There’s a collective groan in the room, loud and theatrical. Hank sprawls dramatically across a bench like he’s been personally betrayed by aviation. Aleks just stares at his phone, calculating time zones and lost hours with the expression of a man who hates inefficiency more than humidity.
Deacon is, predictably, calm, even though I know he wants to get back to his family. “Could be worse.”
“It could not,” Hank replies immediately. “This is the worst.”
His new girlfriend has been in Europe since New Year’s Day; she arrives back in NYC tomorrow morning.
I glance at Aleks, who looks like a country song was written about him as he stabs the phone screen so hard I am sure the glass is cracking.
We pack anyway. Habit. Superstition. No one fully trusts the idea of staying put until they’re back on the bus.
By the time we’re in the hotel again, it’s late. Later than I want it to be. My body is tired in a way that is deep, vibrating, and everything feels slightly raw. The postgame adrenaline hasburned off, leaving only irritation and a low-grade ache behind my eyes.
I shower. I stand under the water longer than necessary, letting the heat pound against my shoulders, trying to reset myself back into alignment.
It mostly works. Mostly.
Back in the room, Aleks is already on the phone, pacing, clearly delivering a dramatic recap to Sofie. I don’t listen. I don’t need to. I know the beats. I’ve heard them for a couple of months now.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my phone.
This is stupid, I tell myself.
This is logistics.
That’s it.
They were expecting us on the redeye. That matters. Lucy’s schedule matters. Hildy’s expectations matter. This is not personal, it’s informational. If I don’t say something and we show up hours later than planned, that creates confusion. Confusion turns into inconvenience. Inconvenience turns into unnecessary tension.
I am preventing tension. That is what this is.
I unlock my phone, open the messenger, and type out her name, one I just added and wish I had months ago, but that would mean my life was my own. It’s not. Even my time is borrowed.
I don’t overthink the wording; it is what it is.
Me:
Hey. Just a heads up, the weather grounded us. No redeye tonight. We’ll be on the early morning flight instead.
I read it once. Twice. Neutral. Adult. Boring.
I send it.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
That’s… not ideal.
I watch it blink on and off, on and off, like she’s drafting and deleting, fighting with herself. I imagine her sitting somewhere quiet, exhausted, probably. Or she’s found the book and is going to tell me off.
It seems like a lifetime I wait for a reply, and finally, the message comes through.
Hildy:
Okay.
Just that. A period. It seems heavy, intentional even.
I stare at it longer than I should.
