind me so I have something to lean against.
Brittany pulls a phone out of her leggings pocket and scrolls in the millennial way. “I’m looking up the schedule of flights to San Fran for you. Are you off tomorrow too? Because maybe you’ll feel better by then.”
I take the glass from Angel and force a few citrusy sips down my tight throat. Here’s hoping it’s a miracle cure and I can at least see my boyfriend for one day.
“Bummer.” Brittany drops her arm to her side. “The flights are completely booked. Oh, I remember why. The Mariners are playing the Giants in the World Series.”
So much for the day-trip idea. So much for going home. The idea of Seattle as my new home isn’t as inviting as when I’d arrived. “Home, James,” I mutter, without mirth this time.
Sparrow pops her head in. “Do you know the origin of that phrase?”
Vivienne crosses her arms. “Nobody says ‘Home, James’ anymore, so no, nobody knows where it came from.”
“Claire just said it.” Sparrow turns to address me. “Queen Victoria had a carriage driver named James Darling. She didn’t want to call him by his last name, as was the custom at the time, since ‘Darling’ sounded too intimate, so she’d call him James. When she wanted to go home, she’d say, ‘Home, James.’”
We all stare, unsure how to respond to the irrelevant history lesson.Since Sparrow directed her knowledge at me, I should probably be the one to break the silence. I grunt my thanks.
Brittany turns back and resumes our earlier conversation. “The Mariners haven’t been in a World Series for a long time. I met one of the coaches on a flight, and he was telling me about it.”
“Oh, that’s cool,” Angel trills before seeming to remember my dilemma and turning her smile upside down for my benefit. “At least Claire got to meet someone famous on her first trip too.”
Sparrow disappears, evidently not one for social interaction, pop culture, or seeing the bright side of things.
Brittany, however, perks up. If that’s possible. “Who’d you meet?”
I try to remember meeting someone famous. Does Angel mean the football player? My brain is pretty fuzzy, and I couldn’t even remember his name when I told her this story after returning from my trip late last night. She’d had to look him up.
Tired of waiting for me to answer, Angel explodes, “Andrew James asked her out.”
Vivienne’s smoky eyes pinch in confusion. “Who is Andrew James?”
Right?
Brittany clasps her hands to her heart. “Claire, you went out with Andrew James? Is that why you said, ‘Home, James’?”
