2
ADELAIDE
Seattle is gray outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. There are delays on the board, which means I’ve got time, and I found the last available corner seat in this lounge. I’ve got a plate of things I picked up from the buffet, and I’m approximately forty seconds away from becoming a functioning human being again after a grueling journey involving two layovers and extended waits.
The lounge pass is a leftover from my old life, one of those work perks you accumulate without noticing and then suddenly appreciate enormously when your life implodes and you find yourself booking a last-minute multi-stop flight to Hawaii to get absolutely blasted with your bestie, Clio.
The corner seat is perfect. Tucked away, sight line to the door, close enough to the window to watch the gray sky do its thing. I put my small pink carry-on next to the chair—I can see other people have done the same with their bags—unzip my coat, and take it off before pressing it into my bag, and then I finally sit down.
Then nature makes other plans.
I eye the bathroom sign. Eye my bag. Eye the bathroom sign again.
I’ll be thirty seconds. The bag is right there. Everyone does this.
I go.
In and out in under a minute, stopping to wash my hands and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, which I immediately regret because I look exactly like someone who has been in airports for too many hours and slept approximately none of them. The dramatic eye makeup I put on has done its best, but its best has limits. I fix what I can with my thumb.
I come out thinking about whether the buffet has those little cheese things, needing more food on my plate, and almost walk directly into chaos.
Two airport staff members stand close, in addition to a man in a very well-pressed suit with his hands out in a gesture of reasonable innocence. Then there’s a tall man in a beat-up jacket. He’s large and frowning and could easily rearrange furniture with one hand, but he’s also currently being spoken to in the careful tone people use on things they’re not sure how to handle.
And my small pink carry-on bag is sitting in the middle of all of it.
Like exhibit A.
I don’t think. I walk straight into it.
“That’s my bag.”
Everyone stares my way. The suit man appears relieved, exhaling loudly. The large man in the beat-up jacket stares at me and then at the bag, and something in his expression shifts, like a piece of information has just slotted into place.
And then I actually study him.
He is, without any reasonable doubt, the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in an airport, or a lounge, or possibly anywhere. He has light brown hair, short and messy, and hazel eyes that are currently catching the flat light from the windows and appearingas a stronger color of green and gold. He’s built, and his beat-up jacket is doing absolutely nothing to disguise how broad he is through the shoulders, packed with strength. He’s got a single silver ring on his right hand and has a jaw that should come with some kind of public safety warning. I realize I’ve been staring for slightly too long when he raises one eyebrow at me.
I glance down at my bag.
The male staff member asks for my boarding pass and ID, then checks the tag I always keep on my bag, confirming that the details match.
“This gentleman,” the female staff member begins, gesturing at the large man, “claims he saw this other gentleman attempting to take your bag, ma’am.”
“I did see it,” the large man states. His voice is low and even, not defensive, not rattled. Just stating a fact. “He had his hand on the handle and was walking toward the exit.”
“That’s completely untrue,” the suit says with outrage, his brow furrowing. The guy is thin with wide shoulders, short, dark hair, long face, nothing that really stands out about him. “I was trying to alert a member of staff because I spotted this man watching your bag and then tampering with it. I was doing the right thing.”
“By picking it up and walking away with it?” the large man barks back.
“I was moving it to the desk.”
“The desk is in the opposite direction to where you were walking,” he says, voice slightly clipped.
“Gentlemen,” the male staff member says, breaking the growing tension.
Staring at both men in question, then at my bag, I make a decision, fast, or we’ll be here until next Christmas. “I honestly can’t believe I did this,” I say to the female staff member, with the most exhausted, self-deprecating energy I can produce,which, right now, is substantial because it’s also real. “I just ran to the bathroom for literally thirty seconds and left my bag right there. I know, I know—I shouldn’t have. Is there any chance I can just take it and we can all move on?”
“We do need to establish what happened,” she replies apologetically.
