“Still have five minutes to spare,” I say easily. “I’ve perfected the art of getting to the airport forty-five minutes before the flight leaves.”
Just the idea of it makes Rory wince. “I’ve been here for ages,” he says. “Wanted to build in extra time in case something went wrong.”
I have to work not to roll my eyes at how overly cautious he is. But it touches me too—what a big deal this flight is for Rory. “All good so far?” I ask.
“Yeah, but my Christmas crackers got confiscated by TSA,” he says. “Apparently they have some sort of powder in them that’s on the banned substance list.”
“Seriously? TSA can be such Scrooges.”
“No big deal. I just thought my family would have fun with them. But at least the Big Ben puzzles made it through. Nearly had to pay for an oversized bag with all the gifts I stuffed in, but the guy helping me was super nice and let me off.”
I’ve hardly brought anything back for my family—just some tea and shortbread in my compact carry-on luggage. I’ve planned to load up on gift cards when I got back in Kalamazoo, but now I feel like I should’ve purchased more souvenirs. I’m tempted to run into the nearest airport tourist shop, but I don’t think Rory would appreciate my disappearing on him right now.
Glancing at my boarding pass, I see I’ve been upgraded to first class, courtesy of my platinum status. I want Rory to get the full experience too, especially since it’s an eight-hour flight to Chicago. “Come with me,” I tell him. “Going to try to get you upgraded to first class with me.”
“How’re you going to do that?”
“Tell the gate agent it’s our honeymoon,” I say, like this is a given. “But I need you with me—you’re way more charming than I am.”
Rory might not have the suave, sophisticated manner that suits my own taste, but he’s got an authentic country-boy sort of charm that I suspect will work well with the middle-aged woman gate agent.
“I can’t do that,” Rory says. “I can’t lie. It’s a character flaw.”
“Not being able to lie is a character flaw?” I clarify with a do-you-realize-how-backward-that-sounds? expression.
“Correct. Even white lies, surprise parties, that kind of thing. You can’t trust me with a lie.”
I smile at the irony of it. It’s actually very refreshing and quite the contrast to Mateo, who was always using the fake honeymoon/birthday lines to get us all kinds of special treatment.
“Fine,” I relent. “I won’t say it’s our honeymoon. I’ll just see if they have any ability to upgrade.”
“I don’t need an upgrade, though,” he says. “Really, it doesn’t matter to me at all. Give it to someone else.” Scanning the bustling gate area, his eyes land on an elderly couple—a white-haired man pushing his frail-looking wife in a wheelchair. “That couple over there!” Rory exclaims.
My heart expands, then contracts with a groan. How can I possibly feel like a decent person sitting in first class, lapping up the luxury, when now I’ll be picturing this cute old couple cramped in basic economy?
“Alright,” I grumble, trying to get in the charitable holiday spirit but finding it rather difficult at the prospect of giving up my fully reclining private pod and gourmet meal service. “Let’s see what we can do.”
Rory accompanies me as I tell the gate agent that I’d like to trade in my first-class seat. And that I was wondering if I could redeem some frequent flyer miles to have a second seat upgraded so that the elderly couple over there could sit together in first class?
“You’re asking to sit in coachinsteadof first class?” the gate agent asks, and I get the feeling it’s the first time someone has ever made such a request.
“That’s right,” I say, casting Rory a look that says,“Darn you and your Midwest morals.”
“That’s just lovely of you,” the gate agent says, beaming at us both. “I’ll go ahead and upgrade them both now.” She calls a Mr. and Mrs. Garrison up to the desk.
The old man slowly wheels his wife up. “What’s this all aboot?” he says in a thick Scottish accent. “We were just up here. Is there an issue with muh wife’s chair?”
The gate agent fills them in on the events. “This young couple here has volunteered to give you their first-class seats, free of charge. How does that sound?”
Ever the honest one, Rory interjects. “Oh, we’re not a couple,” he clarifies.
The old woman in the wheelchair looks like she’s sure her hearing aids are acting up. “You didnae say first class?” she says. “Gregor?” She looks up at her husband, who appears highly skeptical of the whole thing until the gate agent prints out their new boarding passes, along with confirmation that there’s no additional charge, no hidden fees, no terms and conditions.
Then, waving the first-class tickets in the air like winning lottery tickets, the man’s wrinkled face breaks into a youthful grin. “First class for me and my bonnie lass!” he says. “Never thought I’d live to see the day!”
They tell us how they’re going to visit their son and the wee grandchildren for Christmas in Chicago. And how their doctors told them the trip probably wasn’t the best idea, but they said to hell with it.
“No better medicine than family time, aye?” the wife says, as her husband squeezes her skeletal shoulder affectionately.
