The middle-aged woman, whose name tag reads Evelyn, looks exhausted. Her hair is pulled back in a low bun at the nape of her neck, her striped shirt is wrinkled, and her skin glistens with sweat as she types my name into the computer.
“I see you in the system,” she replies, cautiously clicking on her mouse. “But it’s not pulling up that vehicle for you.”
“That’s okay. I’ll take anything. I can even drive a manual.” The statement is a bald-faced lie, but if it’s between that or nothing, I can watch a YouTube video in the parking lot and figure it out. How hard can it be? Men do it.
“Let me see,” she says, doing another search.
“Seriously, I’m not picky,” I assure her, desperation creeping in. I’ll drive a Hummer, a delivery van, anything that will allow me to blast the AC, sit in silence, and stop at the first fast-food establishment I see to feast on fries and a fountain Diet Coke.
“I see the issue now,” she says quietly, as if not to alert the customers behind me. “It appears that we are entirely out of cars.”
“What?” I shriek, fingers gripping the plastic countertop, trying to glance over at her screen. “How is that possible? I made the reservation yesterday.”
“Unfortunately, that just holds you a spot; it doesn’t guarantee you a vehicle. With all the tourists coming in for the summer, those online bookings can be dicey. But I assure you, you won’t be charged, and any deposits you made will be returned to the card on file,” she replies with a smile, as if this will solve all my problems.
“I don’t care about the money. I need a car. Please.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Majestic Ranch.”
She bites her cheek in contemplation. “Best I can do is suggest using an online service, but with the influx of visitors, they’ve been taking a few hours, and you’ll probably have to carpool.”
Working in customer service, I know that she has no control over the number of cars on the lot, that stranding me here is not her fault, but I’ve lost my ability to stay cool, physically and mentally, and I need to get out of here before I have a full-blown meltdown.
“Do you want me to try to check the app for you?”
“I’ll figure it out,” I snap, rolling my luggage behind me and out the door.
I have no idea where I’m heading, I just need to move, to feel in control of something, as I pull out my phone and open every rideshare app I have. The few accessible dots are already heading away from the airport and the next ride won’t be available for at least an hour.
Going to my clients when there’s an issue is a professional faux pas, but I don’t know what else to do. According to the GPS, I’m almost a hundred miles away from the wedding venue, so walking is out of the question. With no other options, I text Meredith.
Stranded at the airport. No rental cars. Still available to pick me up?
I settle underneath the plastic awning and wait. Hopefully her phone isn’t out of range—or worse, on Do Not Disturb. Taking a deep breath, I focus on the gentle breeze rolling in over the hills, the sound of birds chirping in the trees. It’s an exercise I’ve had to use many times on the job, reminding myself that this moment will pass, but today it does nothing to alleviate the ache in my chest that I’ve made another error in judgment. My throat constricts, that scratchy twinge of restrained tears, as I reach for the water bottle I purchased pre-flight and chug it down. Standing up to throw it in the recycling bin, I hear my name being called across the parking lot.
“Mira?”
A familiar figure jogs over to me, and I take a moment to scan my internal catalog to place her. She’s tall and thin, with sandy blonde hair and an approachable smile. “Oh my God, I thought that was you,” she says, giving me a hug. Her ears are adorned with dainty gold jewelry in multiple piercings, and a few fine-line tattoos peek out underneath her matching activewear set: a moon, a collection of stars, and a postage stamp. After photographing hundreds of faces over the years, they all start to blend together, but after a beat, I place her.
“Vanessa,” I say. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“Not since that freshman-year party where I blasted the same Modest Mouse CD on repeat until the neighbor from upstairs came down and broke it.”
“Excellent night,” I recall, the memory coming back to me. She lived across from Meredith and me in freshman year, and we spent quite a few nights bingeingNew Girland cramming for our chemistry final. “You here for the wedding?”
“You’re looking at an official member of the party posse,” she replies proudly, holding out her arms as if she’s a Miss America contestant.
“Come again?”
“Meredith decided that a wedding party was too formal, so she designated us a ‘party posse.’ Our job is to keep the party going at all times.”
“Please tell her to trademark that. I’m sure she could make a killing on merch,” I say, already thinking about the line of rhinestone sweatsuits and sashes she could sell on Etsy.
“I will relay the message,” she says, glancing behind me as if looking for someone. “You didn’t come by yourself, did you?”
“I don’t typically bring dates when I’m working,” I reply, as if I’d have one to bring anyways.
